I have a week before I start my training and I hope that will give me plenty of time to get reacquainted with the object of my desire. Then I’ll spend six weeks in Kathmandu doing teacher training at a local orphanage. How difficult will that be? All those gorgeous, smiling faces appealing to me with their saucer eyes. I know before I even start that I’ll want to take half of the kids home with me. I’m also doing a crash course in speaking Nepalese, which is great as my current knowledge extends no further than ‘Namaste.’ After that I take up my permanent placement. I can’t wait! I just hope someone else—who shall remain nameless—is half as excited as I am.

If my knees weren’t aching so much from walking, then I’m sure they’d be knocking. The closer I get to Dean, the more I’m worried that this was a really bad idea. Maybe I should have emailed or sent him a telegram or something to say that I was planning to descend on him. As it is, I’m woefully unannounced and beginning to regret it.

I stop at the top of a hill, panting to get my breath back and looking down on the grassy sweep that serves as a road into the village. A few more minutes and I’ll be there. This is not a good moment to be wracked by doubts. The village is quiet, peaceful and serene. The most exuberant movement comes from the billowy white clouds skipping across the sky high above the mountains. A few chickens cluck and pick their way across the grass, the marigolds from the Festival of the Brothers are still strung out between the houses, slightly faded but no less beautiful, a handful of children are playing a game that looks like chequers with pebbles outside the thatched hut of the only café.

I take my courage in both hands and set off towards Dean’s house. I’ve come too far to be able to cope with rejection now. As I approach the last slope towards the village, the familiar cry of ‘Gora! Gora!’ comes from the children. Foreigner! Foreigner! And I wonder how much longer they will be shouting that to me now that this beautiful part of the world is to be my home.

They crowd round me, tugging at my hands, joyfully shouting, ‘Namaste!’ and pulling me down the street. And it’s nice to know that some of them recognise me from my visit to the school and the festival celebrations—but then I guess they don’t get that many blondes who pass this way twice. I try to head towards Dean’s house, but the children are insistent and pull me in the other direction.