I haven’t always liked walking. I used to think it was a long walk to the car in the morning. For years, I had commuted daily into London in high heels and smart suits from Hobbs. I insisted everything matched. I would read five books at once so I could carry the one that best matched my outfit, to read on the train. Then I retired, and I discovered hiking. With it, I discovered a whole new range of shops. I would rifle through everything in my local Cotswold Outdoor, still trying to get stuff that matched: my turquoise merino top and turquoise backpack required turquoise walking poles. Some things don’t change.

The EBC is not a ‘technical’ walk. There’s no great skill required, but it is hard. Base camp is 5,364 metres above sea level. You can start feeling the ill effects of reduced oxygen at half that height. Guidebooks warn of sleeplessness, mood swings, loss of appetite, headaches and dizziness. If you’re unlucky enough to suffer full on Severe Altitude Sickness it can be fatal.

I figured it was better to know what I was dealing with before forking out all the money, so I decided to get tested at the Altitude Centre in Spitalfields. This would give me some idea what to expect. The first set of tests check how you manage in thin air when you’re sitting calmly. This tells you if you’ll be able to sleep. I was fine with them. Then there were tests on a treadmill to see how I’d manage on the trek. It was harder than I expected but I could see that getting into a rhythm helped and I made it to the end. Reassured by the tests and well-equipped from the shopping I booked my Qatar Airways flights to Kathmandu via Doha.

Pausing only to get local sim cards and enough Nepalese Rupees for the whole trek – there are ATMs near the start, but in such remote places you can’t always depend on them having cash when you need it – we headed for the mountains. The trek starts at the town of Lukla, which sits at 2,846 metres above sea level and hosts what is considered one of the most dangerous airports in the world. The runway is unusually short, so the planes are small, 14-seaters. You can’t take a lot of stuff on these planes. Every bag is weighed, and you’re allowed 15 kilos each. Getting to and from Lukla is chaotic, as the whims of the mountain weather are the deciding factor on whether the flights will run.

The day we were booked to fly, there were no flights. The mountains were shrouded in clouds. This can last for days, but we were lucky and the next morning, the planes started flying as soon as it was light. The sky was clear, and the excitement was palpable. No-one was sure how long the clear period would last and every take off was accompanied by cheers from the trekkers waiting for their turn. At last, we made it onto a flight and headed into the mountains, and our first glimpse of a cloud-topped Everest from the plane’s left-hand windows. As we came in to land, I tried not to think about the shortness of the runway. Instead, I thought of the air steward, sitting behind us, who did this flight several times a day. Surely, she wouldn’t do it if she didn’t trust the pilots.

After a quick lunch of momos (dumplings) in Lukla, the trek began, downhill thankfully, to our first night stop. The teahouses are the most common, and most popular, accommodation on the trek. The bedrooms are unheated – electricity is generally solar generated and can be in short supply. The toilets are cold and sometimes icy, but thankfully these days mostly with ‘European’ options alongside the traditional squat toilets. If you’re lucky there will be an option to pay to have a hot shower. The focal point is a large communal dining room which is the only room that has heating, from a large stove in the centre of the room. This is not lit until after sunset and takes the edge off the cold – although not enough for people to abandon their down jackets and sherpa hats (picked up in one of the small towns along the route).

We were soon in a routine, meeting early for breakfast in the now unheated communal dining room. Breakfast would be served promptly having been ordered the evening before. Options include eggs, cheese, toast, fried potato, vegetable curry, and a range of teas. We were advised not to eat meat after Namche Bazaar because of the power issues and erratic refrigeration. We’d buy water and snacks from the teahouse shop, two to four litres a day. Water is not just to combat dehydration but also to get some more oxygen into our systems. We’d walk 7 or 8 hours a day with a stop for a proper lunch at a restaurant pre-booked by our guide, and tuck into the Nepalese staple Dal Bhat (Dal Bhat power – 24 hour, as they say in Nepal) or chow mien or, usually in my case, fried potato and cheese.

We’d arrive at our night’s stop about 5pm to find out if there was a hot shower in the offing, or not, and then convene in the communal room for a game of Mind before dinner. Mind is a card game where you work cooperatively to lay the cards you’ve been dealt in numerical order, without showing your cards or exchanging a word. Because you don’t speak anyone can play with anyone else regardless of language. We played every evening. When we succeeded, we would shriek with joy and everyone else would look across and wonder what on earth we were doing. Our guide became addicted to it.

I got into the habit of putting on my thermals, ready for bed, before going down to dinner. When I came back up, about 8.30pm I’d quickly take off the outer jacket and slide into my thermal liner and sleeping bag, drag the provided quilt over me and snuggle down, keeping my sherpa hat on. My godmother always did call me a botanical flower. I don’t like the cold.

During the days it was unexpectedly warm, and we were able to take off outer jackets and sweatshirts as we walked. My sherpa hat came off and my sunhat went on. The sun is extra strong up there and even though you’re surrounded by snow-capped mountains you need a strong sun cream. I bought one specially formulated for altitude and it lasted all day.

There is no shortage of mountains, but you see little of Everest even though it’s in the title of the trek. There was a glimpse however on one of the sunny days. Our guide offered to take a photo of me with Everest over my shoulder. A man passing by asked if we’d like a photo together. We nodded. He took a couple with my phone camera, then he said one last one, and there was something about him that put me at ease. When I saw the photo I said, ‘wow, that’s really good’. His friend said, ‘you’ve just been photographed by the most famous photographer in Switzerland,’ and they were gone. I didn’t catch his name, but he does take exceedingly good photographs.

I was thankful for my walking poles on the rickety steps, rough stones, and gritty slopes. Concentrating on where to put my feet, I would forget to look up, until interrupted by a line of yaks approaching, carrying supplies higher up the mountain. Lifting my eyes from my feet I’d catch my breath for reasons other than the altitude, as I took in the other-worldly landscape. Then our guide would jerk me out of my reverie pulling me over to the inside of the path to keep out of the way of the animals. The worst thing you can do is get between the animals and the path’s edge as they might accidentally bump you off, in more ways than one. The paths are wide though, so there was room for both us and them, and no need to panic as long as you remember to step in the right direction as they approach.

As well as yaks there are mules, donkeys, and a smaller Nepalese version of a yak called a ban chauri. They come by in lines of six to ten animals or more, signalling their arrival with bells around their necks. There is also a steady stream of porters carrying everything you can imagine from fuel to furniture. They are paid according to the weight they are willing to carry so it may be assumed each is carrying the upper limit they can bear. There are low walls at the side of the path creating stone benches where porters have priority, with a ledge behind them to rest their burden while they pause.

There are some bridges along the path. The kind that might be called rope bridges except these are made with thick steel wire where the ropes would be and metal plates under your feet. They sway when you walk on them, which can be very disconcerting. Some are high and some are long, and some are both. We learned to look across to the other side to see who was about to cross. On one of the long bridges, we erred and met a mule train coming the other way. We leant back against the twisted wire handrail to let them pass. They’re not known for their patience or good nature but, happily, there was no incident. Meeting a yak might have been a different story, with their long sharp horns and bulky bodies.

As we went higher, we had acclimatisation days where we stayed in the same place for two nights but trekked higher during the intervening day. This gave our bodies a taste of what was to come and an opportunity to get our red blood cells working more efficiently. I was grateful for these shorter days as the altitude began to affect me, particularly above 4,200 metres. Older people are more affected than younger, and women more than men.

Our guide categorised the terrain as: flat, Nepalese flat, and steepie. Steepie would be accompanied with a slanted hand to indicate if it was very steep uphill or very steep downhill. Despite its name Nepalese flat is not flat. Nepalese flat means you are going up and down alternately for a while, but you end up about the same level.

For the uphill parts of Nepalese flat I’d walk nine steps and then pause and take a really deep breath on the tenth. On the steepie ups I’d cut this to four paces and every now and then I’d have to stop for a bit to get a lot more air in. This was an opportunity to meet fellow trekkers. It would start with a nod in between gasps, and a nod back, by way of introduction. Followed by a period of mutual gasping with intermittent smiling. One of us might attempt to speak. Eventually a question would come. If it was a Nepalese person, they would ask me. ‘How old are you?’. Nepalese like this question a lot. If it is a non-Nepalese person, they would ask, ‘Where are you from?’. In this way I met people from Finland, India, Kenya, and Germany and promised all of them I would visit their countries.

There was a definite solidarity between trekkers. A woman who I nodded and gasped with on one steepie passed me a couple of hours later and shouted, ‘you’re doing really well’. The same day a man caught up with me to tell me I’d just passed a rare public loo, when he’d heard me bemoan the lack of them about 30 minutes earlier.

By the 6th day I was really struggling. I had lost my appetite about day 3. I tried to force myself to eat but I couldn’t do it. I like food. One of the reasons I love walking is that it means I can eat cake, and lots of it. But not on this trek. The most I could manage was about a quarter of each meal. Consequently, I had low energy, and I was in a bad mood. My friend encouraged me to come to a café with her. I was reluctant but even at these heights and in such a remote area we found a trendy café. I ordered a hot chocolate with marshmallows. It arrived in a large jam jar with two fat paper straws and a long-handled teaspoon. I drank half of it in one gulp. ‘Ah, blood sugar,’ my friend said, and a hot chocolate was added to my food intake every afternoon.

The 8th day was the big day, the day we reached base camp. The plan that day was to trek to the teahouse where we would be staying the night, and have lunch. After lunch we would trek the two hours to base camp, take photos and then trek the two hours back to the teahouse. Despite regular hot chocolate I had continued to struggle. As we worked our way to the teahouse, I was formulating a plan that did not involve going to base camp. I could stay at the teahouse and see them all when they got back. Through lunch I convinced myself this was a good idea. When they stood up and started to refill their water bottles and relace their boots I announced my plan. They were surprised. They were sorry I felt like that. Was I sure? Yes, I was sure.

As they went out onto the path I saw our young second guide. He had been looking after me, carrying my water bottle and backpack when I was particularly tired on the steepie ups.

‘Miss Dori,’ he said, his eyes widening as he saw my lack of a backpack, ‘are you not going’. His voice so soft and high on the last word I hardly heard it.

‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, ‘I’ll wait here.’

He looked not just sad, but horrified. I couldn’t do it to him.

‘Give me a minute,’ I said, ‘I’ll get my backpack.’

The two hours to the camp were the hardest part of the whole trip, and it was mental rather than physical. There’s not really a path just broken rock. I could see the camp far in the distance as we all picked our way towards it. That didn’t make it better. It made it worse. I couldn’t rationalise the point of going all the way over there just to turn around and come all the way back. Twice I stopped and decided not to do it and then drew a long breath, felt a little better, and carried on.

When I reached the camp my young friend, the second guide, ran at me his arms outstretched. ‘Miss Dori!’ he shouted gleefully and wrapped me in a big hug. I hugged him back. It was him more than anyone who had got me there. I moved over to join the queue to have my photo taken in front of the base camp billboard, to mark this momentous moment. I even smiled.

There were four days to go, to trek back to Lukla, to wait again for the weather to clear and the planes to fly, to return to Kathmandu. Then to come home and tell everyone how bloody fantastic it had been.