Rather supportively, the group start to clap along with me. I don’t care now; the full anaesthetic powers of the rakshi have kicked in and I grab a hapless trekking pole lying nearby and use it as my microphone substitute, Freddie Mercury–style. Even the porters sit up straight. Saffron sings along—bless her, I love her cotton socks. A couple of the porters start to giggle. Dean joins in and starts twirling in Nepali fashion and I croon louder and louder. A few of the crew join him and then everyone is on their feet, whooping and hollering and hoping that ‘I will survive’ long enough for my big finale. Which, buoyed by my success, I do as if it’s my last-night concert of a world rock tour.

When I’ve finished, we all collapse on the ground laughing and cheering. I think the porters can’t take any more as they quickly grab their instruments and launch into a rousing Nepalese lament before we subject them to any more 1970s disco hits or any other music that will make their trousers turn immediately into flares. We join them to twirl and twirl some more until the stars are going round and round of their own accord.

Dean holds my hands. ‘You are one hell of a woman.’

I’m a bit unsteady on my pins. ‘Ah well,’ I say, trying to be modest. ‘I’ll survive.’

‘Of that I have absolutely no doubt.’ He checks that the group are happy entertaining themselves. ‘Come with me,’ he says, and he leads me away from the camp and into the rich, enveloping darkness.

We wander away from the safety of the line of little blue tents—which is no mean feat in the pitch black—leaving the sounds of singing and laughter drifting on the air behind us as we follow the banks of the river until we are completely alone.

‘Over here,’ Dean says and helps me to scramble over the pebbly, water-smoothed rocks that form the shore. We cross the river, jumping from boulder to boulder. This is more activity than I’ve ever done in my life and I’m thankful that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness. I’m not frightened at all as Dean’s strong hands guide me and hold me steady. When we reach the other side, we wend our way into a secluded inlet whose entrance is guarded by huge, monolithic boulders. We edge in, the sides of the cliff closing in on either side of us. Ferns and dripping greenery all but cover us with a natural canopy high over our heads. The air is still and warm, heavy with the pungent scent of fresh foliage.

‘This is my secret place,’ he says. ‘I’m the only person who knows of its existence.’

‘Really?’

‘Well…’ I can see his cheeky smile even in the dark. ‘Me and several dozen Nepali villagers.’