rose in a howl and the trees shuddered against a great blast off wind. A moment later the brilliantly coloured birds had flown on.

Hours later we were still struggling along the trail. The valley had become heavily wooded now with small stunted beech trees, their rustling coats beginning to take on the bright copper colours of the autumn. As the each squall of wind raced down the valley the wind would raise up a huge cloud of fallen leaves and this towering wave could be seen crashing down towards us. Exhaustion gripped us both and we stopped frequently beginning to feel quite ill. We looked for places to setup our tent for the night but the valley side was too steep so we walked on for another hour or two…or three.

At last ahead of us we could see the stream and flat wooded area we recognised as the campsite we’d been aiming for. A couple of tents could be seen through the trees along with a strange steep roofed hut with a chimney of boulders and a roof of corrugated iron tied onto broken logs - primitive but effective. The light was fading rapidly as we dropped our packs from our sagging bodies and began to unravel the tent. Within a few minutes our shelter was up and our sleeping bags laid out invitingly. But before we could sleep we had to eat as it had been many ours since our last meal of anything more than dried fruit. As the darkness blackened amongst the trees our rice and vegetables bubbled in the pan and finally warmed our stomachs as we slithered into our bags and at last lay still.

But as sleep filled our bodies the wind began to rise again tugging and pummeling the tent. It twisted and shook quivering against the bullying wind. Even down amongst the trees the wind gusted with a great force. I crawled out and lashed an extra set of guy ropes from the tent to trees and logs and anything else which had a look of permanence. At last we drifted in fitful sleep hoping we’d wake to see the tent still over our heads. The next morning we woke and found the woodland campsite empty. The other trekkers had risen, eaten, packed and gone while we still slept. Already nearing midday we decided to stay on for the day and recuperate.

Looking up from the edge of the wood you could see the Towers over the crest of the hill. The sheer faces shinning in the sunlight. We climbed up the edge of the scree bed beside a charming bubbly stream which burbled away to us as we criss-crossed its path. Then we hopped across a boulder field and under a dislodged rock the size of a bus station. Rounding this we were suddenly face to face with a giant hand reaching up into the sky. The palm filled with milky water with green ice packing the rocks on it’s upper shore. The fingers rose elegant and pale with skin like ivory. So pale and smooth their vertical faces were unblemished. It was these towering fingers which reached up into the sky and ripped into the winds racing in from the Pacific ocean and sent them swirling down into the valley below.

We rested for a couple of days and walked in the beautiful wooded valley. Our camp stove fuel ran out and our last meal was cooked in the hut over a fire of sticks and decaying logs. As we ate our simple meal we were joined by party of young Irish people and happily talked the evening away by the dim light of a single candle sharing our meals and our conversation.