Meandering down among the tussocks of grass and thrift was a faint line that looked as though once, in the dim and distant past, a flock of inebriated goats had staggered down the cliff-face to indulge in God knows what alcoholic orgy.
'Call that a path?' I enquired. 'If I were a chamois, I might agree with you, but no man born of a woman could go down that.'