MY husband suggested I take the 16-year-old, who, after his exams, had finished school a few weeks before his younger brother, away for a week’s holiday.

It sounded like a great idea, a chance for some mother and son bonding.

I pictured us on a city break, Paris perhaps, taking in a few galleries and enjoying delicious meals in chic restaurants. We could have a tour round Notre-Dame Cathedral, then a boat trip along the Seine.

But that was not what Roscoe and his dad had in mind.

They had come across a mountain trekking holiday in Bulgaria, complete with challenging ascents to the highest summits and dramatic ridge walking nearly 3,000 metres up, on the internet.

Roscoe was adamant: “Please Mum, I really want to do it.” It’s the sort of adventure his dad is normally up for. But he couldn’t make this particular trip.

I looked at the photographs of confident, super fit looking daredevils clinging onto cable and in harnesses as they traversed a treacherous ridge with dramatic sheer drops, shrouded in an eerie, menacing mist, beneath.  

“Look, there’s snow, and ice,” I pointed. This was a world away from the elegant streets of Paris in July.

“There is no way I am going to do that, never in a million years. Not on your life,” I laughed.  “I would rather gouge out my own eyeballs and eat them.”

And so, last week, I found myself in the rugged and dramatic Rila and Pirin mountains of Bulgaria. At one point, we hiked through a forest where, our guide pointed out, there were fresh bear droppings on the path. But bears were soon the least of my worries.

By the third day, we were traversing a ridge with what one experienced climber in our group described as having ‘three mortal drops’, not helped by the fact we were being pelted with huge hailstones and soaked by torrential rain at the time.

The least fit of our group of 12, I felt, and sounded, as if I was about to have a heart attack as we charged up steep ascents: “Stop breathing so loudly, Mum. You’re so embarrassing,” Roscoe hissed.

We trudged across snow and over boulder fields, at one point scrambling down from a summit in thunder and lightning.

To add to the trauma, I was constantly worrying about Roscoe, so it was probably just as well he sped on ahead with the faster members of the group, safely getting to the end of the trickier sections long before I came across them.

The fact that I was surrounded by so many capable and supportive fellow hikers, and led by a guide who clearly knew what he was doing, was what got me through.

By the fourth day, it was getting easier. My legs no longer ached. My breathing, to Roscoe’s relief, had stabilised. I looked back at what I had done and felt a sense of achievement. I had surprised myself. And the views were spectacular.

But after five long days of trekking, half of our group, some suffering from knee injuries, decided they would take the option of a well-deserved rest day.

A morning in the local hot spring pools, followed by lunch at a traditional Bulgarian restaurant, then a stroll round the shops of the old town in the mountain resort where we were staying sounded tempting.

But Roscoe didn’t want to miss the final trek to the imposing peaks of Vihren (2917m) and Kotelo (2911m), which involved being harnessed onto a cable along the famously airy Marble Ridge. Ominously, our guide warned us that, since there was still some snow and ice, we might have to change our route to avoid the more treacherous areas.

“Oh, let’s do the hot springs, Roscoe. It sounds lovely. And I’ll give you money for the shops,” I pleaded in vain.

I could hardly enjoy lunch while my 16-year-old was clinging onto a cable nearly 3,000m up. And so I went with him. To my amazement, I did it.

“When I am frail little old lady sitting in a nursing home, I want you to remember what I did this week,” I told him, once we were safely at the bottom.

On our last night, the hard walking and climbing done, we all danced to traditional Bulgarian music in the restaurant. It was a real celebration.

“So tell us all about it,” said my husband next day when he and 12-year-old Albert picked us up from the station.

But after all we had been through, there was only one thing Roscoe wanted to talk about: “Mum went absolutely wild last night. Her dancing was sooo embarrassing,” he scowled.