It almost ends with my first question to Maddy: "Do you want to go walking in the mountains in Corsica?"
Her answer comes with all the solemn, big-eyed honesty that an eight-year-old can muster. "No, thanks."
The first faint rattles of annoyance sound within me. Obtuse, difficult, illogical: children are not fit to be taken on exciting foreign ventures.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't like walking."
She can walk, I know she can. When six, she managed 10 miles in a day and carried her own sleeping bag. The sheer irrationality is what annoys me. She will come. She will be made to love walking. At her age, wasn't I?
I inform Maddy – and Sophie and grown-up sister Caitlin – what is going to happen. I've researched carefully and discovered that Corsica has some of the toughest mountain walking in Europe. Most feared and respected is the GR20, a 112-mile path that destroys boots and egos with abandon. Those who manage it take at least 15 days. It is steep, rocky and climatically treacherous with the possibility of snow even in summer and sudden storms at any time. The accommodation is either in tents or mountain refuges. No one ever takes children on it. Sounds perfect.
When I get in touch with Sarah Quee, a highly experienced walking guide and founder of the Ajaccio-based company Corsica Aventure, she asks some pertinent questions, for example: "Does Maddy like walking?"
"She loves it."
"If she's a good walker, and well-equipped, there is no reason why she can't do part of the path. It's not all difficult."
We work out a route: a three-day trek across the shoulders of Paglia Orba, Corsica's third highest peak at 2,525m (8,228 feet). It will take in some spectacular scenery and involve one gruelling ascent and one challenging descent plus nights in refuges, ski lodges and tents. Most of it will be on the GR20.
We fly to Bastia, in the north-east of the island, and after a night in the Hotel Castel Brando (a wonderful small hotel on the coast north of the town) we drive west across the island. It is a long drive, especially as I insist on making it longer by taking in the coast road around the peninsula of Cap Corse. The last few miles up to the town of Piana are spectacular: narrow lanes clinging to sea cliffs – and very popular with large groups of Harley-Davidson owners who hog all the stopping places. We reach the creaky but charming Hôtel Les Roches Rouge and dropping everything rush down to the sea. I jump in, swim, and jump out. As I reach for the towel, a gigantic monster grabs me below the kidneys with his claws of steel. My knees wilt, my breath is punched out of me. I gasp in pain. "My back's gone."
"No it hasn't," says Maddy, bouncing up and down on the sand with irrepressible energy. "It's still there."
The next day, the day before the walk, I spend in agony. I'm guzzling ibuprofen and paracetamol. I'm spraying diclofenac. I can't stand straight for a minute before having to lie down. Sophie drives us to the last jumping off point: the ski station at Col de Vergio. In the hearty dining hall, lots of people, many over 60, are leaping about like eight year olds. I shuffle through to the dorm room and lower my poor broken body on to the bunk bed with tiny sobs of pain. I lie awake, trying to come to terms with being left alone and helpless in a soulless concrete ski canteen with a gang of frisky sexagenarians.
In the morning, the Col is surrounded by cloud. I get kitted up and shuffle outside. I feel like there are invisible scorching wires that connect my heels to my lower back. Every step unleashes a big bass drum thump of agonising pain. I can't even read the map properly. Sophie gets me a stick that I lean on. Maddy is far ahead, but keeps skipping back to encourage me. "Not far now, Daddy." I don't believe her, but it helps.
After an hour and a half, I feel the pain is lessening since I am starting to notice my surroundings. There is a dramatic waterfall at the mouth of a high-sided valley and every other huge pine tree looks like it has been scarred by lightning. There are asphodels and foxgloves in the clearings, Maddy counts 21 different flowers in one 10-minute snack stop. We start to climb, very slowly, beyond the tree line and spot the Refuge Ciuttulu perched on a ledge under the dome-shaped summit of Paglia Orba. It's rocky and slippery and we are very pleased to have brought stout boots. By four o'clock we are finally standing on a rough wooden verandah outside a single-storey stone hut, looking over a stunning panorama of snowy peaks and clouded valleys. There's even a pichet of good country wine.
As darkness approaches the refuge fills up with people. It's a deceptively spacious two-room building: one for dining, the other for sleeping. There are simply two long communal bunk beds packed with three dozen mattresses. Everyone unfurls their sleeping bag and claims a space. It's going to be cosy. Outside, cloud is rolling across the refuge like tumbleweed. The temperature has dropped to barely above freezing. I'm wishing I had brought a down jacket.
Back in the refuge we eat a hearty dinner. Several people are camping outside and eating in. A few have arrived and rented tents and mats. Despite the poor euro/pound exchange rate, it is possible to do this walk economically. When the last jug of wine is empty we head for bed. I fall asleep immediately but then wake. It's pitch dark and a snoring Frenchman has rolled into me. Like duelling caterpillars we jockey for position on the mattress. He seems determined to sleep in my space, but I finally elbow him off and claim victory.
The GR20, I later learn, sees its share of edgy cultural misunderstandings. Most walkers are mainland French and the faintest whiff of arrogance towards the Corsicans elicits antipathy, even hostility. Independence aspirations are very much alive here: road signs are in French and Corsican (a language which is closer to Italian), but the French version is routinely obliterated – sometimes with bullet holes.
This is the land of the vendetta, and it's been bubbling away for centuries. During the period 1821 to 1852 there were a recorded 4,300 vengeance killings; a century earlier murders were running at about three per day. As a Britisher it is helpful to carry a "Get Out of Vendetta Free" card clearly stating that: "In 1794 the Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson gave his right eye in the British liberation of Corsica – after nearly 500 years of Genoese and French domination." This generally does the trick. Under no circumstances, however, remind them that we meekly returned the island to France two years later.
At first light, I wake and realise that I'm on the wrong mat. The supposed liberation of my own mat has turned out to be a sickening act of imperialistic expansion. I get up quickly before any accusations fly and head for breakfast, gasping a bit as my back has tightened up in the night.
By 8am we are outside and heading for the Bocca de Foggiale pass. We are above the clouds, which are galloping up mountainsides, then plunging over the passes and diving down into deep valleys. At 2,000m we cross snow patches, then begin a marvellous descent into the Stranciacone ravine, beyond which rise the Cinque Frati – the five friars – a cluster of spectacular crags.
Once again Maddy is way ahead – the path is well-marked and easy to follow. I'm struggling to keep up: easing myself gingerly down boulders and screes. We stop to eat by a tumbling stream and discover a hidden world of tiny natural gardens: small patches of micro-climate warmth where ferns and flowers flourish in the shelter of smooth boulders, each with a small green lizard sunning itself on top.
Our next overnight is at Berg de Ballone, as close to a perfect mountain stopping point as you could wish for. There's a bowl of mountain ridges all around, a tumbling river full of ice-cold pools for brief swimming forays, and friendly hosts – something of a relief after Ciuttulu. The bergeries are really summer farms that offer passing walkers hospitality. Ballone is one of the best, with a restaurant and bar, plus tents and mats for hire. Water is from the spring. Sophie is so taken with the river and boulders, she chooses to meditate on a rock over a waterfall. On the other side of the water, the rest of us mess around with sticks and pine cones. The effort of hitting pine cones over the river wrenches my back and Maddy and Caitlin have to help me back to the paracetamols.
Beyond Ballone the path heads up to the Cirque du Solitude, the ultimate challenge of the GR20 and one that any keen walker ought to do at least once in their life. We had been told many times that Maddy would never manage this. Jean-Pierre at the restaurant, however, was quite sure she could and that I could not.
Next morning I had to admit that I would not be capable. Instead we took the exit route, a long amble around the Five Friars to Calasima, Corsica's highest village. From there it was a taxi ride back to where our car had been left at Calacuccia. The walk was done, though Maddy was keen to continue.
So, GR20 for kids? Yes, why not. She loved the bunk beds, tents, pasta-based diet, and the walking (denying, quite adamantly, that she had ever felt any different). The walking was certainly never too challenging with sensible distances between night stops. There is, however, one major preparatory element that should never be missed: get your adults fit first.
