Greetings from Colombia! Having booked the cheapest flights possible, via Google flights (thanks to Jack's Flight Club), I am routing home via... Bogota! I will be planting a forest of trees to start to attempt to balance the carbon footprint this trip has created. It's less of a footprint, more of a chasm.
If you've been following this adventure, and I am staggered at the number of views the blog has had - thank you for sharing the adventure.
The square where my youth hostel was, was called Kennedy Park, and it is over-run with stray cats, many of whom have been adopted by locals. Legend has it that the square was initially over-run with mice and possibly other rodents, hence the introduction of cats to see off the rodents. But, a boy cat met a girl cat, one thing led to another and they had baby cats; this continued and now the square is over-run with cats. In fact, on my first night one tried to share my dinner with me. The conversation didn't exactly flow.
It's not easy to get rid of mice. I had a house-mouse once, maybe more - some might say that one mouse twice is in fact, mice. I will never forget the night that I nearly called the police to report what sounded like someone trying to break through the back door, when it turned out to be the house-mouse trying to get his teeth around a KitKat chunky.
I decided to spend my final day in Peru in the next town along from Miraflores, Barranca. Those kindly people at the Tourist Office usually have a walking tour there, but it's not occurring at the moment, but they gave me a map and said I should follow it to see all sorts of amazing graffiti art and a famous wooden footbridge. Now as you may know, circles of 'me' and 'following maps' do not readily intersect in Venn diagrams, so I thanked them for the map, folded it up and tucked it into my jacket pocket, knowing that I will most probably use the reverse side for writing a to-do list at one point, and headed off in the direction of Barranca.
I came across the Museum of Modern Art at Barranca. It was closed. However, it seemed possible to wander between bits of curious modern art in the grounds and I had a happy few hours wandering, then sitting beside a huge pool of water, sipping coffee, people-watching and reading my books.
My friends from the roof terrace had invited me to meet them for dinner, so I made a plan to go to the original roof terrace from the post-walking tour dinner, then messaged them the directions. I was quite proud of myself for firstly, being able to find the place, and secondly, to direct two other people to the place. The staff were delighted that I had returned and brought more customers and even extended the 10% discount from the walking tour card, to all of us. A pleasant evening of travel chat ensued and I enjoyed sumptuous fish straight out of Pacifico along with a divine passion fruit pisco sour which I would very highly recommend to you at any time. Just one though - they are overproof (not ovenproof, that's different).
I've been staying at a youth hostel called the Flying Dog - the obvious name for a youth hostel in Peru - they are a small chain present in various areas of Peru and come recommended, by me. Great value, friendly and comfortable; all types of room are available, from dorm rooms to en-suites. They sorted out breakfast each day via a nearby restaurant, plus can direct you to day-trips, laundry, airport transfers and have cerveza in the fridge at reception. Behold, a flock of flying dogs.
I awoke at 6.15am to load my giant orange tortoise who I think is now on her very final journey, after twenty-six loyal years of service on numerous expeditions worldwide; she is now showing signs of abject exhaustion. She's been lashed to the top of African bush taxis, flung into the depths of the mysterious below deck of various boats in all kinds of oceans and lakes, chucked onto countless conveyor belts into the holds of jumbo jets and questionably tiny weeny airplanes. She's been with me through joy and laughter, trauma and tears.
I said farewell to my room and left my key on reception as instructed, then waited outside, reading my book. I felt a pang of anxiety - what if the driver has gone to another Flying Dog? What if he isn't coming at all? What if I miss my flight?! Honestly, I should know by now just to relax and have faith that it will be ok. After about ten minutes, a man appeared from nowhere -
Hola, buenos dias. Helen Beecher? Aeroporto?
All was well. I followed him around the corner into the square, watched by a number of stray cats who seemed to have gathered as a farewell committee, where his car awaited. Myself and my giant orange tortoise bundled in and we were airport-bound.
My lack of entry stamp did not faze immigration - in fact, it appears that stamping passports is becoming a thing of the past - sad, sad times. I flew to Bogota, Colombia, from where I write to you now from a rather swish airport lounge. I went to freshen up and - forgive the detail - awkwardly my deodorant exploded causing a minor flood of white liquid all over me, and all over the bathroom. This was awkward.
My adventure is coming to an end, and I will soon board my final flight to Londres where I will swiftly gather up the threads of real-life and get back to doing everything I'm probably meant to have already done.
There will be a final chapter tomorrow - see you then.
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