‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Wagons ho!’ Seems as if I’m about to find out. The porters are loaded up. Without exception, they’re tiny, wiry guys wearing flip-flops and a variety of tee-shirts advertising alcoholic drinks from around the globe—Budweiser, Castlemaine XXXX, Stella Artois and Boddingtons. As well as the luggage, they’re carrying all our tents, food and cooking equipment including the kitchen sink and a large, metal stove that looks as if it has already seen a bit of action. Most of them have huge wicker baskets slung across their backs, the weight taken on bands around their heads. They’re singing, joking and laughing and I’m not sure why, given the enormous loads they’re lifting. I’m struggling with the weight of my rucksack and realise that I should have trained with considerably more than six tins of soup in it.

Sanjeev Sherpa leads the way and, like nervous sheep, we follow. I fall into line and the village children drop in behind me, giggling madly. There’s not one of them has a clean face and they are clearly strangers to a hairbrush as they all sport a tangle of black, bird’s-nest hair, but each one of them has a beautiful beaming smile and the biggest, happiest eyes I’ve ever seen. A tiny little girl slips a sticky hand into mine and we head off out of the village.

‘What is your name?’ she asks in impeccable English.

‘Lyssa. And yours?’

‘Sajani,’ she says and tugs me forward. ‘I am six.’

‘I am thirty-four.’

Sajani giggles. ‘You are very old.’

Some days I would agree with her.

In the fields the women are working, cutting the pale, golden corn with knives. They stop and wave at us, laughing and shouting ‘Namaste!’ as we trail past. We walk along the edge of the cultivated terraces, balancing on narrow ridges just wide enough for one person. The sun is high and strong, the sky is clear and cloudless, the air unimaginably pure. Overhead, the black silhouettes of eagles and buzzards circle lazily in the sunshine. And I’m not sure whether I should view the presence of wheeling buzzards as a comment on my trekking ability. The Seti Khola River flows by twenty feet below us at the bottom of the terrace. The river isn’t solid, flat and grey like the Thames, it’s a ribbon of pale blue water, the shifting, sparkling colour of opals. Its rushing sound is the only discernible noise. The sun beats down on my neck, warming my bones, and I sigh and wipe my handkerchief across my forehead. The land here is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. It may have a very unfit audience, but that doesn’t mean I’m not appreciative.