Dean stands up. ‘This is it, folks!’ He claps his hands. ‘The start of our trek. All you need is your rucksack. The porters will take the rest of your luggage and meet us at tonight’s camp.’

Ooo. This is indeed it.

I feel there should be a fanfare of trumpets or a drumroll or something significant to mark this moment—but there isn’t, so I shoehorn myself out of my seat and we dutifully file off the bus and then hang around like lemmings. Some look like distinctly more enthusiastic lemmings than others. Most of the group are older than me, which is sort of comforting. I hope if I look completely pathetic then they might take pity on me and not march off too quickly. I hate old people who are fitness freaks—it sort of goes against the grain of things, doesn’t it? Everyone else seems to be in pairs—not couples necessarily, but at least linked to another human being, and that makes me feel sad. The porters have formed a chain and are man-handling our bags from the roof of the bus. A group of children from the village run out of the fields and stand and eye us shyly.

‘Namaste,’ Dean says, and clasps his hands as if in prayer.

‘Namaste,’ the children chorus.

‘This is the only word you need to know,’ Dean tells us. ‘Literally, it means I respect the God in you—but is used for anything from good morning to I hope a donkey pees on your grandmother.’

‘Namaste.’ I risk my first word in Nepali and all the children shriek in delight, clutching each other in their hilarity. Clearly my Nepali accent needs work.

We fuss about with our rucksacks and trekking poles. I’ve never used a trekking pole before—it’s not essential equipment in London—but the man in the Outdoor Shop told me that I must have one. So have one I did. My credit card and I had both lost the will to argue by that point. I’m not sure what I’m going to use it for yet, but maybe it will come in handy for fighting off frisky yaks.

‘This is Sanjeev Sherpa,’ Dean shouts. ‘Our Sirdar, or captain, for the trek. He’ll be leading the walk today. We’ll have a gentle start.’ I’m sure he looks specifically at me. ‘A couple of hours to lunch and then another three hours this afternoon.’ When I went to school, that was around five hours’ walking—which doesn’t sound all that gentle to me. I don’t know if Dean sees my look of terror, but he quickly adds, ‘And it’s mainly flat.’ How much is ‘mainly?’ I’d like to know.