There was no warmup, the rocky trail shot straight up to trace a cliff shoulder. I passed the Italian hikers from the night before with a friendly wave. Michael and Lizzie next. I tried my best to get into a good groove despite my heavy pack, and pumped it up a massive ascent over a bush-clad rockface. The rock was so worn from a hundred thousand pairs of boots that my trekking poles had little or no traction. They kept slipping, sending me flying forwards. I’ve come to rely so heavily on my second pair of legs that I felt severely handicapped now. But “still I rise”. I crept into the sunrise, crossed the edge of Bocca Piccaia to a stunning view of pink craggy peaks all around. They stuck up like canine teeth, jagged edges of rough rock plummeting straight down hundreds of metres. I pulled out the Cicerone guidebook, which read “Those who reach Bocca Piccaia after 2,5 hrs are doing well”. I’d done it in only 2! Awesome stuff, Paddy! Amazonian queen points.

The book described a series of scrambles considered to be “an extra tough part of the GR20”. Understatement of the year. If I was to describe that section, I’d generously go for “extreme” and “borderline dangerous”. More than anything, I was grateful for my climbing experience. Scrambling up and down where the path twisted through the crags, I held onto the small holds for dear life. Manoeuvring my large backpack through the narrow gaps was an extreme sport in itself. Fucketyfuckfuck! At the next bocca I collapsed onto the open space and made myself a coffee out of desperation for a break. The trail spiralled downwards towards the valley where the next refuge lay deep below. Going downhill was almost harder than going up, now I had to brace with my quads and knees for every step too.

The two Italian guys - M & P - who’d gifted me the box of matches caught up to me. They seemed intent on keeping me company, exchanging way more than the usual niceties. Each step demanded my complete concentration, and I wished they’d move on so I didn’t have to talk. But they were all “ladies first”, so I elegantly fell twice within a few minutes. My legs were shaking and my whole lower half felt like rubber by the time we dipped below the treeline to refill our water bottles. …where I discovered to my despair that my filter was gone. My brand new, expensive Katadyn filter (which you can see hanging precariously out of my pack’s mesh pocket on the banner photo). Well, fuck me. Not only did I lose my water quality guarantee that would have given me access to all sources – I’d also cut my carrying capacity to a dangerously low 1,5L. Now that I wasn’t preoccupied with tumbling down a mountain, I also felt like I’d pulled a muscle in my back. I was cramping and miserable.

Refuge de Carozzu was like a village. The place was packed with day hikers in addition to the GR20 high season trekkers. Sleeping with my tent vestibules open would be risky business, as the only spot left was basically in the middle of the main square. M & P, who despite their friendliness were now getting on my nerves, inspected my tent thoroughly, fondling every inch of it. M, the youngest, had a boyish pout and kept asking me to have beer or wine with him. I wasn’t inclined to accept anything more than those matches and ambled away to find a nearby swimming hole. I swam fully clad and spent the afternoon napping and reading.

The Dutch girl stood up to grab something from her tent, and M dropped a raunchy comment about her ass when she was out of earshot. I stared at him in disgust. Really? This is how you treat your female hiker pals? Glad I didn’t accept any alcohol from you! And I was equally disappointed in the Dutch boyfriend, who instead of snapping back to defend his girlfriend, bantered along with M. What a letdown, bro. If you ever read this, I hope you will reconsider where your loyalties lie. And to any male hikers who might be reading this: female hikers aren’t on the trail for your visual entertainment. Please refrain from dropping objectifying or sexualised comments about us – even when we’re not there to hear it. I retired to my tent shortly after, curtly rejecting another offer of beer. Tomorrow I’ll be going solo for sure.