It turned out that there were other guests at Zita’s, a German mountain biking couple. They spoke English in addition to German and a smattering of Italian, so we talked over breakfast about walking, cycling and why Britain hadn’t adopted the Euro.I left my big bag at Zita’s, using a complicated series of signs and muttered Italian to indicate that I would return for the next day, but no I wouldn’t be staying the night. I left with my day pack, in which I’d stowed a change of clothes, towel, waterproof, first aid kit, camera, water, map and documents. My plan was to undertake a circular trek back to Cortina, staying in a mountain refuge overnight.

The network of mountain refuges that occupy inaccessible peaks of mountains throughout the region were built to take in people who became stranded on the mountain late in the day or needed to rest during long-multi-day hikes. These days they accept credit cards and have online booking. Well, not quite online booking – I phoned a few and booked a bed at Pomedes, to the west of Cortina. Fortunately all the refuges had someone who could speak English.

I set off for the town’s cable car station, and paid the extortionate €22 for a ticket. Emerging at the top the view of Cortina was magnificent, the weather perfect, and I quickly found the trail I was looking for. I started walking, and felt really glad I’d decided to come – the scenery just got more and more spectacular, and the air was quite literally mountain fresh, a welcome break from the city pollution I’d been breathing for the last two weeks.

For about two hours I made good progress and was having a great time, but then I reached the section that my map highlighted as ‘difficult’. That was quite a serious understatement. The route I was walking was at least a 1:2 gradient, and it was getting steeper. The ground was covered in loose rocks, which made it almost impossible to get a good footing. When the trail left the piste, it became more of a climb than a hike, but I continued doggedly because I absolutely hate backtracking. Grabbing for a handhold, a rock came away in my hand, and at the same time my feet slipped. Sliding down the rock I had only seconds before I would start to roll, but thankfully my feet found something to stand on. That soon broke free too, but I didn’t move. The rock fell down to the piste without bouncing, and then disappeared out of sight. I wasn’t moving, and I was quite happy for that situation to remain unchanged for the foreseeable future.

I remained precariously in the same position for several minutes before I reluctantly came to the rather painfully obvious conclusion that this trail was too hard.

Coming down proved more difficult than getting up. I would sit on a rock, facing outwards, and use my hands to lift myself down onto the next solidish rock. Every time I moved, I dislodged stones and boulders that would bounce down to the piste in about two seconds. It took me almost an hour to get there. Once I was able to stand up, I began the task of getting back down the piste, which was almost as precarious, though progress was much faster. The loose rocks were almost like snow – I’d step forward and my foot would disappear.

Needless to say, I was quite relieved to reach the flat section, and back at the top of the cable car route I thought about taking the second cable car to the top of the peak I had been trying to reach on foot. But it was already 3pm, and I needed to reach my refuge. Of course the chairlifts wouldn’t be working, so…. hold it, I thought – if the chairlifts aren’t working why is that one moving?

Strangely and rather conveniently from my point of view, there was a working chairlift operating between me and the refuge at Pomedes. It was just as ridiculously priced as the cable car – €8 to use just two lifts. This would get me to the refuge early, but the weather was turning anyway and I’d never used a chairlift before. The thing that struck me most about it was the silence – chairlifts seem to be completely quiet, and provide a very smooth and scenic route to the top. As I was enjoying the novelty of the experience and breathtaking scenery, I received an SMS from John, who had started to move south with Chris and Sunil. They were in Copenhagen.

I stepped off the chairlift just as it started to rain. There were only two buildings in sight – the chairlift station, and what I assumed must be the refuge. It seemed very small. I jogged over and checked in.

It was a fantastic place – family run and very small, but friendly and welcoming. The owners kids were playing Playstation games on a television in the corner of the bar, and the barmaid was dancing to a Bruce Springsteen track. Every few minutes she’d decide that her compilation CD wasn’t playing quite loud enough, and turn it up a bit more. I sat looking out of the window at the fantastic mountain sunset, whilst being orally assaulted by the Beach Boys and sounds of car crashes from the Playstation.

Later in the evening a group of much more experienced hikers arrived. I could tell they were more experienced because a) their bags were much more worn than mine, b) they were carrying helmets, and c) the chairlift had stopped operating over an hour before. However, any feelings of inferiority I might have experienced were quickly replaced by triumph as I beat the owner’s seven-year-old at checkers. Twice. Bwahhaha.