I don’t have hundred pound biceps or biker tattoos – in fact, I only have very small and rather pathetic tattoo in the shape of a star, and drawn up to full height I look quite like a tall dwarf with malnutrition – so hitchhiking is something I’ve tended to steer well clear of. As I don’t travel with a car though (who am I kidding – I don’t have a car), or a bike or a scooter or one of those most excellent vespas, there have been times when it’s seemed like a viable option.

Well, okay. There was one time, during that week in Croatia.

The village was well up in the hills of Hvar Island and had only just been hooked up for electricity, so public transport and supermarkets were considerably out of the question.

We were keen on cooking our host, English Mark, a bang-up dinner to thank him for the hospitality, so we hiked to the nearest town to buy groceries but, as predicted, were altogether too buggered to make it back.

‘Don’t worry,’ English Mark had said. ‘I guarantee you’ll get a ride in less than 11 cars’ time.’

On account of it being the kind of deserted road where one car comes past every three days on average, we decided against hanging about to find out. Ever so slowly we trudged along in the beating sun, half delirious for seven long, uphill kilometres, rationing our half-bottle of lukewarm water and picturing the crows swooping in to shred our parched carcasses when we finally succumbed (okay, so it all sounds a bit melodramatic, but we were actually seeing mirages by this time. Later we were told it was the hottest day on Hvar since records began).

Oh. I’ve just realised this wasn’t a hitchhiking story at all. We never did get picked up.