When falling in love, don’t look down

Love can be precipitous. So can mountainsides. In the early stages of a relationship, holidays take on a totemic role, symbolising and fulfilling the desire to be with a partner every minute of the day. They can be a test too, of a couple’s compatibility in a foreign environment. Fifteen years ago my girlfriend and I travelled to the northern Italian Alps on what was our second trip abroad together. We had previously been to the Ionian island of Kefalonia, which had been new for me but an old favourite of hers. This time, the roles were reversed as I attempted to convince her of the merits of mountains.

An evening departure from Gatwick meant that we arrived well after nightfall. On our first morning we were rudely awoken by an oompah band marching past our hotel – lederhosen ahoy! It was not a auspicuous start.

I had promised that I would not take us on difficult walks and had even agreed to leave my own walking boots at home as a sign of non-intent. Instead, we swam in the hotel pool, explored the nearby valleys and used chairlifts to access the alpine meadows above the town. And we were in love so what would it matter if I occasionally glanced up longingly at the less accessible mountain passes?

After some gentle days of meandering, I suggested we tackle a slightly longer route – probably about seven miles in all. It was a circular walk: the first half a fairly gentle climb through meadows in which cows tolled their bells and the sweet smell of summer hay hung heavily.

The sun shone; great, grey dolomitic slabs rose almost vertically against a barren azure sky. All was well in the world.

The way back down to the main valley in which we were staying was similarly straightforward, the contours of my map showing that the steepness of the slope was nothing to worry about – even for a couple in trainers.

As the path entered a wood, however, I was surprised to see the ground falling away sharply to our right, the trees thinning before what appeared to be a near-sheer drop into the next side valley. Looking at the map again I realised I had checked the gradient of our direction of travel but not the pitch of the hillside running parallel to the path.

Pine needles covered the path, making it slippery. Our hand-holding became a matter of necessity. To make matters worse, the previously clear sky was rapidly darkening and there were occasional flashes of distant lightning. It all felt grimly portentous.

A rickety footbridge across a fast-running stream squeaked as we crossed it. Praying at one of the wayside shines which dot the Alps seemed in order.

At last we made it to the main road and gratefully caught a bus back up the valley to our hotel. I felt like a dimwit for not reading the map properly; my girlfriend, a little shaken by the experience, was less than impressed.

That day has certainly not been forgotten. Still, in case you’re wondering reader, she married me.