So it has taken me the whole week, since my last blog, to find the damn mountain path – sorry, poor attempt at humour.  Last week I signed off from amongst the scree of my grandmother's mountain, I was in search of the old path, the very one that my ancestors toiled up every day to collect firewood, tend gardens and trade beyond the peak of the mountain.

So walk with me again if you will...

After much scrambling through the scree, it's getting dangerous - so I give the path one last chance to show itself, (it's that or consider the ramifications of sliding down an excessive gradient of loose rocks). Maybe that's it just above me there... just a little further upward.  And oh my god - there it is, a good solid path sluicing its way through the loose stones.  Yes I'm relieved.  I also can't believe how high I am already, and still the mountain looms above me.

The clearly-marked path (yes, it's clearly-marked – pity I could not find it in the first place) leads me out of the shingle (phew) and up and across an out-cropping of rocks.  It's funny, from below you can't pick the details of the mountain but as you get higher and further into it, the cracks and folds open out before you.  I'm starting to get a bit jittery and favour the side of the path that hugs the mountain – I don't really feel like falling into the sea from up here.  Then it opens out again and I think, "Come on Lenska, you're okay, your grandmother used to get up at 5am and do this every day with her donkey, and I bet she never had the luxury of Adidas running shoes."

I follow the red markers sprayed on the rocks; they take me up and through another large outcrop.  I'm trying not to look down but my feet are starting to falter, my breath is shaky and I've still not found a stick to ward off the snakes.  I tell myself I'm okay, but really I'm sh*t scared, maybe Dad was right, I should have waited for someone to go with.

So I stop and take off my backpack - I don't need to be a hero, I've done pretty well on my own so far, I'm not here to prove anything.  And just as I'm about to bite into my nectarine (remember that's my reward for when I get to the top) I hear this incessant "maa" echoing across the sea of rocks below me.  What the hell is that? Snakes don't make noises like that, I'm sure of it.  Then I spot him happily dancing across the grey stones as he screams out to me.  I don't know why but I can't really believe my eyes and ears – it's a goat! And he doesn't really look like a mountain goat, he's brown and white and cute, he's better looking than the ugly goat I took to Calf Club Day all those years ago (sorry Billy-Mac, I still loved you though!).  For some strange reason this little goat inspires me to put my nectarine away and carry on – maybe I just needed to know that there was someone there with me. 

I'm literally in the sky now, the village swims below - a shifting blur between the blue ocean and what were the old terraced gardens of the hillside.  I look up at what surely must be the final segment of the climb, I know that above that sheer hunk of rock there is a Croatian flag and one hell of a view - and a chance to eat my nectarine.  But the path is looking scary – it zig-zags over my head and is literally built into the side of the rock.  To counter my wobbly knees and slippery feet I pretend that Husband is in front of me, and that I am following his steady footsteps, one after the other.

It works for a while but after a rather stupid and pathetic stumble I find myself resting for a bit and thinking about that nectarine.  And then I hear footsteps – real ones – and around the corner pops this happy, surefooted Croatian fellow hopping down the mountain like he's out for a Sunday stroll.  Of course I try and seem cool calm and collected but perhaps my furtive glances towards the edge give me away.  He tells me, in pigeon English, that it's an easy 10 minutes to the top. 

I dust myself off and grit my teeth.  Up we go.  Grandmother will be proud. I'm joined by a butterfly and that brightens my mood – another wee friend, I'm not climbing alone after all!  And quite suddenly I'm at the top.  There's the flag, a seat to admire the view and looking back behind the mountain the steepness dissipates into plateaus and more rolling hills. It's a strange perspective from the top as it appears like someone has taken an axe to the landscape and hewn down towards the coastline.

All of a sudden I am at peace. The height no longer bothers me as I perch on the edge of a rock trying to get pictures of me and my nectarine.   I consider my adventure and I truly believe that someone was there with me, be it the Goat, the happy Croatian or the Butterfly – I know she walked beside me, I know it made her happy that I was there, and that I made it to the top.  And by the way it was the best nectarine I've ever eaten!

Find out more about Croatia.

Read more of Lenska's journeys.