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By mid-day I was descending into the valley’s heat, anticipating the afternoon torpor and reluctant to leave the high mountains.

Even my motor bike seemed unwilling to descend through the hairpins, labouring hard round the tight bends rather than sweeping through with its usual smooth flow. The heat seemed to double the weight of my camping gear and I felt tired from concentrating on the road.

Sultry warmth came up to embrace me in moist arms, making the sweat prickle down my back. Body armour inside my touring leathers pressed heavily on my knees, elbows, shoulders and spine. My toes scrunched within the steam bath of moist socks inside heavy boots.

Once in the valley I crossed the river oiling slowly beneath the bridge, low at its afternoon ebb. Passing through a deserted village I wondered if the residents had simply melted into the oozing river, too heat-enfeebled to protest at being sucked away.

I wanted to stop and strip off the incubator of protective clothing but was afraid the effort would be too much. My hands felt soggy inside waterproof gloves, fretful at being airless and confined.

The heat’s malevolence pressed heavily on my helmet as I slowly rolled the bike to a stop, a reverse deep sea diver – moisture inside my suit, air outside. But there was no relief when I removed my helmet, only the wind’s hot damp breath as it lazily stirred to investigate my arrival.