A mountain to climb

When I left Shivapuram, John had persuaded me to continue my journey to the tip of North Andaman Island to the northernmost major town, Diglipur.

'You should go there, then you can plant your 'flag' and say that you were at the furthest North possible in the Andamans.' I liked the sound of this exotic island North Pole, so I decided to take his advice. As well as planting my metaphorical flag at the North Pole, I also ended up planting another one at the highest point of the islands when I decided to trek up Saddle Peak. At 732m high, it doesn't sound so tall but the climb up it was one of the hardest physical challenges I have ever undertaken.

At the resort I stayed in near the peak, there were various things I could have done: I could go and do nothing on a beautiful deserted white sandy beach on an island that is only accessible with a permit or I could trek up a mini-mountain in the boiling heat just for fun. I could go to a beach anytime on many of the islands, but here was obviously the only place I could climb the Andamans' highest peak, so that was my choice and one which I came to regret deeply and wholeheartedly.

But I had great company to go with me and motivate me in the form of some fellow travellers I'd met who were also staying at the Pristine Beach Resort in Kalipur, near to Saddle Peak. They were a Danish couple, Stork and Rikke, a French girl called Nadia and an Israeli couple called Bar and Ofir. They were a fascinating cross-section of the travelling population.

Stork and Rikke were part-way through one of their annual six-month trips. They had done what many people dream of doing but which few actually have the courage to do. They had sold their apartment and most of their possessions and now lived in a caravan outside Copenhagen for six months of the year, spending as little as possible, working on temporary contracts to save money to travel for the rest of the year. They were a very strong and interesting couple. Stork got his nickname because he looked just like the bird. He was very tall and very thin with a long, thin nose like a beak, on which little rectangular specs perched. When he walked he even picked his legs up very high, as if stalking through a pond. He had sandy-blond hair and moustache and when he had time, he would smoke a pipe. I came to love those moments when he lit it, watching him go through the ritual of cleaning and preparing the pipe, with slow, delicate, deliberate, measured movements, before lighting it and wreathing himself and us in a rich, fragrant, liquorice-flavoured blue smoke.

His girlfriend, Rikke, was also tall, slim and bird-like, with long blond hair and fine features, a calm, cheerful personality and a ready smile. She was the kind of person you couldn't say anything bad about and whom nobody could dislike. She was open and chatty but never tried to dominate the conversation, she listened and was interested in what you had to say, and she had her own opinions but never thrust them on you. Rikke was a chef and would work on seasonal jobs and temporary contracts during their months in Denmark, while Stork worked as a meditation teacher, as well as a graphic illustrator. Rikke had also trained as an illustrator (in fact, Stork had been her teacher when they first met) - and while they travelled they were also working on an online graphic comic.

Stork also made an impression on me. He was quiet, calm and peaceful. We had many conversations about the meditation he both taught and practiced and he was the first person I met on my travels who was able to talk about the subject coherently and without descending into a fog of mumbo-jumbo, as so many others had done before.

I often find myself getting on well with people like Stork, as their serenity and calm fascinates me, because I know it is one of the qualities I lack and would dearly love to possess. I marvel at such people's quiet absorption and acceptance of life's trials (of which there are many in India) without the rage or anxiety that so often floods me uncontrollably when things don't go according to plan. Stork's answer was not to have a plan or any expectations, then you could accept whatever came your way. This is something I have always found easier in principle than practice, but Stork had a way of talking about it that made me believe I could master this and he was also the first person who made he think that I should try meditation again and might actually get something out of it.

Nadia was very different from Stork and Rikke but equally lovable: a bright cheerful person, she was always full of energy and she spoke a lot, talking expressively and Gallically with her hands and face. It would curve into a smile, a laugh, a grimace, a frown or a down-turned mouth Gallic shrug in quick succession, depending on the subject matter and her opinion. Nadia was an electronics engineer and a high level manager in a French company, tendering for projects to build and run train and metro networks all over the world. She had worked in many places around the world, including in China, Korea, England and the Philippines and was due to start a two-year stint in Panama later this year to manage a new metro project. Her reason for being in the Andamans was a three-week diving holiday. She was fiercely intelligent, sharp and very frank and forthright in her opinions. She was also great fun to be around and one of life's instantly likable people. She always had a ready smile - a broad, perfect white grin - and a friendly 'hello' for the locals and she totally charmed them with her requests for photos.

Being a talker myself, I feed off chatty people like Nadia very well and her inquisitive nature never left us at a loss for things to talk about during our time together. Our conversation flowed and at the end of my time in Kalipur, I decided to change my plans to go back south in order to go on with her to a different Island and spend a few more days in her company.

Bar and Ofir I got to know less well. Bar had just finished her military service in the Israeli Army  and Ofir had been travelling in India for a few months before she came out to join him. In their early 20s, they were still a bit unsure of themselves and clung together like a pair of lost monkeys, with constant public displays of affection and reassurance. But they were pleasant enough company.

Our 6:30am start to climb Saddle Peak was supposed to help us avoid the worst of the day's heat. It was still relatively cool when we eventually set out at 7:30am, as Bar and Ofir had overslept. The resort's chef, who had opened the kitchen early especially for us, had dutifully prepared our packed lunches as requested. Unfortunately he seemed to have misunderstood that we wanted breakfast too before we set out, so we had to wait while he hastily cooked up a batch of steaming creamy porridge with fresh fruit for us.

The rickshaw we thought had been booked to take us to the foot of the hill had also not materialised, so this added another hour to the trek, as we now had to walk the road to the start of the trail. We all came prepared with hiking shoes, plenty of water and our packed lunch of hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and bread. Our guide, Sanjay, in typical Indian fashion, had on just a pair of elderly, exhausted-looking flip-flops, a faded T-shirt, shorts and an impossibly small bag with his lunch and water in it. He was small, dark and wiry and spoke no English, so communicated with signs fort he most part and walked along behind him, chatting between ourselves while he led the way in silence. He didn't seem to mind.

Walking towards the peak, we passed little scenes of rural island life. Among the banana palms and open fields, little huts nestled, draped with the flames of hibiscus and bougainvillea. Children called out 'Hallao! Hallao!' and waved as we passed, heir teeth bright curves of happiness in their clear brown faces. Women washed clothes by the roadside pumps, swinging and whacking the wet fabric against their smooth, worn wash-stones, sending sparks of water and puffs of white suds into the air. Buffaloes wallowed in olive-green silty pools, snorting water out of their nostrils as they lay, gleaming wet like polished wood. Yellow, white, brown and patchwork dogs trotted about along the way, every so often stopping abruptly in the middle of the road for a vigorous scratch. Over everything, the thick, heavy jungle-damp smell was the fragrance of the pulsing green heart of the islands.

Luckily the day was cloudy, as it had rained the night before, but even so, within minutes our skin was beaded with sweat that the humid air could not dry. The sun was warm already, too warm, even from behind the clouds, and it wasn't even 8am. The air felt alive yet stifling, washed fresh and clean by the rain, but now close and hugging like a hot, damp blanket. We walked on like this for an hour, our feet drumming softly against the road, settling into the rhythm of our stride and getting used to the constant feel of sweat on our skin. At this point we reached the start of the trail to the top and a checkpoint where we had to buy permits to walk up the peak. At that time of the morning it was unmanned, so we walked on.

Now we left the Tarmac road and it became a track that skirted through the jungle margins, which in turn followed the coastline. A narrow track led on through the tall trees which were quite spread out, allowing a thick, rough grass to cover the ground between them. Many were twisted round with solid lianas and vines, winding rope-like around their trunks and becoming part of them. The bases of the trees splayed out into massive vertical ridges, that looked like great buttresses on a cathedral and soared poker-straight up into the sky. The ground was flat and even and strewn with dried leaves and fallen exotic blooms, big papery flowers, like splashes of paint on the dull brown-green of the forest floor. Small ferns fanned out from nooks in the tree roots, exploding into life like emerald fireworks.

Although he was the smallest of us all, Sanjay set a quick pace, walking quietly and sure-footedly in his battered flip-flops. A lifetime spent in the open air was etched in permanence on his feet. They were broad, flat and straight, with large gaps between each toe. All around the back of each heel ran a bark-like crust of blackened, fissured dry skin and his toenails were thick and ridged on toes that bulged up on the knuckles, claw-like from years of gripping onto loose flip-flops. But he stepped just as nimbly as we did over exposed roots, rocks and fallen trees. His legs were skinny sticks below his shorts with no discernible strength in his scrawny calf muscles, which were straight up and down with no visible bulge of muscle. I was to find out soon enough that those twiggy limbs had infinitely more strength than my miserable legs.

Behind him, we soon fell into place acording to our natural strength. Stork and Rikke loped ahead at the front, tall stalking birds. Nadia was next with confident stride despite being the smallest of us, apart from Sanjay. Then there was me, hot but comfortable in my rhythm. Last, a little way behind, were Bar and Ofir, both wearing serious boots but, oddly, shorts too.

Soon Sanjay led us out of the forest and onto the beach. It was a broad curve of big, grey, flat pebbles that clattered and crunched satisfyingly as we walked. The sea was a dull grey to match the cloudy sky, not the beautiful clear turquoise blue of Havelock Island's sea. The grey pebbles, sky and clouds and the dark green of the forest made it look more like the North Sea coast than a tropical island and it had a certain poignant, end-of-the-world desolation and melancholy to it. The wooded hills reached back to the horizon, lying as though pasted on top of one another in graduations of grey-green.

It was quite hard going on the pebbles as they slipped and moved underfoot. My gaze wanted to be everywhere at once: on the hills and the forest and the sea, but also looking downwards to the amazing variety and colour of the pebbles. The were, in fact, not all grey after all, but striped, speckled and textured with every colour. The child in me wanted to stoop and collect, each few steps finding another beauty more smooth, more perfect, more interestingly striated, swirled, textured or shaped than the last. I resisted. The walk was going to be long enough and hard enough without adding extra weight to my bag, which, with its two litres of water and its packed lunch was heavy already.

At the end of the beach, before we turned back into the jungle again, the pebbles turned to sand and we noticed a couple of stray dogs playing and digging in it. They weren't doing any harm, so I was surprised when Sanjay started shouting at them and clapping his hands to scare them off. Apparently they were doing harm. They had discovered a nest of turtle eggs and were digging them up and eating them. By the time we got there most of the egges were empty, their soft round ping-pong ball shells crumpled and tattered. A few were still intact so Sanjay buried them again, even though we knew it was probably futile as the dogs knew where the nest was now.

The trail led us back into the green of the forest again, which was cooler than I expected. I'd anticipated the clinging humidity of storybook jungles, of the jungle as it had been on Havelock Island, but this heat, already diminished by cloud cover was softened further by the strong sea breeze that penetrated the edge of the jungle as we skirted the coast. I should have been more grateful for the cool, as I would soon feel the heat and be hotter than I had ever left in my life before.

We'd settled into our rhythm and walked on in silence now, each in his or her own little world. I wondered vaguely whether Stork up in the distance ahead of me was meditating, as he'd said he often did on walks. I asked him later after the walk and he said that he was. I was also deep in thought. I thought of home, as I often did when I had time to myself. The deep, hollow, emptying homesickness of the first few weeks of my trip had gone by now but was replaced by a sort of nostalgia for the daily humdrum of life's routines back inEngland. I found myself imagining Aleks at home - he would be sleeping now, as it was about 3am in England - picturing him in his favourite relaxed position, outstretched on his leather sofa, a beer in front of him, football on TV. I love to see him like this, as it feels as close to how he would be if I were not there. Of course I'm not there now, but this is him being him, folded in his own world of happiness, which is how I love to see him the most. It's as though I'm watching him but am invisible to him, seeing the essence of Him Without Me.

I think too of Mum and Dad. I imagine them getting up each morning and coming downstairs, down to the office, fuzzy and ruffled with sleep and putting on the computer to check whether I have updated my blog overnight. Mum once emailed me, telling me it was the first thing they do every morning when they get up. I was moved beyond words to know that.

I think too of my brothers and my sister, and their families. I imagine the crackle of early morning activity as they try to co-erce their beautiful sleepy babies into clothing, eating, teeth-brushing, school uniforms.

And I think of how true it is that travelling makes you appreciate where you come from. It polishes, from a distance, the dusty, neglected jewel of your past, your history, your home, until it shines bright with a promise of re-discovery whenever you finally decide to return. And I think too of what I've experienced on my travels. Of the beautiful and the dreadful places I've visisted, of the people - Indians and foreigners alike - friendly, funny, annoying, rude, delightful, thoughtful, fun, easy-going, uptight, wise, profound, spiritual, mundane. All I would remember and all had taught me something. I had taken someting from every one of them and I hoped I had given something to some of them in return.

Still we walked on. I was beginning to worry, as we'd walked for approximately 90 minutes and we were still on flat ground and hadn't even begun to climb the peak. We seemed to be trudging around the base of the hill without acttually ascending it. I would very soon regret worrying about this when the real climb began...

After another 30 minutes we reached a stream. It was an ice-cold spring that came direct from the mountain. It spilled and foamed over rocks and prone tree trunks, with the spotted light through the trees dancing over its sparkling surface.  We all knelt and scooped handfuls of it over our faces and any exposed skin, rising off the sweat and cooling ourselves deliciously. Its icy freshness cleared our heat-fuzzed heads. With a mixture of relief and trepidation I could see that the track on the other side of the stream finally began to rise. At last we would now make progress.

After a few minutes Sanjay made us move on as we still had a long way to go. We started up the track. It was very rough and narrow with only room to walk single file and full of rocks, tree roots and loose dirt. It also rose very steeply, sometimes at an angle of almost 45 degrees. Within a few minutes we were sweating profusely again, the cool water of the stream already evaporated and its freshness now just a memory. All around us the jungle greenery pressed in tight, relectantly letting us pass before springing back into place behind us. Tall tree grabbed onto the steep slopes, their roots clawing into the red soil, while thick bushes puffed up underneath and creepers and vines lanced across the path. There was very little sound of wildlife - only a few chirrups of hidden insects, and precious few birds. A few butterflies floated past and the invisible strands of webs that tangled against my skin were the only evidence that there were spiders there too. This eerily quiet jungle surprised me, without the animal shrieks and yells that we believe to be a part of such a landscape. We walked on in silence, the soft thud of our shoes and the sound of our breathing, now heavier and laboured with the work of climbing the ever-rising terrain, the only other sounds.

My clothes were beginning to stick to me now and the strap of my bag was tugging uncomfortably at my skin or slippping with the sweat gathering underneath it. I felt trickles of moisture run down my back and front and drops of sweat trickling around the curve of my eyesbrows and into my eyes. My hair was damp and claggy and my feet were too hot, muffled up in thick socks. After months of flip-flop freedom, they were unaccustomed to enclosed shoes.

The higher we climbed, the steeper the slope seemed to become. Natural steps formed by the tree roots and rocks were sometimes knee-high and it was an effort to raise myself up them time and time again. The path snaked on up, twisting and turning, sometimes falling ever-so-slightly - a blessed relief to our legs - but then resuming its punishing climb, seemingly steeper than ever, a penance for the brief respite of a downward section.

It got hotter and hotter and hotter. Although the trees shaded us from the light of the sun, its heat still came crashing through the branches, battering past the leaves to clang, loud and ferocious as bells around us. We climbed on. My thigh muscles burned with the exertion of the relentless climb and my lungs ached with the constant deep intakes of breath. Suprusingly though, my throat was not dry from breathing through my mouth, as the air was so moisture-laden that it kept the membranes from drying out. I forced myself to drink great swigs of warm, unappetising, unrefreshing water. Now some odd law of science and psychology began to come into play: the more I drank, the heavier my bag - lightened of its load a little every time - seemed to become. I know it wasn't true, but the impression was strong.

I tried to look at my surroundings every so often, raising my head from the concentration of trying not to trip on the rough ground. Every so often at a small plateau on the climb, I would pause to rest my shaking legs. The vegetation had begun to change. The large-leafed trees and bushes began to give way to stands of trees with much smaller leaves and clumps of bamboo, not the arm-thick giants of the plains and villages, but a fine, dark-green variety with thin pointed leaves. It was so delicate it could have been drawn by a Chinese painter, its lines and curves, trailing off to nothing as though drawn in by a fine hair-tipped brush. The few bird sounds had disappeared now at this altitude and the insects were quieter too, their song squashed by the crushing heat and humidity.

From behind us suddenly, we heard a shout. It was Ofir, some way behind. I called to the others to stop while he caught up. He admitted that he and Bar were finding it tough going and had decided to stop for a while and let us go on ahead with Sanjay. They would follow at their own pace. They had been lagging quite far behind for a while now but we were all a little surprised that they were having trouble keeping up. We weren't happy to leave them alone without a guide, but Ofir insisted they would be fine and that we shouldn't wait for them.

After we walked on, we joked a little cruelly that the Israeli Army was not very fit. I was secretly relieved that it had been them and not me who had given in first, as I was also finding it incredibly tough now. I should not have thought those thoughts and I should not have joined in those jokes, as I was soon to find out just how paintful things were going to get.

Now I was bringing up the rear and began to watch with a sort of detached horror and misery as Nadia's nimble figure got slowly smaller and smaller in front of me before disappearing altogether behind a bend in the path. My legs were in agony. I was having to press down on each thigh, to help push it straight and raise my body up the next step where I would have to repeat the process all over again. I had completely lost the strength in my muscles. I leaned my body forward, using its weight and my hand pressed onto my raised knee to lever it up the next step. My legs were on fire and my head throbbed. Sweat poured out of me in torrents, my bare arms were slick with it and I'd abandoned my sunglases as I was having to take them off too often to wipe the rivers of stinging moisture from my eyes. Every time we reached what I thought was a flat area, the track suddenly rose up again, cruelly dashing my hopes of stopping and resting. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore. I called out to the others, 'Guys, I have to stop now. I can't go on anymore. I'm sorry I'm not as fit as you.' They said nothing, probably also too exhausted to form a reply.

I sat down on the nearest rock. It was sharp and uncomfortable and covered in mud but I was past caring. Taking my bottle out, I glugged mouthfuls of the foul tepid water. As I drank I could see it instantly beading my arms as new drops of sweat. Everything I drank was immediately squeezed back out. I felt like a Play-Doh machine where you squeeze the handles together and little worms of dough wriggle out through the holes in the other side, like a garlic crusher. It was extraordinary to see and feel the water enter and leave your body in virtually the same instant. My clothes were totally soaked with sweat too. I raised the hem of my vest to wipe my face and only made it wetter. Licking my lips I could taste the sharp tang of the salt. Not an inch of me was dry, even the padding of my bra was wet through, and the vest over the top of it, with sweat that poured from me.

As I sat gasping for breath and hoping the uncontrollable trembling in my legs would subside, I weighed up my options: I could stay with the group and attempt to struggle on to the top after this little rest; I could do as Ofir and Bar had so recently done and carry on at my own pace; or I could admit defeat and make my way back down the trail alone. At that moment I genuinely didn't think I could make it to the top, as my legs would probably sieze up, but pride would not allow me to fall into the same category as the Israeli Army and be laughed at by the others in my absence, as I had just done myself (cruel karma, how just your ways!). And I was too worried to go on or back on my own in case I slipped and fell as I would have no-one to help me and there was no mobile signal on the peak. The more I thought about it, the more I realised I actually wanted to go on with this agony. It was a mountainous challenge and I was nearly beaten by it already, but I wasn't going to let it beat me. I knew if I didn't complete it I would brood over it and worry it to pieces for days and that would spoil the whole experience. No, I was going to do this thing if it killed me, which was currently looking like the only possible outcome.

After a few minutes I got up. 'Ok guys, I'm alright now,' I said, although I did not believe my own words. Having sat down my worn-out muscles had had time to cool down slightly and now they felt even worse, but I'd got my breath back at least. If I was going to conquer this piddly little hill, I had to re-think my tactics. While I had thought that using my body weight to help me lever up my legs had been helpful I now realised I was wrong: what I was doing was making it even harder to lift my leg as it had extra weight to haul up. Now I stood up as straight as I could and climbed the steep slope walking as normally and relaxed as possible. It worked! My legs were slightly easier to lift and the pain in them diminshed from total to only moderate agony. But I was able to carry on and that was all that mattered. This was cause for celebration with a long draught of warm water. The others were still faster and fitter than me, but now I knew I would get there - I had to.

We'd been walking for about three hours now and we still had about another hour to go - just to get to the top, then there was the return journey... But I couldn't think about that just yet. I set my sweat-blurred sights on the view from the top - the sight of the Andamans, glowing green, blue and white below me. It would be worth the searingly painful climb to see that sight.

Now my brain had accepted that I was going to see the end, my body seemed to as well. Though still burning all the time with every climb and shaking all the time with every minor descent, my legs fell back into a rhythm and before I knew it my attention was drifting away from the pain. I began to notice my surroundings again. The vegetation was changing once more and the atmosphere with it. The bamboo and bushes were now mingling with a sort of pine forest and a fine mist moved through the trees as we entered the cloud forest. There was no insect noise now, although I'm sure they were out there somewhere, so there was no sound other than the breeze through the leaves and our own heavy, weary tread. It was eeriely quiet and the thick, humid hush seemed to press into me and enter my body, so I was now feeling nothing, thinking nothing and seeing only the dirt, rocks and roots of the path as it passed beneath my feet, twisting and turning about the peak, slanting upwards, ever upwards. A kind of mesmerising trance descended on me and I walked on, empty of thought. I was nothing but the feeling in my legs and the breath going in and out of my body. Maybe I'd unwittingly reached some plane of higher mental consciousness, maybe I was meditating...

Still we climbed on. Viewed from below, every rise that seemed to disappear into what might be the summit, only taunted us with yet more steep rocky climb ahead as we reached that point. Sanjay was still going strong over the sharp rocks and stones. Although he was sweating like the rest of us, he somehow managed to look cool. His short hair was still neat, while mine was ruffled and fuzzy from being snagged on branches and at the same time lank with sweat. The air was cooler now but the mist clung to our soaked clothes and kept them damp. The spindly bamboo arched together overhead, making us walk through tunnels of damp green, like drowned rats in a network of drains.

Suddenly the roof of the tunnel opened out and we saw sky above us. This must be it! The summit. It was nothing significant and was unmarked so, unsure of ourselves, we asked Sanjay. No, it was just a viewpoint and we still had half an hour to go to the top of Saddle Peak. We walked over to the viewpoint and looked down over fold after velvet fold of tree-covered slopes, some hidden below the mist. Off to the left, the coast curved inland, a blue bite out of this green cake, its teethmarks the pale grey of the old coral reefs and pebble beaches. It was silent, so silent. The mist below muffled all sound and we stood also silent taking it in.

Nadia was faint from hunger so we decided to stop and have some of our packed lunch, even though we were nearly there. A slice of dry, over-sweet, pappy white bread had never tasted as good or as satisfying as that limp battered slice did that day! Its quick-fire energy burst through me, making me buzz with new life. We moved on with a new spring in our step. The top of the peak was visible from the viewpoint - tantilisingly close - but I knew that we'd still have to walk up and down and round the other lower peaks to get there. We weren't there yet.

We plunged back into the tunnelled gloom, following Sanjay more closely now, urging ourelves on to the end, so close. When it finally arrived we experienced a fierce burst of joy. I whooped and cheered, raising my hands above my head, fists clenched. Sadly it was not as dramatic as we'd hoped. The spot was marked by a tiny Hindu temple, nothing more than a low corrugated iron roof on metal supports, sheltering a small stone carving of Nandi, the bull god, and a large stone oil lamp. All around it the bamboo forest rose up too high for us to see any view and even if there had been one, the mist would have hidden it from sight. Oddly this fact, which should have been a massive disappointment didn't bother me. I didn't care that the view I'd come to see was not a view at all. I was past caring. I'd made it there and that was all I cared about. I was pround of myself, doubly so. Not only had I done it, I'd done it, even though I didn't think I could. I'd made myself believe I could do it by wanting to do it. And it had worked. I'm not very good at self-congratulation, thinking always that I could do more, better, faster, but today I was totally satisfied with my own performance. And it felt great.

Wearily we sat down to finish off our packed lunches. The still slightly-warm hard-boiled eggs tasted like heaven, sprinkled with a little salt and pepper that Rikke had cleverly thought to bring along. The soft, springy resistence of the white splitting to the silky richness of the yolk that melted on my tongue was like a feast.

Other grateful and exhausted trekkers had given thanks at the temple. A little metal tray at Nandi's feet was filled with silver coins and the odd note, fluttering in the wind. An upright trident staked into the ground had small forest fruit offerings spiked on to the end of each prong. I didn't offer anything - I didn't have anything in my near empty bag to give and anyway, I had done this trek, this climb, this punishment all on my own, whoever may have been watching over it. This was my success and mine only!

Now we'd stopped walking, the cool was seeping back into our fatigued bodies. The heavy mist dripped from all surfaces and the stiff breeze chilled the moisture in our soaked clothes. The boiling dripping sweat of a few minutes ago was now a chill, penetrating cold. We would have to get moving again, having barely stopped, both to keep warm and get back to the resort before nightfall. So, having spent no more than 30 minutes at the summit it had taken us 4 and a half hours to get to, we set off back down it again.

The return journey was much quicker - we had no choice. Rikke and Stork, who'd walked the steep Inca Trail to Machu Pichu in Peru, advised us to run down the track wherever it was smooth enough to do so, as it was easier on the legs than trying to walk it. They were right. At first it was terrifying, hurtling over the rough uneven ground, running head-first down the steep slopes we'd just taken such an age to climb. You could only break your speed by grabbing onto the trunk of a tree on either side of the narrow path and hoping that the strength of your grip would slow your descent, before you slipped and fell or had your shoulder ripped out of its socket with the force. Many other had done the same thing: every tree I held had been worn smooth by the hands of others before me. Pebbles and loose twigs skidded under my feet and stray branches and leaves whipped me as I lurched uncontrollably past them. Now my legs shook with the reverse effort of the climb and my knees began to feel the stain of the constant jarring. But as before, I had no choice. What goes up must come down an we had gone a long way up.

Back at the viewppoint, we met Ofir and Bar still on their way up. We were all surprised that they had indeed carried on and got as far as they had. I'd certainly thought they would have stopped and gone back. I felt a new admiration for them - maybe they had felt as I did that they wouldn't be beaten. They turned back with us however, as they wouldn't have time to get to the top and back before night - but we soon left them to their own pace again.

We arrived back at the base of the hill by the stream in half an hour less than it had taken us to climb it, thanks to the running. Back on the beach section, I began to feel really drained, exhausted, wrung-out. My feet, pounded by the impact of running over the rough, steep trail were burning inside my shoes, the toenails digging in painfully. I longed to take my shoes off and feel the cool air on my feet but I knew it would be even harder to walk in bare feet. I trudged on. The once-enticing pebbles of the beach were now just irritating, slipping and sliding beneath me, making it even harder for my worn-out legs to maintain their footing. The fresh sea breeze on my face, finally drying my sodden clothes, mocked my burning feet. I laboured on. Every muscle ached pitfully and I had no food left to give me a boost of energy.

Once we hit the flat forest section again things got a little easier but the route still stretched on and on. Eventually we got to the entrance where we stopped to pay for our permits. There, my feet could take no more and I took my shoes and socks off to release them to the blessed fresh air. They were soggy and wrinkled with the hours of sweat they had endured. I decided to walk the remaining distance - which would take about an hour - on the Tarmac roads in bare feet. The surface was warm beneath my soles and sharp stones pricked and jabbed the softened flesh, but it was easier that putting my boiling shoes back on again. I had miraculously managed to walk the whole climb without any blisters and I didn't want to get any now.

Slowly, draggingly slowly, we inched nearer to home. My thoughts swung away from what was behind us to what lay ahead: a shower, a sleep and an enormous meal. We finally arrived at 3:30pm. I was numb with fatigue and pain but I was happy. It had taken us 8 hours and we had walked approximately 24km, most of it up- or downhill. I felt nothing but exhaustion, but behind that a quiet elation and satisfction that would last long after my muscles had stopped aching.