“I’m not stupid or lost. It’s Google Map – there isn’t a road going off to the right – just look for yourself,” Chris expostulated.

“Well maybe that little dirt track by the riverbed was the road on the map,” I retorted huffily.

“If you think you know so much let’s go back there then,” snapped Chris.

“I wouldn’t mind walking all day but what about Alan? He must be wondering what has happened to us. I told him we’d be back in an hour and a half and we’re already an hour over… and we have to walk back yet,” I stressed unnecessarily.

We found the dirt track and went up in the right direction for the main road back to Frigiliana. We also found that it looked very much like a farm driveway; there were orange trees (I picked three so that we shouldn’t starve if we couldn’t find civilisation) and trees with fruit like small peaches (and very tasty they were). Right at the top of the strange road was a car and mechanical tools simply left in the middle of the road. Up ahead was a house.

“The farmer’s having lunch,” I laughed, “He’ll hear us and pop his head over the wall in a minute…”

At that moment the farmer called out from the top of the wall. Luckily he was a nice farmer with a pleasant smile. He could speak no English (to speak of) and, likewise, we could speak no relevant Spanish. Nevertheless, we were all quite adept at sign language and he soon understood our predicament.

“The olives – no trouble me,” he said pointing to his olive grove on the mountainside (the road was above). Then he looked at me and shrugged.

“Maa….maaa….” I bleated.

Our scramble up through the olive grove at a forty-five degree angle was most exhilarating and exciting, in fact it was our best walk. We weren’t lost and our tiff was soon forgotten. And tomorrow we’ll be home in Devon – how surreal!

Occasionally I come across a heart-shaped pebble on the beach and, if it is small enough, I pop it into my pocket as a keepsake; but never before have I encountered so many heart-shaped stones as I did when Chris and I went on the gorge walk between Frigiliana and Nerja (Southern Spain, where we are holidaying at present, if you haven’t been following my blog). I brought only one back to the cortijo but I shall not be taking it home to Devon at the weekend – we’re travelling light with Ryanair and the heart must weigh a stone!

Incidentally, Chris thought I was mad to take photographs of stones. He looked stony-faced at me. Guess I’m the romantic while he’s just gorgeous.

Desperate for exercise and excitement, I convinced Chris it would be a good idea to go on the gorge walk from Frigiliana to neighbouring Nerja (Southern Spain). He wasn’t too keen at first as it was an exceedingly hot day and it was the hottest part of the day when we set out. Of course he was right – “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun” – but I was yearning to go and he didn’t have the heart to ruin my pleasure.

Before long the sweat streamed off our brows. The bottles of cold water I carried in my rucksack became tepid; the can of Lidl’s fake Coke was never going to be as good as ‘The real thing’, even straight from the fridge, and it proved to be much worse than anticipated in its warm state; and the sandwiches went limp and lifeless. The thing that kept us going was the memory of an ice-cold beer, served in a frosty cold glass, from the old taverna at El Molino de Acette (or “Antonio’s bar” as we call it). As we made our way down the gorge we talked with relish about that cold beer… and I don’t even drink! Not normally, unless it’s boiling, and then I like the first glug from a glass or bottle of ice cold beer.

“If Antonio invites you into the shed to see his avocados again, what will you do?” Chris asked.

“I won’t fall for that old trick again,” I assured him, “just don’t leave me alone with him”.

“I won’t, but he did serve good beer – didn’t he?” Chris salivated.

We didn’t follow the dry riverbed all the way down to the sea – Antonio’s Bar is about a mile and a half from the outskirts of the hillside village, but it is a long way up. Hot and thirsty we trudged up to the bar by the roadside and a pretty young woman brought us two cold beers served in two cold glasses. Antonio must have retired. The glasses were not quite as cold, nor was the beer quite as good as Antonio’s; nevertheless we had that “Ice Cold in Alex” moment… (hope you remember the film with John Mills and Silva Simms, and the long awaited beer they had promised themselves at the end of their gruelling wartime adventure in the desert) and I was spared having to inspect the former owner’s avocados.