We meet for drinks at 5. I am the last one there. I’d been on a wine tour. Again. Well, somebody has to do it. Already the guide is explaining our route, the terrain, our strategy. Everyone is in couples, and I get that look – the one that says, ‘So why is he by himself?’ People find it weird. Eventually they’ll want to know my ‘story’. Mostly so they can tell me theirs. Then they’ll want my top tips. Well I know a great breakfast place in Auckland… shabby chic but..

We have Bob and Carol from Colorado. Bob is a world famous management consultant I have never heard of, and Carol says she hates Trump – as she drapes her elegant cashmere throw over her shoulder. Eddy and Alice are their friends. They have a world famous daughter who climbs mountains professionally and sleeps hanging over ledges. Eddy builds theme parks. Alice is a home-maker. All four have teeth whiter than the driven snow, the sort that could light your way in the dark. All four are champion skiers. They are fearless adventurers.

There are two sets of Australians. Rick and Judy from Melbourne are the fittest 60 somethings I’ve ever met. This was to be their wind-down week: they’ve spent the last 21 days carrying full kit and tents, negotiating the toughest tracks in NZ. Their relaxation is my stretching myself to the limit. Their one weakness – or perhaps their greatest strength this week – is that they rarely speak. Gentle giants. Craig and Jenny are from Perth and are normal human beings. Our guide is not. Emma is 24, wider than she is tall, and her father is a Maori All Black.

It’s my turn with the introductions and I have a light bulb moment. I am seriously out of my depth. I could even be in trouble. I don’t have to say it: they all know. They can read it in the thought bubble above my head.

The following morning we start early. We go to Motuara Island, ostensibly to see the birds. Really it’s so Emma can see how fit we are. The others race up the hill. I am the last one there. On the way down Emma says ‘Don’t worry man!’ I say ‘I wasn’t. Until you said that.’

Then the boat takes us to Ship Cove where Cook first landed. It’s a beautiful, sheltered bay with picture postcard azure sea, and gentle waves kissing the shore. We set off to walk the Queen Charlotte Track that frames the north side of Marlborough Sounds. I did an easy bit of this beautiful, majestic hike last year, and this time I’m going Peak Perambulation. The first day is just 17km, lots of up and down, 6 hours. I am ahead of Craig and Jenny most of the way but eventually I fall back. At Furneaux Lodge I am the last one there. Everyone already has a beer, and Bob buys me one. Then I notice Judy has a gash on her leg, and one on her arm. Two people from another group have tripped too.

At dinner, we learn more about each other, especially about Bob, who sits at the head of the table. We talk politics, sport, Hollywood. I try to change the topic. I try semiotics, but no-one picks up the signals. I try geology, but they all look stony faced. In desperation I reach for music, and after some encouragement they get ‘Night Flight’ out of me. That sort of kills the conversation (for a change) and we all go to bed.

The next day is the easiest – only 12km. I walk first with Bob and we talk business. I use the magic words ‘Gemini Consulting’ for whom I used to work, a pioneering firm, and for the first time he goes silent. Professional jealousy, or respect? Later I talk to Eddy who was a plumber until he woke up one day and raised a million dollars to build the world’s best water theme park in Tahiti, which he eventually sold for one gazillion dollars. Aah, America! He actually helps me through the day.

Emma always holds well back. She says it’s the fittest group she’s ever taken out, and we’re going to be early again. ‘Well, I won’t’ I say. And of course, I am the last one there. When I arrive Carol and Jenny are nursing blisters and blood on their feet. I’m fine.

Tomorrow is the big one. 23km. Climbing 1,000 metres from Punga Cove and back down. 32 degrees. I’m panicking. I go looking for Emma. ‘ I’m worried I won’t make it’. ‘Well, you might be alright. I’ve never had anyone not get through it. Yet.’ Obviously her training did not include Reassurance 101. Although it does include showing me how to use walking poles effectively. Middle class North London problems – while she’s carrying a pack that is bigger than she is, with medical supplies, spare water and stoves, kettles and the kitchen sink.

The sun is shining in Bob’s face at dinner. So he gets us all to rotate two seats. He ends up at the top of the table.

In the morning I can’t find my sun hat. It’s a sign. I panic. I can’t do this without a hat! Emma laughs and gets a spare out of her bag. We are off. We go uphill for two hours, then down, then up again. Then up. I am way behind, panting, an old man at a zebra crossing waiting for the traffic to stop. I think of my impending heart attack, the people I love, the airlift operation, the music I want at my memorial, what people will say. If they show up. By 11am my Garmin tells me I have climbed 111 flights of stairs. Like the Shard maybe. I get to an arranged stopping point. As I arrive they all roll their eyes, smile and set off without me. I reach the apex. My head is in the clouds, I think only metaphorically. I am two thirds through my water.

I get to the ridge line at midday, in the full glare of the sun. For the next three hours I walk along it, drifting from one side to the other, singing songs from The Sound of Music. On my left is Marlborough Sound, where the ferry runs between North and South Island, on the right the more remote Pelorus Sound with a few mussel farms below and the odd farmhouse. This is bliss! Then I go down, relentlessly but slowly until I reach Portage – seven or eight hours after I started climbing. Would it surprise you to know I am the last one there? Bob is sitting in the very middle of the bar, with his foot dramatically positioned on a chair, embedded in ice. ‘I turned my ankle. Three times.’ Rick is more silent than usual. ‘I’m knackered. One day too far, mate.’ Eddy and Alice have wilted and gone for a snooze.

Day four – the final one – is a damp squib. I wake up and I’m not even hurting. Nothing aches. No part of my body is complaining. This is seriously underwhelming. I want to post photos of calluses, blood, tourniquets. But I’m just simply fine. And today is the easy bit I walked last year, so I take a boat back to Picton and walk the more challenging Snout. The Americans kayak back instead of walking, so the Aussies are the only ones on the actual track.

We’ve arranged to meet back at base for champagne at 4. But I get a text to say 4:30. I get there at 4:25. Damnit, for once I am not going to be the last one there. But I am. As I walk in, they’ve rigged up some speakers. From which blasts my album, Night Flight. Craig shouts ‘C’mon mate! We’ve all been listening to your record all day! It’s fantastic! When are you going to bring your band to Perth? I can get you gigs! I know all the wineries… they’d love you to play at their summer festies!’ Bob hobbles over, champagne in hand and says ‘Well done!’ I realise how much I like him.

I may have been the last one there, but that evening I was first to the bar buying.

Some people found a recent post misleading. In general terms, women were inclined to believe me, and men were not. Answers on a postcard please. I have not concluded my analysis yet by anything other than gender. So as not to antagonise either of my fans, I will confirm that I have changed all names above, and about 98.473% of the above is true. Including how much I liked Bob – and all his Merican friends. And the Stralians. And of course, the wonderful Emma, without whom I would never have made it. Thanks to them all for their great companionship over those four days. Next stop, the Himalayas….