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"Why don't we go hiking in the Alps for a few days?" The three of us have just gone paddle boarding for the first time in Villefranche-sur-mer and we are now sprawled across our towels, allowing the sun to dry us as we make plans for the rest of our trip. The nonchalance with which I suggest this excursion would be more justified from the mouth of a seasoned mountaineer, rather than a novice hiker accustomed to the hills of Ireland, but Sinead has been trekking through the Alps before and insists she could navigate us. I cannot question that logic. Arriving in Saint-Martin-Vésubie, I feel worlds away from the stony beaches of Nice. This is a small village at the foot of the Mercantour Park, with bakeries and cafés fuelling hikers for their journey, offering a glimpse of the natural scenery which we will be immersed in for the next three days. Or will we? The navette that connects the village to the National Park is not operating that day, and we are advised not to make the journey on foot. Rather than abandoning the trip, I reach my thumb out and the first car that passes pulls in. The benevolent couple provide us with weather information and a touristic opportunity to step out of the car and take photos of a waterfall dancing down the mountain. When we finally clamber out of the car, the three of us are bubbling with enthusiasm which wanes very quickly when we realise that hiking to 2,100 above sea level is exhausting. Not to mention the fact that we had done no training. Our physical ineptitude is reinforced upon arrival at Refuge de la Cougourde. "Why are you so tired?" we are asked with a cheeky smile. After a brief nap, we reemerge for dinner, where there are card games between people with no common tongue, an elderly man is describing his search for meaning in the mountains to a boy my age and where I find myself giving relationship advice to a man fifteen years my senior as we share a bottle of wine. I see my friends accept a sugar cube from Leif, a member of staff, as he explains that these cubes are steeped in a flower native to these surroundings, called génépi. This separates the weak from the study, as the true alpinists flock for their fix. I naively taste it, feeling betrayed by the sweet-looking cube that is in fact soaked in a potent alcohol. As the common room empties, the few of us who remain are encouraged to try génépi in its shot form and naturally, the bonds between us intensify as we grimace in unison. Hours later, I lie in the hammock on the balcony, my face painted as a butterfly by the owner's 8 year old daughter, and I interrupt the guitar-accompanied singing of my new friends, exclaiming, "Look up!" 2,100m above sea level in the Maritime Alps, the night sky is a perfect canvas strewn with stars. I understand it now, that call to nature; no other force can simultaneously confront us with our insignificance and inspire us so overwhelmingly. I am envious of the four men who spend their summers working here as they tell me it not a novelty but a great gift to be so immersed in their natural environment. The next morning, we each depart on our own journeys, and Sinead, Ellie and I make our way to Madone de Fenestre. We stop for a picnic by Lac des Trecolpas, a shimmering alpine lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains. There is a young couple swimming nude in the icy water as trail runners pass us out on our upward battle. Summiting the peak that day tests each of us physically, but we are spurred on by those at the top who call out words of encouragement in a mixture of languages. "Isn't it crazy to think we would never know that places like this existed if we hadn't explored them ourselves?" I ask the girls, filling up my water bottle from the waterfall. The Alps are not a destination, but an experience.