Half an hour, now, left of mine and Romilly’s allocated time. Half an hour more of just us.
It is 10.30 p.m. and we are exhausted. Spent. Getting nowhere. Romilly looks out of the window. Starts to fan herself furiously.
‘Is there really no air con in here?’ she says and I look around again but I can’t find anything. It’s an old farmhouse; no mod cons is what this place sells itself on.
‘I can’t breathe,’ she says, hand to her throat. ‘Marc, can we get outside? I need some air. Let’s go for a walk?’ she says. ‘Do this while we move. It may help. The others can wait until we’re ready. This can’t be rushed.’
‘It’s a bit late, Rom …’ I say but she is right: this place is unbearable. My own hair is damp.
A breeze might help us not to pass out while we go over and over and over this. While I make her see.
And so we head out straight into that beautiful, craggy old limestone in what now feels like the dead of night.
You have to see this place: mountains that might be less dramatic than their less cutely named alter ego The Alps but still have their moments. Beauty. Drama.
Danger.
I say see them, but it’s limited.
The darkness is acute.
The grass, even at the start of summer, is parched beneath our feet.
I warn Romilly: be careful where you step.