It was not my first walking holiday to Nepal, but for some reason I no longer remember, I decided to go several weeks before the trekking season actually began. The lack of any other potential hikers on the flight to Kathmandu suggested I had been alone in this decision. Walking to my empty hotel through rain-lashed streets on the first night, I tried not to think what conditions would be like at higher altitudes.

Next day I flew to Tumlingtar to start walking up the remote, rarely trekked Arun valley. As I gained height it was soon bitterly cold even during the daytime. The rhododendrons that lined the path were encapsulated in a layer of ice and it was constantly overcast. The lodges were unlit shacks with no sanitation, run by people who spoke no English. The only meal available was daal bhaat, boiled rice with lentil soup and perhaps a token strip of some green vegetable. The only variation was the amount of grit it contained.

Each day required at least eight hours of joyless solitary slogging, longing for conversation, to reach the next lodge, the next daal bhaat, the next night thrashing about in a sleeping bag in pitch darkness. As I got higher I entered an area of permanent freezing mist which restricted visibility to yards and muffled all sound.

Given the absence of hygiene, I was not surprised by the onset of screaming diarrhoea. A griping pain in the lower intestine gave only seconds' warning before I had to leap off the track and squat in the snow. Eventually a seemingly endless descent brought me out of the mist and close to the track to Everest.

That afternoon came the sight I most desired: approaching was a pair of Western trekkers, tall and blond and certain to be English speakers no matter what their nationality. A stupid grin spread across my face as they drew near. I could see the girl's white teeth as she smiled hello, the man's mouth start to form words, and then... a ripping pain tore through my gut. I froze in disbelief, in horror. This could not happen. A second pain worse than the first confirmed that it could. With a squawk, I plunged down the hillside into the bushes, tearing frantically at my belt. When I emerged they were well along the path, walking hurriedly. The girl glanced over her shoulder just once, nervously.

I stared after them then turned and began the long walk towards Kathmandu. It remained overcast and I never even saw a mountain.

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