The path is dirt, dust and rocks, a single donkey wide. To my left, what could be the Adriatic laps the base of white cliffs. Grass tickles my ankles as I walk higher than the seagulls fly.
I hear voices up ahead and instinctively look for somewhere to afford them their two-metre berth. It’s not easy. To my right, the cliff rises up again, its base hidden by gorse and nettles. I wedge myself into a tight gap in the plants, their fingers of pain reaching out for my bare legs. A man appears first, out of breath and sweating, wearing an explorer’s hat and leaning on a thick stick. Behind him, a younger man, also tapping a stick along the path. He pauses at the ledge to catch his breath and to admire the sea. What I imagine to be his mother catches up with him at this point, also breathing heavily. Not one of the three acknowledges my presence. The mother turns around, so the son can get the water from her bag.
“Get my phone too,” she says.
Obedient son does as he is told, and I watch as the mother poses for a picture with the view. The gorse prickles on my ankles.
“Take one of us together!” she shrieks.
What’s next? A donkey coming along the path with a tent, double-bed and gas burners to cook on? Why not build a hotel up here while you’re at it? It’s fine, guys, I’m comfortable here. I don’t need to move.
But they don’t. They move off again, with not so much a glance in my direction.