Or, almost. Dante began his ethereal journey into the underworld depressed and harangued by wild beasts in a dark wood. Against that, things were markedly better for us; our first day’s walk proceeded along a riverbank and miles upon miles of fruit-heavy orchards. Nor were we, in our early 30s, like Dante, “midway upon the journey of our life,” — at least I hoped not. And whereas Dante had the poet Virgil as his guide, it was up to us to search out the telltale signposts of the Cammino di Dante. The red circles, painted on gateposts and trees, depicted the man himself, looking keen, gaunt and defiant, his aquiline nose pointing us in the right direction.