The Sky Beneath Us

Violet’s Journal

F RIDAY , 14 TH J UNE , 1929

It feels strange to be writing in my journal again after so long. But only now can I look back and take stock of all that’s happened in these past months.

In the weeks following our departure from Namche Bazaar, the expedition settled into a routine of trekking, making camp, hunting for plants, and then moving on again to explore the next valley. Our slow and steady gain in altitude, with weeks spent working from a campsite base, was a blessing. I didn’t once feel the ill effects of breathing the thin air, the way some of the men did. Poor Mr Andrews, whose strength must have been sapped by his illness, was laid low for several days with a blinding headache when we reached the place called Thamo.

My morning sickness soon passed, too, and I felt a renewed sense of energy and purpose in accompanying the men on their forays in search of new species. It was noticeable, as we trekked deeper into the Khumbu valley, how the plant life around us changed. The pine and birch woods grew sparser, giving way to scrubby growths of juniper, which crouched closer to the ground. But other strange shrubs grew alongside the paths trodden by yak herders too, and I was kept busy capturing the forms of their leaves and flowers with my watercolours. I feel sure some of them will do well in the British climate as the growing conditions at these altitudes are so much cooler than the subtropics of Kathmandu. Indeed, some may even thrive in our milder temperatures and gentler weather. I have high hopes for one of the forms of pom-pom-like primulas we’ve found and can picture it growing by the pond at Inverewe, perhaps. I shall write to Mrs Hanbury, when I have the time and opportunity to send a letter. I haven’t written to Hetty for weeks either, but told her in my last letter not to expect to hear from me for a while so she wouldn’t worry.

We still walked through forests of rhododendrons, but only the earlier ones were in bloom above Namche. We had to rely on identifying them by their other characteristics and it was gratifying that my work in the Herbarium stood me in good stead. Once the men realised I had some useful knowledge, they began consulting me for help in identifying their finds. At first, some of them enthusiastically culled plants wholesale, pulling them from the stony ground and carrying them back to camp, roots and all, hoping instantly to have discovered some prized new find that would make their fortunes. I supposed they thought it would save them the effort of climbing repeatedly back and forth between hillside and camp. With the help of Colonel and Mrs Fairburn, who had considerably more experience in the field than most of the men, I managed to convince them to take more care, to mark their finds on a plan and bring back just a sprig at first, accompanied by descriptive notes, until we could ascertain which areas merited further investigation. I showed them how to mark the location on the ground of the plants worth collecting, so we could return later in the season to gather the seeds once they’d set.

I didn’t mind scrambling up slopes and over screes to be shown their findings. Indeed, seeing plants growing in situ is of huge value in helping with their identification. But as the weeks passed and my baby grew within me, I began to find the exertion a bit more tiring and became a little more cautious about taking risks on the steeper rock faces. I think Mrs Fairburn must have noticed my slight reluctance because one morning she declared I should spend more time at the camp. ‘Your drawing and painting skills are most valuable to the expedition, now the men are getting into their stride and know what to look for,’ she said, then turned to her husband. ‘Don’t you agree, my dear? It would be best if Violet were to remain here a bit more.’

He looked up from the map he was perusing as he planned the next excursion. ‘I suppose you are right, as you so often are, Roberta. Although if Miss Mackenzie-Grant wishes to accompany us, she has proven herself more than capable. But there are specimens to be prepared and labelled for sending back, so perhaps you two ladies could carry on with that whilst we’re away.’

When I smiled my thanks to Mrs Fairburn, I caught her looking at me a little thoughtfully. Instinctively, I sat up slightly straighter in my camp chair and attempted to pull in the rounding of my stomach beneath my overcoat. She smiled back, giving no sign of suspecting anything, and I relaxed, relieved I was still managing to conceal my condition. The climbing has made me stronger and fitter, my muscles becoming more defined even as my baby pushes my belly outwards.

We based ourselves at Thamo for several weeks. It was less than a day’s trek from Namche Bazaar but felt a world away. A brightly decorated monastery sits on high there above a few stone hovels, and the nuns who inhabit it were most welcoming. They have little enough to sustain themselves but insisted on bringing us gifts of food – little dumplings filled with savoury vegetables, and tasty pickles with which to break the monotony of our pemmican. Mrs Fairburn offered them a few tins in exchange for their gifts, but when they learned the contents were some form of meat they quickly handed them back. Mingma told us it is against their beliefs to consume another living thing unless it has died of natural causes. I was surprised to learn they eat meat at all, but the ancient form of Buddhism practised here seems rather a pragmatic one and I suppose when food is always so scarce and life so hard, it is only sensible to eat what is available. Some of the nuns are very young, mere children of ten or twelve years of age, and it is all too evident they don’t get the nutrition they require. I could see one or two of them had the thickened ankles and bowed legs characteristic of rickets. We substituted some tins of condensed milk for the offering of pemmican, and these were gratefully accepted. I just wish we could do more to help them.

As the weeks passed, the weather improved, and I began to grow accustomed to the cycle of days in the mountains. The nights were bitterly cold, the sky clear and blacker than any I’ve seen in Scotland. But it was filled with breathtaking curtains of stars – far more even than Callum and I saw on the eve of Samhain. I looked up at them and wondered if he was there, somehow, somewhere, looking down on us. I wished I believed in reincarnation as the Buddhist nuns do, so that there might be some chance of him returning one day. But I knew I was alone, even in the company of the expedition, and that the time would come, soon enough, when I would have to fend for myself and my baby on my own.

Daybreak arrived as a cold, grey light at first and I would scramble out of my sleeping bag and into my clothes, emerging from my tent to seek out the first rays of warmth as the sun appeared from behind the wall of mountains enclosing the valley. Mingma and our porters would already have the fire going and a tin kettle steaming merrily atop it as, one by one, the expedition members came to sit in the sunlight, basking like lizards on a rock whilst the welcome warmth thawed out stiff limbs.

I began to notice that Mr Andrews would make a point of coming to sit beside me. He is a kind man, but I didn’t wish to encourage his advances, nor to mislead him in any way. He probably imagined me to be rather shy and was being careful, too, not to encroach on my grief.

Whilst the mornings were clear and bright, more often than not a veil of cloud would accumulate over the mountaintops and roll down into the valley by mid-afternoon. Sometimes it became so clammy and cold that I was forced to retreat to my tent and wriggle into my sleeping bag for warmth, keeping all my clothes on whilst I attempted to finish writing up the day’s notes. The men would usually arrive back from their excursions later in the day and we would all gather again beneath the awning of the cook tent to eat supper and discuss the latest findings.

One evening, alongside the assortment of plant materials the men had collected, they produced with some triumph a large slab of honeycomb. They’d found curtains of it hanging from the underside of a large cliff and one of the more intrepid amongst them had scrambled up to steal a chunk of it, braving the stings of the large and angry bees that quickly swarmed around him, making clear their displeasure. How we all longed for something sweet to break the monotony of our diet! But when I tasted the honey, I found it had a peculiar, bitter edge to it that did not agree with me and it rasped unpleasantly in my throat. My baby seemed to agree, giving my belly a good hard kick. I quietly passed the dish of it along, noticing that the Colonel and his wife did the same. But the men devoured it, spread on hard biscuits from our supplies.

That night, tucked up in my tent, I heard the most terrible commotion outside in the camp. I drew on my coat and stuck my head out through the flap of canvas. It was another crisp, cold night and the moon was almost full, illuminating the snow on the mountain peaks as well as the scene before me. For a moment, I wondered whether our camp had been invaded by werewolves, or some other sort of demons. Dark figures stumbled about, one of them seeming to throw back its head and howl at the moon. Then another of them staggered towards my tent. ‘Violet,’ it slurred. ‘I love you. I desire you.’

‘Mr Andrews!’ I exclaimed, deeply shocked. He wore only his undershirt and long-johns and his feet were bare. I averted my eyes from his evident state of arousal. ‘What on earth has got into you all? Have you been drinking?’ I scrambled out of my tent to stand, feeling that he might attempt to get into it with me if I stayed inside and I would at least be able to make a run for it if I was out in the open. But there was no need – the men seemed too intoxicated to be at all coherent and could scarcely stand. Mr Andrews suddenly bent double before me and vomited copiously on to the ground.

I wondered where on earth they could have got hold of so much strong liquor. We had some bottles of whisky in one of the chop boxes, but the Colonel kept it padlocked and only he had the key, wishing to limit the amount consumed and make the supply last. He only broke out a bottle occasionally, dispensing a tot here and there for medicinal purposes, to toast a promising new discovery, or to keep spirits up after a particularly miserable day’s weather. As more of the men began to vomit and retch, something stirred in a far recess of my mind. Back at Inverewe, Mrs Hanbury had insisted the beehives were placed as far away as possible from a certain grove of rhododendrons. ‘Otherwise, they gorge themselves on the nectar and the honey tastes quite nasty,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve heard in some parts of the world it can even have an hallucinogenic effect if partaken of too liberally.’

Just then, the Colonel emerged from his tent. ‘What in heaven’s name is going on here?’ he roared.

‘I think it’s the effect of the honey, sir,’ I called. ‘It’s toxic.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. What buffoons they are.’ He stepped forward, used to taking command. ‘Get back to your tents immediately!’ But the men were beyond taking orders. By now they had all sunk to the ground near the fire and lay groaning and retching. ‘Very well,’ he barked. ‘Stay there then and freeze.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared back into his tent, from where I heard the muffled sounds of a conversation between him and his wife.

Realising that the men would, indeed, freeze to death if left there like that, I went from tent to tent, collecting up blankets and sleeping bags. Mingma appeared and helped me wrap them around the prone forms as best we could. ‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ he said. ‘I stay here and keep fire going. Make sure they keep warm. Make sure they don’t bother you too.’

I handed the last blanket to him, to wrap around his shoulders. ‘Is it the honey, do you think?’

He grinned broadly, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. ‘Most certainly. It make men very excited. But not good if too much excited, I think.’

‘Not good at all,’ I said firmly. ‘Thank you for keeping an eye on them, Mingma. Will they be all right?’

He nodded. ‘It wear off after few hours.’

I didn’t sleep much after that and neither did my baby, to judge by the somersaults it was turning. I suppose my agitation must have affected it. I placed my hands on my belly, reassuring it. ‘I won’t let any harm come to you,’ I whispered. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to conceal my pregnancy very much longer. It was becoming all too evident.

As the weather improved, we climbed upwards to reach the higher elevations of the trail. Although it was still cold at night, by day the sun blazed down on us unremittingly. Sometimes we would find ourselves walking along a dusty track with clouds floating in the valley beneath us. It was a strange feeling, as if we were walking in the sky.

In places where the valley gathered shreds of clouds in the crook of its arm, we discovered new plants that seemed to survive largely by drinking the water in the air. Skeins of pale jade lichen hung from the trees there – scrubby birch and more rhododendrons – but the landscape was largely bare and dusty now, sparsely clad in low-lying cushion-like growth. The mountains were our constant companions, watching over us from all sides like vast, all-seeing Buddhas as we trekked further into the Khumbu. I could quite understand how the Sherpa people might believe them to be deities.

We climbed into the high valleys, following a milky river that gushed from the mountains as the spring sunshine liberated icy waters that had been stored up in glaciers over the winter. Even in the remotest places where there were no signs of permanent habitation, we still came across Buddhist shrines and carved mani stones. At the top of each pass we navigated, there were more heaps of carved rocks, bedecked with tattered prayer flags fluttering in the wind, and I paused at each one to give thanks that I’d made it a little bit further. The trekking was becoming a struggle for me though, and I gasped for breath in the thin air, the steep climbs becoming harder as the secret cargo I carried continued to grow within me. I moved at a pace as ponderous as that of the yaks that now carried the expedition’s belongings, the atmosphere up here too thin for horses or mules.

By the middle of May, we reached a series of tranquil lakes at a place called Gokyo. There was much to explore in the surrounding area, so we made camp on a ridge of land between the water and a tumbling glacier. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot and whilst the rest of the party were away foraging, I could sit in the sunshine for hours at a time, sketching and painting, kept company by a tiny snowfinch who hopped from rock to rock in search of seeds and insects. Clouds drifted across the blue of the sky, their reflections floating past a pair of Brahminy ducks who had made the lake their home. The waters lapping at the shore and the sighing of the wind sang a lullaby to my baby as I worked, and I felt some sense of contentment at last. I had welcomed the momentum of the trek up to this point. The feeling of putting one foot in front of the other and moving forwards, away from the horror of my memories of Callum’s death, had kept me going. But now I felt something shift within me. Perhaps it was instinct, my body telling me what my baby needed next, or perhaps it was simply exhaustion. I realised I needed to stop, to give myself and my child some rest in order to prepare ourselves for the birth to come in a couple of months’ time. And I knew I certainly wouldn’t be able to conceal my pregnancy any longer. It was time to confess.

One afternoon, before the others returned from their day’s exploring, I asked Mrs Fairburn to walk with me down to the lake shore. We stood watching the ducks for a while, their rust-coloured feathers the only splash of contrast against the turquoise water. I was trying to pluck up the courage to tell Roberta what I had to say, when she began to speak first.

‘They’re very beautiful creatures, aren’t they?’ She nodded towards the ducks, which were reaching their bills towards one another as if in a kiss. ‘They are believed by Buddhists to be sacred, you know. I’ve seen them depicted on images of the wheel of life. Legend has it that they’re a pair of lovers who committed a sin in a previous life and returned in the form of these birds. They can be together in the daytime but have to separate at sundown and spend the nights calling to one another through the darkness.’

A single tear trickled down my cheek as she turned to me and took my hand. ‘I know you are carrying a child, my dear. It’s Callum’s, isn’t it?’

I nodded, unable to speak.

‘I began to suspect some time ago. And, let me tell you, I have nothing but admiration for you, Violet. You have exhibited such determination and courage. But I don’t think we will be able to conceal your condition from the men any longer. And I don’t believe it is in your best interests, nor those of your child, for you to continue with the expedition. Are you about six months on?’

‘Nearly six and a half,’ I admitted.

‘Then we need to make arrangements for you to get home in time for the birth. This environment could be dangerous for you, you know, now we are so high.’

‘I realise that. But I feel fitter and stronger than I ever have done in my life. My body seems to be telling me this is a good place for me. I feel a freedom in these mountains that isn’t available to me elsewhere.’

‘You’ve done well, I agree. But I’m afraid my husband won’t countenance letting you stay with us once he knows. You’ve been a very valuable addition to the expedition, but this changes everything. The others won’t approve either, and it will unsettle the group. Don’t worry, though,’ she continued as I hung my head in shame – not for my baby, but for the way I’d deceived them all. ‘I’ll make sure we do right by you. You will receive the pay that’s owed you and we’ll organise a couple of porters to accompany you back to Lukla. From there you should be able to pick up a guide and travel the rest of the way to Kathmandu on horseback. Use your money to get a flight home. It will be safer for you to have your baby in Britain, whatever you decide to do thereafter.’

A sense of desperation rose within me at her words, constricting my throat so I couldn’t speak. I knew she was right, but it felt completely wrong. There was no ‘home’ for me in Scotland any more. And I could not countenance the thought that I might be pressurised to give up my baby ‘thereafter’, nor the way Callum’s child would be ostracised in that society. I pictured the long route back. I couldn’t stay here at Gokyo, but perhaps I could find a place at Namche Bazaar or Lukla where there would be a doctor or a midwife who could assist me. The thought of returning to Kathmandu brought back memories of the stench of a filthy guesthouse room, a smoking funeral pyre and ashes drifting on a dirty river. I would far rather stay in the mountains.

Mrs Fairburn kindly took it upon herself to tell her husband that night, sparing me the ignominy of having to see the look on his face when he heard the news. As it was, he could scarcely look me in the eye when he emerged from his tent before the others were awake early the next morning, and found me sitting by the fire sipping the mint tea Mingma had made me. ‘A word, please, Miss Mackenzie-Grant?’ he said, already stalking off ahead of me towards the lake as I hurriedly set down my cup and got to my feet, following in his wake.

His wife had kept her promise to make sure I was paid what I was owed. The Colonel kept my dismissal short, handing me a brown envelope of money and telling me he’d ask Mingma to employ two local porters – being unable to spare any of ours – to take me back the way we’d come. ‘It would be best if you don’t say anything to the men,’ he said. ‘You can pack up your things and leave once we’ve set off for the day. I’ll tell them the trekking was too much for you and we’ve had to send you home.’

Thus humiliated, I swallowed my pride and simply nodded, secreting the pay packet in the inner pocket of my coat.

After breakfast, at which I forced myself to choke down a bowl of porridge in preparation for the journey ahead, the others gathered up their collecting equipment and set off in search of alpine plants growing beside the glacier in the adjacent valley. Mrs Fairburn came to find me by my tent and gave me a quick hug goodbye. ‘I wish you well, Violet,’ she said. ‘Here’s a little extra for you. Keep it well hidden in case you need it.’ She pressed a thick roll of rupees into my hand, waving aside my somewhat half-hearted objections. I knew I’d need all the help I could get.

‘Thank you, Roberta,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll never forget how kind you’ve been to me.’

I thought I saw tears spring to her eyes, but she turned away, a little abruptly, and walked off in the direction of the others without a backward glance.

I was sorry not to be able to say goodbye to Mr Andrews and thank him for his kindness, but he’d scarcely been able to look me in the eye since the night of the hallucinogenic honey incident. I suspect if he came to know about my own state of disgrace it would only disconcert him further, so it was probably better this way.

I was feeling considerably agitated, a few hours later, when there was still no sign of any porters. I certainly didn’t want to be there when the Colonel returned, and began to think I’d have to set out on my own. But, at last, two rough-looking men leading a yak arrived in the camp, accompanied by Mingma. As they loaded my belongings and some supplies into the animal’s panniers, the guide said, ‘I sorry you have to leave, Miss Violet. Take care on journey home. The Colonel say to give you this.’ He handed me a map. ‘I wish I could take you. These porters not so good, I think, but they the only ones I can find. They go with you as far as Namche and then you find good Sherpa guide there.’ He smiled at me kindly, adding, ‘No worry, I give them mint leaves, tell them to make you tea for your baby.’

I glanced behind as I followed the porters back to the track, but Mingma was gone. The only other living things in the landscape were the two Brahminy ducks, bowing their heads in their daylight dance as they watched us silently from the mirror-calm surface of the lake.

We took a different path to the one on which we’d come up to Gokyo. I was disconcerted at first and tried to ask the porters where we were going, but they seemed to have no English and just looked at me blankly. When I checked my map, I realised it must be a more direct route to Namche Bazaar, following the Dudh Koshi River south. I chided myself silently for not trusting the men. I didn’t like the way the shorter of the two hit the yak with the stick he carried, though, nor the sullen look in the eyes of the taller one when his gaze slid over me.

Our progress was slow, and the valley was a narrow one, towered over by a peak marked on my map as Machhermo, in whose shadow we walked. The energy I’d felt previously seemed to have left me, so I was thankful when we arrived at a cluster of small stone buildings beside the river and the porters gestured to me to enter one of them. I’d assumed we’d just be stopping for a short rest, then pushing on, but they tethered the yak and unloaded my belongings from the baskets.

Within the stone shack, I was shown to a room with a lumpy mattress on the floor. ‘Are we staying here tonight?’ I asked the taller porter. He simply set down my bags, pointed to the makeshift bed, then turned away. ‘What about supper?’ I called after him, but there was no reply.

I took the time to wash my face and comb my hair, loosening the belt I’d taken to using to fix my skirt around my ever-expanding waist. I’d given up trying to fasten its buttons some weeks previously. The sun had disappeared behind the mountain and the valley was in deep shadow when I pushed aside the curtain that served as a front door and looked out of the shack. From the next-door building came the sound of laughter and a clattering of dishes, so I walked over to peer inside. There were several men – my two porters amongst them – sitting around a table playing some sort of dice game and making inroads into large mugs of drink. From the look of them and the level of noise they were making, I suspected it must be chhaang , the locally brewed beer, which I’d heard Mr Andrews and his colleagues on the expedition talk about sometimes, describing it as a filthy, strongly alcoholic brew made from fermented barley. A few others sat, more quietly, at smaller tables around the walls of the room, eating bowls of rice and lentils. The drinkers fell silent for a moment when I appeared, then the taller porter said something and threw the dice he was holding. They all burst out laughing again, returning to their game.

A woman appeared from the kitchen and gestured to me to take a seat in a corner of the room. She set a bowl of food before me and I shovelled it in, keeping my eyes downcast, not wishing to prolong my meal any longer than was absolutely necessary. When I’d finished, I slipped out of the makeshift inn and made my way back to my room. How I wished for a padlock to make fast the bedroom door. But there was none, so I piled my bags beside it to wedge it closed, wrapped myself, still fully clothed, in a blanket and tried to fall asleep. The sounds of carousing from the neighbouring shack continued, growing louder as more drink was consumed, and I lay awake for ages, my eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. At last, in the wee small hours, the noises diminished and then were silenced, to be replaced by the distant rasp of someone snoring and an occasional hacking cough. Thankfully, I let my eyelids close.

I don’t know how long I was asleep for, if I’d fallen asleep at all, when suddenly my eyes flew open again at the sound of a stealthy footfall outside the shack. I sat bolt upright, terrified, groping around in the pitch darkness for something I could use as a weapon to defend myself. I had nothing.

There was a quiet tapping on the door. ‘Who’s there?’ I called, cursing the giveaway tremor of fear in my voice.

‘Please, Miss. I must talk with you,’ came the soft reply in English.

I decided attack might be the best form of defence. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ I hissed, kicking aside my bags and throwing open the door.

A man stood there, faintly illuminated in the moonlight, the outline of his hat visible against the doorway.

‘My name Palden. I Sherpa, not like those others. I come to tell you there is big danger for you. Those men not good. They drink much chhaang and tell others they going to get good money for you from kidnap. Say you have baby coming. They say they can sell baby too, get good price.’

My skin prickled with a fear so visceral it made me almost double over with panic, instinctively folding my arms around my belly.

‘Please, Miss, you must trust me. I help you, but we must go now. I take you to my village. My wife can look after you. You safe with us.’

I felt I could trust no one, but my only other option was to set off alone on an unknown mountain path in the darkness, with a pair of kidnappers hot on my heels. So I reached for my coat. The Sherpa picked up my bags and gestured to me to follow him quietly. We crept out into the moonlight, where the snoring continued from the adjacent shack to the accompaniment of the occasional clank of a yak bell as the animals shifted uneasily in the field alongside us. Palden picked up a pannier set against the wall of the inn and tipped out its contents of juniper branches. He stuffed my bags into it and heaved it on to his back, easily shouldering the load. Then he handed me a stout walking stick to help steady my feet in the darkness and led me down a path leading towards the river.

Once we were a safe distance from the settlement and the noise of the rushing water was loud enough to cover our voices, I asked him, ‘Where are we going? Won’t those men just follow us?’

He shook his head. ‘They not dare. They too much cowards and they know Sherpa people too strong. We go on different path now anyway. Up there.’ He pointed across the valley to the opposite hillside.

We crossed a rickety bridge over the river, which foamed white in the moonlight, and plunged into a dense forest of rhododendrons. I had no idea how Palden was able to find his way. The path was a faint track, almost invisible in the darkness. But I plodded on steadily, keeping close behind him as he picked his way along it with ease. We climbed endlessly, up and up, zigzagging between the gnarled branches and their canopy of spreading leaves. I was grateful for their cover, which kept us hidden from anyone who might be watching from the far side of the valley, even though the climb left me gasping for breath.

We emerged on to a contour path just as the first faint light of dawn began to filter through the leaves, and Palden unstrapped the pannier from his shoulders, setting it down in the dust. ‘We rest here a bit,’ he said, and I sank gratefully on to a rock, my legs almost collapsing under me. He handed me a water bottle and I drank from it deeply, gasping between gulps, my chest still labouring with the effort of the climb. Suddenly, my belly cramped with a sharp pain, and I clasped my hands around it, fear gripping me. I breathed deeply and slowly, making myself relax for my baby’s sake. As the muscles released again, my baby gave me a good kick by way of a reminder that I needed to take care of it, reassuring me it was still all right.

‘You okay?’ Palden said. In the early morning light, I was able to see his face properly for the first time. He had the same friendly features and warm smile as Mingma and I felt a little reassured that perhaps I hadn’t leapt out of the frying pan and into the fire in entrusting my safety to him.

I smiled back. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Just need to get my breath back a bit.’

‘Don’t worry no more, Miss. You safe now.’ Then he grinned and said, ‘You very good climber – almost as good as Sherpa. What your name?’

‘Violet,’ I replied. ‘Like a flower.’

‘Violet like a flower,’ he repeated after me, nodding. ‘We walk easy now. Be there in couple hours.’

‘Where is there ?’ I asked, pulling the map out of my coat pocket.

He studied it over my shoulder and then pointed. ‘My village is here. Called Phortse.’

As the sun rose high enough behind the mountains to peer at us, we continued on our way towards the Sherpa settlement. At a bend in the path, we paused again to drink some water as the sun climbed higher, bathing the landscape in gold. I took off my coat and Palden put it in his basket, despite my protestations that I could easily carry it. A few steps later, once we’d skirted another carved rock, I stopped in my tracks, astonished at the sight that met us. A hidden valley ran upwards to our left, carpeted with deep-blue flowers, looking for all the world as if a thousand pieces of the sky had tumbled down to form their petals.

‘ Meconopsis ,’ I said.

He shot me a quizzical look. ‘What that mean?’

‘The blue Himalayan poppy. On the expedition we spent hours searching for them. But we only found one or two – never anything like as many as this.’

‘This Valley of Flowers,’ he said. ‘We bring yaks here in summer to graze. Collect flowers, mushrooms, leaves for making incense too. Phortse not far now.’

If I survive, I thought to myself, I shall come back here one day.

A few hundred yards further on, the path climbed to a point on the edge of another ridge where a small heap of memorial mani stones had been laid. And as we rounded it, the view opened up in front of us and there it was in the distance, bathed in sunlight: the village of Phortse. My first sighting of the place where I sit writing this. The place where – at last – I’ve been able to find a sanctuary and feel at home.

Palden and his wife, Dawa, have taken me in. I feel safe with them, and they’ve promised to look after me here for the coming weeks, letting me rest and recover from the trials of the past months until my baby is born. They feed me plates of lentils and rice and the most delicious potatoes I’ve tasted in a long time, even better than the ones we grew at the gardening school. I’m as round as an egg now and I’ve jettisoned my old, travel-worn clothes, preferring the traditional Sherpa costume Dawa has lent me, which all the women of the village wear. A silk blouse comes first, covered with a loose sort of pinafore dress, and finally a colourful, striped apron, the pangden , is tied around the area where my waist used to be. It’s both comfortable and practical.

I spend my days working alongside Dawa and the others from the village, tending the crops of buckwheat and potatoes in the fields and picking mint leaves in the little garden she cultivates behind her house. Children run freely amongst the houses, playing and helping with chores. The sound of their laughter floats on the air, accompanied by the gentle clanking of yak bells and the soughing of the winds. From my mountainside perch, I stop often to ease my aching back and give thanks for the kindness of these people who have taken this stranger in when she had nowhere else to go.

My baby kicks and stretches, flexing its muscles, eager now to escape the protective cocoon of my belly. And I wonder at the possibility of a new future as I gaze out at the watchful peaks that hold us in their powerful embrace, and the valley filled with sky beneath us.