When the vulture started to eye us off, my wife and I began to think we’d made a terrible mistake. But we were wrong: the arrival of the scavenger and its hungry stare was actually the best moment of our trip.

The day started well. Our legs and feet were in good shape after four days of physically challenging but utterly safe inn-to-inn walking over well-marked trails in the French Basque country.

But a few kilometres into the fifth day we came across our first real obstacle: an old farmer blocking our path with his chin-high stick.

My High School French just kept up as he made it plain we would not be allowed to pass, the route had changed years ago, we were idiots for not using the new path, and must retreat about 2 kms to find it.

No amount of debate, or Google translate, changed his mind or made his grip on the stick less threatening.

We’re not hardcore navigators, so relied on an app that showed our route and the local area, and tracked our movements. It had helped us in some spots where the trail wasn’t obvious and we trusted it.

So as we backed away from the farmer – who we joked might be a Troll – we consulted the app and found a series of roads, lanes, and trails that could be stitched together into an alternate route.

We decided to take the chance.

First came a gated lane that plunged us into a dank gully and ankle-deep mud, then emerged next to a hostile dog that bared its teeth and forced us to scuttle around it in the direction of a farmhouse that, encouragingly, was on a proper road..

Then a window opened and a local peered out, oozing hostility and suspicion as we passed.

The app led us to a rustic tangle of barbed wire and rotting posts that served as a gate, behind which a steep path led to a high meadow and – supposedly – a trail to intercept the route the Troll forbade us to take.

The trail was invisible. But we did find a strangely bulky fence post that upon closer inspection was a rough stile. After climbing it, we found a steep strip of dirt that suggested the hint of an outline of a track – but had not been bothered by boots for months.

The app said it was real, so we followed it into ever-denser trees that couldn’t hide the fact we were now on a narrow ridge with steep gullies on either side and no obvious exit.

My phone lost GPS signal beneath the trees and the app stopped being useful. Retreat was not an option – the walk would stretch past 30 kms and nightfall, the dog would get us, the suspicious local would call Les Gendarmes, or the farmer/troll would appear with his stick.

We pressed on, fearfully. Then the track disappeared and it became impossible not to think that defying the farmer had been a very bad idea.

But we soon saw a little light, and bolted for a clearing. GPS coverage returned, the slope eased and the app showed us a couple of hundred metres away from a bigger trail.

Which was when the vulture landed on a nearby rock and fixed its beady eyes on us.

With no desire to become food, we hustled up the steep hill and found the correct route.

From the farmer to the vulture took us two hours and we moved three whole kilometres.

Whatever hold the farmer/troll had on us dissipated once we found the route and the rest of the day was a dream. Mountain ponies trotted alongside us as we walked. A stone shepherd’s hut afforded an idyllic lunch spot. Wild cherry trees offered perfect snacks. Our inn for the night was delightful.

A few other people were walking the same itinerary we chose and we asked them about their day’s walking.

“Did you meet the farmer?” we asked.

“Farmer?” they replied. “We just walked where the map told us.”

We compared maps: they had exactly the same documents and data. And if you doubt me, here it is on Strava – https://www.strava.com/routes/3250729302251414968

We’ll never forget that walk. And maybe that’s the way the troll wanted it, because on every other day of this trek we stayed right on the path.

None of our memories of the day are about fatigue, our feet, or the weather. They’re only about the adventure, the triumph of making it to the track, and the strange, strange, feeling that not everything we saw that day was truly what it appeared to be

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