‘Hey.’ A vision of manly loveliness approaches us proffering a friendly wave. And I know that I have tipped over the edge and am now in full hallucination mode. Perhaps the cow was, after all, a figment of my imagination too. This certainly isn’t the raddled, old yak shepherd of Edie’s dreams. ‘I’m Dean,’ he says to us all with a broad smile and some kind of hybrid American accent. ‘I’m going to be your guide for the trip.’

One of my main worries about this adventure was whether I’d like my fellow travellers—I hadn’t bargained on liking one a bit too much. I thought our guide would be some gnarled, ancient man of the mountains—a brother to the yak shepherd. It hadn’t crossed my mind that he might be a babe.

Dean is working his way round the group, checking off names, shaking hands. He comes to me.

‘Lyssa Allen,’ I supply. My lips are very dry. I always get completely dehydrated on planes. That’s the only reason. Believe me.

His smile widens. Oh, my good grief. In a land where, so far, everyone seems to have been relatively toothless, it’s a particularly nice smile. ‘Hi. Great to meet you.’

He takes my hand and gives it a welcoming squeeze. His fingers are rough and calloused and I wonder if maybe he works in the fields or something when he’s not guiding unfit bands of Brits. His hair is black and unruly and looks as if it’s been chewed by a wild bear or styled by a blind barber. He has soft brown eyes the colour of freshly dug earth and when he’s not smiling—which seems as if it’s a fairly rare occurrence—pale, delicate lines radiate from the corners of his eyes where the sun has failed to kiss. He has an enviably healthy tan, which probably makes him look slightly craggy and maybe older than his years. There’s no evidence of psychedelic trekker-type clothing. Dean is wearing combat trousers, a black tee-shirt, black boots and an army dog tag. He looks very cute. I’m sure I recognise him from a trendy aftershave advert. But it doesn’t appear as if his look has been put together as an image statement—he gives the impression he’s just flung on the clothes nearest to hand from his bedroom floor. I try to stop staring at him.

‘First time you’ve done anything like this?’ he says.

‘Does it show?’

Dean shrugs. ‘You look a little nervous.’

I hug my arms round myself. ‘I am.’