It must have been 6am when I unzipped the tent, or thereabouts, judging by the grey light that draped across the mountainside. The two bodies that were crammed in next to me lay motionless, matted hair sprouting from the top of sleeping bags.
I slipped on my boots and staggered out into the cool, morning air. Whether it was the noggins of whisky from the night before or the rolling view that made my head swim, I couldn’t be sure and I headed for a nearby shelf of rock to steady myself.
It was then I experienced one of those moments where sleep still has enough of a hold to prevent the usual noisy thoughts from breaking through. I let my senses fill the void and soon became aware of the shrill calls of sheep bouncing about the horseshoe curve. I spied their white shapes, shuffling across the farthest reaches of the slopes, as though they were all trying to outdo each other in their quest for the next tuft of grass.
Meanwhile, their bleating rebounded down the valley towards a golden light that had only just broken across a neighbouring peak. Then a muffled groaning broke my meditative state as the camp began to stir.