Ali still carried the head collar and a stick from somewhere. Then the other two joined us, sitting down for a smoke. Sweat ran down his face the climb hadn’t been that easy for him either. Seemed he reckoned there was a horse in there. Taking a long pull his eyes watered as he coughed out, ‘At. He offered a cigarette, pointing to a small cave at the back of the clearing. I reached the plateau, surprééised to find it covered in grass. Yildiz and Ali had stopped in a clump of erasmus on a crumbling terrace, in the rugged shadow of an old olive. I squinted at the man above, just a dozen yards more. Now we were half way up this hill, after another. Just leather draped round a skeleton – pitiful. He was black, a four-year-old, eaten alive with lice and worms. I’d looked at them in queer places, never on a cliff face. There couldn’t be a horse in a place like this. Curry spice and sage grew in patches and a whiff of pine hung around, from all along the coast. You could see the bottom just below the rocks, looking cool. Stopping for a breather, I turned to look out to sea. Yildiz and Ali were slow: the climb was killing them too: it was a real effort.

He’d gone up like a mountain goat and was watching us three struggle up after him. He stood high above us in his filthy trousers, shouting ‘Haydi gel!’ and waving his arms about. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. All sorts of things occur to help that would never have otherwise occurred. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. Until one is committed there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back.

Saddletramp by Jeremy James