The high, coastal road was strewn with debris from the goat-infested rocks above it, and at one point I passed an identical vehicle to mine, lying on it's roof with the four - dejected but unhurt - German passengers sitting on a boulder in the heat, waiting for a replacement car.
I soon learnt the local vernacular in roadsigns - a large rock, painted with whitewash and placed right in your path meant that one half of the stretch of highway just around the corner had fallen about a thousand feet into the valley below, and you were quite likely to come up against a gigantic truck, travelling toward you and taking up all of the available remaining road space. All the official road signs up in the hills were peppered with bullet-holes by the boisterous locals.
The greener foothills of the mountain range were carpeted with bright, spring flowers, and the highest of the mountains was capped with snow. I wondered how long into the summer that snow would last.
Finally, the tarmac gave way to a dusty layer of pebbles, and the road abruptly terminated in a row of rocks which deliniated the makeshift car-park from the 900 foot drop behind it.
I got out of the car and looked over the edge, noticing a sharply zig-zagging path on the other side of the valley which was identical to the one I was just about to descend. It looked like a bolt of lightening from the gods who inhabited the mountains.
At the top of the path, one of the mountain pines had a notice attached to it, and the message in four languages read: "Warning! Every year, an average of 5 people suffer a heart attack when walking here, and it can take up to 3 hours for a medical team to reach them. Are you fit enough to make this walk?"
At the third bend, about half way down, I started to get terrible pains in my chest and I sat down on a rock, trying to recover.
This was not supposed to happen. Not five hundred yards in, on the way down.