Episode 3 - Snakes and the Middle of Lidl

The day began in the morning, as they tend to.  There was a bit of a drama when Sharktooth, my niece's friendly cornsnake, slithered unerringly into the base of the ice-cream maker, via a tiny weeny hole which didn't look big enough for a cornsnake to fit through, but somehow she did.  If you are not familiar with cornsnakes, they are a type of snake - a bit like a big snake, but smaller.  The ice-cream maker was duly dismantled using a various tools, thus freeing Sharktooth - who seemed entirely unaffected by her unexpected sojourn - and enabling us to make ice-cream later, whilst avoiding puréeing one of the family pets.      

Post sumptuous cinnamon-flavoured cappuccino hand-crafted by my brother-in-law and his magic machine, we headed to town for the Festival of Butterflies.  This consisted of a whole load of local organisations promoting themselves, fundraising and selling their wares, as well as a lively Mariachi band who were fun to listen to.  We went into the butterfly garden and saw two butterflies, or it may have been the same one twice, I couldn't be sure.  Butterflies are very pretty and do all sorts of useful environmental things.  Last weekend in the UK, the Big Butterfly Watch took place - this is for spotting all butterflies, not just big ones.

My sister and I walked to the supermarket, Trader Joe's, the equivalent of Sainsbury's rather than Waitrose or Lidl.  I've been to the Middle of Lidl a couple of times recently - if you haven't experienced it yet, you must go, although beware - you may find yourself going home with a portable garden pizza oven or a stand-up paddleboard, just because they are there.  

Trader Joe's was a friendly place - the staff on the check-outs even pack your bags for you! Not like in the UK where your purchases form an unsightly pile whilst you speedily attempt to bundle them into your plethora of planet-saving cotton bags.  Speaking of cotton bags, did you know that you have to use your cotton bag every day for sixty-nine years to balance the amount of water it took to make the cotton? I read this in The Guardian, so it must be true.  Now there's a challenge. 

We came home and the epic strawberry ice-cream making process ensued.  It was a lot of fun doing this with my sister and niece.  I had the very important job of chopping up half of yesterday's yield of strawberries from 'You Pick' or 'Pick Your Own', as we would call it in the UK.  I chopped them into tiny pieces then we puréed the rest.  Ice-cream is really just, well, ice, cream - surely not - sugar and eggs.  So you heat them all up, let it cool, freeze it, remove any family pets from the mechanism, then churn the whole lot.  We added the strawberries, both the pieces and the purée which dyed it pink and the result was sumptuous.  Author's note - do not follow these instructions if you want to make some - find a recipe or ask Alexa, if she is speaking to you.     

I've sort of planned the next part of my trip.  Booking.com tells me that I'm a 'Genius Level 2' which is quite flattering.  I messaged one of the places where I may stay to ask about transport details, to which the reply came - 'Absolutamente'.  Helpful or what.      

Episode 2 - Chickens and an absent tortoise

 'Excuse me - could I just confirm if you have had a DBS check recently, and if so, the date and issuing organisation please?' That was the question I wanted to ask the person I found myself adjacent to on the plane yesterday.  It's not really a question you can ask, in this situation.  Mind you, I think I should have said the same to the survey person yesterday who said - 'I run my own business, but it's really very complicated so I can't really explain it to you now - what's your name?

'Helen', I replied.

'And your surname?' 

'Well, it's long', then watched her duly write Helen Long.  I didn't say anything.  I suppose it makes more sense than the conference reception lady a few months ago who when I arrived at the event said 'can I take your surname?'; 'sure, it's double-barrelled...'; then before I had a chance to say more, she'd zipped straight to 'D' and assured me that there was no-one with the surname 'Double-Barrelled' on her list.  

I said to the kindly lady at the bag-drop where Bluebird begun her first journey for a while, 'is this a good seat to be in?' and showed her my boarding pass, which was definitely a boarding pass.  'No', she confirmed.

'Right - could I move somewhere else possibly then please? To another seat though, the wing might be quite uncomfortable'.

She paused, then started typing furiously.

'Sure - would you like a window seat?' 

'Yes please'.  Sure enough I found myself upgraded to Premium Economy, where my table was bamboozingly stashed in an arm-rest and I had at least ten extra centimetres of leg-room for those all-important anti-DVT exercises - I'm not sure I did them properly, I just waved my legs around every now again, which I think didn't endear me to my neighbour.  He also looked at my screen just as the women warriors of Benin had sacrificed a chicken and were sprinkling its blood over a pile of stone artefacts, which perhaps wasn't the best moment for him to glance over.  Then dinner came and it was chicken.  He requested the vegetarian option.

I stood patiently waiting for my giant orange tortoise at the baggage carousel then realised after half an hour how long a wait that would be.  Bluebird then arrived and off I trundled through customs to find my sister waiting for me.  

We cruised through the LA traffic - these six-lane freeways make the M25 look like a footpath - and soon (relative to having spent 11 hours on a plane) arrived to be greeted by my brother-in-law, nephew, niece and various pets including SAGE the dog, who was particularly busy during the pandemic.

Each week, 186 children and young people call me Helen, but there are only two in the world who call me 'Arnie Helen' and it is wonderful.

We spent my first day strawberry picking, chilling with friends, eating delicious food then watching 'Guardians of the Galaxy 3' - having never seen Guardians of the Galaxy 1, or 2, or in fact, StarWars or anything similar (apart from Superman and Spiderman, which are obviously totally real), I was gently confused by the whole situation, although I was very sad about the bit with the walrus, the rabbit and the otter, although they had said some important things about friendship, not that long before they all perished - the rest was lost on me.    

The family car is a little different to my car.  If the windows are down when you leave the family car, when you walk away, the windows go up and the car locks.  Where I live, if the windows are down when you leave the car, you'll never see the car again.

Episode 1 - This is not a boarding pass

I never check-in online. I mean, what if you check-in online & then on the way, something goes wrong - say you get stuck in a traffic jam or your train breaks down. What if you check-in online, then Jesus comes back? What happens then? Can you claim on your travel insurance? I suppose it wouldn't matter at that point. He is due - hopefully with a bit of notice though, Mondays are particularly busy for me.

So, I didn't check in online, but got a little panicked when I received four text messages whilst en route, informing me that I hadn't checked in online, as if this was news to me. Give me some new information!

The effortlessly beautiful, effervescently purple Elizabeth Line seamlessly whisked me directly from Abbey Wood to Heathrow Terminal 2, entirely on Oyster, for just £13.30. On arrival, there is about a 16-mile walk from the platform to the terminal, but thoughtfully placed travelators expedite the process.

Any of you have ever read my blog before will be familiar with my giant orange tortoise who has accompanied me on every trip for the last twenty years, having been purchased for my questionably successful Bronze DofE expedition, which was a mixture of getting lost on various golf courses, falling out with a field of alpaca and knocking on someone's door to ask for directions. That giant orange tortoise has since been with me to 70 countries; she's been lashed to the top of African bush taxis, thrown into the bowels of boats in the Carribbean sea, she's had emergency surgery in the middle of Senegal and searched on multiple occasions. I know her every nook and cranny, from the hidden internal pockets, to exactly how to strategically fit my flip-flops into the side compartment. But, as with all good things, my giant orange tortoise's life has now come to an end, and she is moving into retirement. 

So now, it is the turn of 'Bluebird' to accompany me. She is a much more recent model - with zips and everything. She has a daughter, Baby Bluebird, who zips comfortably on to her back, a bit like an actual baby, (not that babies zip on, but you get the idea), although I decided to leave her at home as attaching her made my depth increase three-fold which I thought might not endear me to anyone walking in the vicinity.

After the 16-mile walk, I attempted to check-in via a machine. I followed due process, scanning my passport, completing the details of where I'm going etc. I was perturbed when a small piece of paper printed which simply said, 'This is not a boarding pass'.

I showed it to a nearby member of staff who helpfully retorted - 'this is not a boarding pass'.

He didn't say anything else.  He just pressed button after button until a piece of paper was printed which proclaimed in bold, unquestionable letters - 'Boarding Pass'. He pressed it into my hand and said, 'this is a boarding pass'. I think he would be benefit from my course on 'Improving Communication Skills', but it didn't feel like the right time to offer.

Post-security, I enjoyed a filter coffee from Pret, where I received 50p off thanks to having my thermo-mug. Awkwardly, my trusty foldaway thermo-mug has sustained an injury and appears to be leaking. This is not a helpful situation, anywhere. But I'm not giving up on her yet - it needs further exploration to see where the leak is - and the middle of an airport is not the place for that exploration.

I then spoke with someone who was doing a survey - I love surveys! Awkwardly, I think I may have inadvertently expressed interest in a dodgy pyramid-selling scheme - I really was only being polite - whoops.

I then headed to WHSmith to buy a few presents, recruiting fellow shoppers to help with my decisions.

The flight was delayed leaving - something about some outstanding paperwork - story of my life - my paperwork is permanently outstanding.  I read an entire book before we'd even left the ground.  I've brought five books with me - two about Jesus, one by Stacey Dooley and two about time management which I have never got round to reading.

I've listened to multiple podcasts, watched a documentary about the warrior women of Benin - fascinating - plus tried listening to something which bills itself as 'audio based movies to engage your imagination. No words, no music' - I was intrigued. It turns out to be a load of prolonged sound effects. Apparently it was created with yoga instructors from across the world. But I don't think it took them very long. 

Chapter 10 - Welcome Home

Greetings and thanks for following! Well, what a curious twenty-four hours that was.  I am now safely home and curled on my sofa in Plumstead, penning you a final instalment of this adventure. 

I found the most spectacular play area in the airport lounge at Bogota, which included a magical trail which led past a sparkly volcano, a mystical wooden bench to sit on and all sorts of other things.  Awkwardly, it was only for children - very unfair.

I had hoped to visit a nearby monastery atop a hill via a quirky funicular railway which isn't too far from the airport.  However, this wasn't to be, due to the complexities of leaving the airport, having already checked-in through to London, then coming back to the airport.  I thought about challenging this, but then had all sorts of negative thoughts - what if I get stuck in traffic and miss my flight home - that will be seriously inconvenient, plus I may never see my giant orange tortoise again and she deserves better than that; what if I can't find transport to the monastery or what if I can but then can't get back.  Had I had more than a few hours to spare, I would have made it happen, but my risk assessing brain multiplied likelihood by impact and the outcome was not worth the risk.  Instead, I spent the intervening hours reading, writing, drinking spectacular Colombian coffee, which tastes even better when it's complimentary - sorry, I mean, included in what you've paid.  It was about as free as the free minutes you get with your phone contract.  They are not free at all.  

The flight home was uneventful.  I am always amazed at the feat of engineering that is air transport - the thought that a giant silver metal bird weighing the weight of 350 people plus all their giant orange tortoise equivalents, plus the weight of the giant silver metal bird can leave one country, soar through the clouds (waving at the carebears who sit on the clouds, obviously) and arrive in another country - is hard to comprehend.  As someone profound once said, if God had wanted us to fly, He'd have built the airports closer to where people live.  

The most alarming part of the journey occurred at, of all places, the UK border at Heathrow.  I arrogantly sauntered towards the electronic gate, ready to press my e-chipped passport against the reader and glide through.  'Entry refused', said the machine.  Ah, I must have put it in wrongly - I turned my passport the other way round; 'entry refused', it said again; oh dear, this is awkward; I tried again - 'entry refused'.

In the last eleven days, I have effortlessly immigrated into the US, Peru, Colombia; I have travelled to 70 different countries in my life, often entering via land, sea, or rail.  I have never held any other citizenship; now I can't get into the UK.  

'You have to go to desk 35', said the hi-viz clad official behind me.

'Ok, thank you', I hesitantly retorted and walked anxiously to desk 35.  A Border Force official in her late 50s looked straight at me.  The conversation went something like this: 

'Hell0 - the electronic gate doesn't seem to want to let me through!'

'Does it usually?'

'Well, yes' - she gestured that I should give her my passport.  She pored over it.  

'Where have you come from?'

'Bogota, Colombia'

'Why were you in Colombia?'

'Well, I wasn't really, just for snacks and a snooze'

'Well, you were'

'Yes, but only for a few hours - I was in Peru mainly'

'Why were you in Peru?'

What was I meant to say at this point? To find Paddington?!

'Well, I went to the US really, to visit my sister and her family, then I went to have a little adventure in Peru'

She raised her eyebrows.  This is sounding dodgier by the minute, I thought.  I don't think I'd have let me in.  

'So, you couldn't get a direct flight from Peru?'

'No, not on the right day'

'So,' she perused my passport again, 'you were born in Sidcup'

'Yes indeed, Queen Mary's Hospital.  It's not there now, well, the hospital is, but not the maternity bit.  I like to think they closed it straight after my birth!'

I laughed.  She didn't laugh.   She wasn't convinced.  

'So, do you live here?'

'Well no'.

'You don't live here?'

'Well, not at the airport, no, that would be strange.  That would be like that man in that film, you know, Tom Thing'

'So where do you live?'

'Plumstead, South East London'

'Right'.  She paused, then said, 'I used to be a police officer in Belvedere'

Oh great, I thought - is this going to affect my entry into the country where I have lived since arriving at the now defunct Queen Mary's Hospital nearly I-can't-quite-believe how many years ago?

I nodded, 'ok, so you know the area'.  This has got to facilitate my entry, surely.  

She flicked through my eclectic collection of passport stamps.  I still can't believe that I did not receive a passport stamp in Peru or Colombia, honestly, where did it all go wrong? Passport stamps are part of the travelling thing - most of my travels are documented in various passports, although one passport remains in an unknown location following an unfortunate mugging in Ghana in 2002, from which I learnt to never, ever, keep one's passport in a handbag but instead to stash it on your person.

She looked at me, passed me my passport to me, smiled and said, 

'Welcome home'. 

Chapter 9 - a flock of flying dogs

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.

Chapter 8 - there's no such thing as the wrong roof terrace

Only I can get lost walking in a straight line.  Honestly, if I had a sense of direction, I'd be dangerous.  Yesterday I decided to venture down to Pacifico to soak up the beauty of the sea and sit reading my second book, having finished my first book.  The first book was a self-development book which you're meant to read once, then go back and do the activities subsequently.  Knowing me, subsequently will occur in about fifteen years, but at least I've read it once.    

I walked the route which has become loosely familiar, down towards the coast, stopping for coffee and a crepe from a pavement cafe which I've now been to twice,  so I'm practically a regular there.  

I wandered around some of the places I had visited on the guided walk.  It was Palm Sunday and there were various people emerging from churches and the nearby cathedral wielding palms.  I walked and walked, photographed the stunning Pacifico, people-watched, attempted to improve my Spanish through eavesdropping.  I ended up enjoying a frozen chocolate brownie drink thing - I generally have a moral objection to eating brownies as it just sounds cannibalistic, but I made an exception as it was sweltering.  I read my book, sipped my brownie drink and watched the world go by, possibly jotting down ideas for our forthcoming Brownie Holiday as they pinged into my head.

Sorry, that just reminded me - I just had to book a Tesco delivery slot for Brownie Holiday - which I have now done, all good, now, where was I?

Ah yes, I decided to go and have an early dinner at the roof terrace where the walking tour had ended.  As I walked along the front through what they call Love Park, just along from where I met Paddington the other day, I bumped into the guide from my walking tour and chatted to him - he was with a smaller group this time, just four people, and they were headed to the chocolate tasting spot next.

I continued walking along the front, stopping to soak up the spectacular views of Pacifico.  I walked and walked, continuously looking for the right turn towards my roof terrace, where I could taste the awaiting fish.  But things started to look curious, curiously different.  I seemed to be walking past huge blocks of flats I didn't recognise, through parks with play and gym equipment that I hadn't seen before.  

The route was packed with families enjoying the Palm Sunday sunshine, Peruvians walking their dogs, children playing, people cycling, roller-blading, scooting; there was no shortage of activity.  But awkwardly I had missed the turning and was miles from where I thought I was.

The route was also punctuated by yellow-clad Peruvians wielding awkwardly-shaped bicycles which have a huge freezer box attached - I think they are selling ice-cream and things like that.  

'Por favore', I approached one of these yellow-clad people with her awkwardly-shaped bicycle - 'donde es Larco?' Larco being the main road where the roof terrace is.  Well, I should have been prepared for her very detailed, very Spanish answer; I didn't understand the words, but the tone and body language told me that it was absolutely miles away from where I was.  Tone and body language often tell you more than words, although words are also extremely useful at times.

'Gracias, gracias', I nodded, pretending that I had understood what she had said.  I tried to ask if it was a long walk, by pointing at my wrist-watch and raising my eye-brows inquisitively; she proceeded to tell me the time, I think.

It transpired that I had walked about two miles past where I had meant to turn off.  I continued to ask the thoughtfully punctuated yellow-clad ice-cream sellers with their awkwardly-shaped bicycles, until I eventually found the main road.

A little irritated with myself, I wandered along and bumped into the Colombian couple from my recent day-trip - we exchanged pleasantries, I think.

Finally, I reached the roof terrace and had to show my covid vaccination card to gain entry.  I was ushered upstairs, then upstairs again, then settled myself at a table and got my notebook out to log the thoughts that had floated round my head on my unintentionally epic Helen walk.  Something didn't feel quite right.  The staff were all dressed in a uniform with hats; the menu looked different; so did the tables and the seats.  Oh no.  This wasn't the same roof terrace!!

I deliver trainings in problem solving.  I know how to get a farmer, a fox hungry for chicken, a chicken hungry for grain, and a sack of grain, across a river.  But problem solve this one - how could I explain to the lovely kind staff that I didn't mean to be at this roof terrace at all, but that I wasn't sure where the right one was, in a language which I don't speak.  

The kindly waiter presented me with a menu - I had planned to show them the photo I took of my amazing dinner the other day and order the same - but being in a different establishment, this wasn't to be.  I ordered ceviche which is a Latin American speciality - fresh raw fish cured in lime juice - this was done mainly through the medium of mime, so I wasn't entirely sure what would turn up, but ceviche it was, and it was delicious, as was the accompanying pisco sour.  

Whilst I was using the medium of mime to understand the menu, I noticed two American travellers arrive at the adjacent table.  Within minutes they had invited me to join them and we spent the next three hours sorting out the world philosophically, sharing travel stories and learning about various aspects of our lives.  It was a very pleasant evening.  

There's no such thing as the wrong roof terrace.

Chapter 7 - Sea-lions, chickens & eggs

My alarm went off at 4.15am and as per usual, I hit the snooze button and enjoyed a further ten minutes of slumber.  My phone then started pinging with WhatsApp messages about my pick-up time, a photo of the vehicle, instructions as to where I should walk to and when.  At the appointed time of 5am, I bundled into a tiny minibus, which transported me to a bigger tourist bus, which gradually filled with people at various places until we were twenty-five in total.  Everyone was from Central or South America, apart from me.  Everyone spoke Spanish fluently, apart from me.  I really should have done a crash-course before coming here, but yet another thing I didn't get round to.  Everyone was kind and friendly and helped me throughout the day.

There wasn't a lot of space in the bus and it's good that I'm tiny otherwise it might have been quite uncomfortable, but it really didn't matter as what was to follow was one of the most exhilarating days ever. 

After four hours in the bus, punctuated by a stop for banos, we arrived at Paracas on the coast, to a buzzing coastal centre of shops, restaurants, all sorts of tour groups lurking confusedly around, locals plying their trades, and stray dogs lying in the morning sun.  

We were instructed to double-mask, unless you have a fancy KN95 mask, as is law in Peru, then we queued up to bundle into a huge speedboat.  'He very good driver', retorted our trusty guide reasurringly, as we clipped ourselves into attractive orange life-jackets with PARACAS in huge letters on the back.  I had been wondering why the guide had a folded blanket on his head.  This became clear as the hat of the girl at the front flew off as the boat picked up speed, narrowly missing being lost to the Pacific forever thanks to the quick thinking of a fellow passenger who reached up and grabbed it.  Worried the same would happen to me, I swiftly put my travel jacket on under my life-jacket, then put the hood over my trusty fake Oakley bucket hat (which has lasted me since being purchased outside a temple in Thailand in 2014, so I'm not about to lose it) and tightened the tiny clasps.  I'm not sure what I looked like, with this plus being double-masked with sunglasses, but who cares, I was in the middle of the ocean.

It was freezing and I could feel myself quivering.  To the right there was an incredible show of a flock of a million billion birds soaring just about the level of the sea.  I watched, mesmerized by the beauty, the seamless organisation of the operation.  It was like one of those old moving screensavers, birds flying, flying, flying, all perfectly spaced and streaming concurrently, unencumbered; there were birds as far as my eyes could see - an everlasting birdscape, if that's a word, which it is now.  We seemed to boat into the birdscape but the birds just lifted a little, unfettered.  I watched, open-mouthed at the spectacle, albeit masked.  

The boat swung to the left and I bade farewell to the birdscape.  A curious deep barking noise met my ears and in a few seconds, we were metres away from - well, I was going to be clever and use the correct collective noun for a group of sea-lions, but on further inspection, this apparently depends on where the sea-lions are, what the season is, and what they are doing.  In case you're interested, I have just learnt that a group of sea-lions on land are called a colony; as I'm typing that, it perhaps sounds obvious.  Less obvious is the fact that in water, they are called a raft; during the breeding season, they are known as a rookery; and just in case you were wondering, if several female sea-lions are found in a male sea-lion's territory, in any season, they are called a harem.  Yes, really.  I don't know who makes these rules, or who has time to check the gender of the sea-lions (or sea- lionesses, surely), so I'll just describe what I saw as a whole load of sea-lions adorning a long length of land, variously barking, waddling along on their fleshy tummies, or playing with their young.  This was a spectacular sight to behold and not something I have ever experienced.  The depth of the volume was overwhelming and as my fellow passengers tried to capture it all on their cameras and videos, I took a picture or two, then enjoyed the noise and drama of it all.  

Back on dry land, we bundled back into the bus and headed off to a sprawling complex of shops and restaurants for a delicious lunch.  A friendly Colombian bus-friend helped me to understand the menu and I ordered a Peruvian speciality which answered one of life's deep philosophical questions - the chicken and the egg arrived at the same time, on the same plate.  There - question answered.  

I also decided to try Inca Cola which is Peruvian Coke.  The radioactive shade of it suggests that someone isn't drinking enough water, but once you've got past that thought, it is delicious and provides the sugar-hit needed for when the sun comes out.  I am saddened that there don't seem to be any glass bottles of Coke anywhere any more.  Bizarrely, this anti-plastic world has turned its back on glass bottles and reverted to plastics - did you know that it takes 450 years for a plastic bottle to break down! Not to mention that I am an avid collector of the bottle tops of glass Coca Cola bottles as they have the name of the country where they are bottled printed on there.  Some readers may remember happy (or otherwise) times spent chasing around after these in various countries.  One day, I will glue all those I have collected onto my scratch map.  Maybe there will be a u-turn on single-use plastic bottles one day; maybe there won't.  Here's hoping.

After lunch we were transported upstairs for a very pleasant tasting of wine, local pisco and more.  This is not really my thing, but when in Peru, etc.  Much of it was translated for me and I was very grateful.

Then it was time to travel to the incredible Huacachina Oasis, just outside of Ica.  This is a spectacular lagoon in the middle of the desert, surrounded by trees, hotels, tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, restaurants, even a youth hostel boasting a 'Hostelling International' sign.  The lagoon itself is surreally punctuated with pedalos for hire.  I found myself striding through pure, untainted desert sand, then being ushered into a desert buggy with an alarmingly complex seatbelt.  This need for this alarming complexity became clear as the driver put his foot down and we went on a death-defying speed ride around the dunes.  We went down vertical inclines and sheer drops, over tummy-tickling, heart-in-mouth inducing gravity-defying gradients.  All I could think was 'Lord Jesus', in a tone of supplication, not blasphemy, 'please don't let this vehicle overturn and if it does, please let the ensuing damage be covered by my travel insurance policy as I can't remember if I ticked the adventurous activities box when I purchased the policy'.  

We then arrived at what felt like the top of a dune.  The driver, having kindly unleashed my alarmingly complex seatbelt smiled broadly and said 'now, we go sandboarding!'

Now - I had years of intense orthodontics throughout my teenage years - a wide variety of removable braces with weird keys for tightening, curious head-gear at night, elastic bands, fixed lower braces; you name it.  I owe the fact that I am not mistaken for a giant house rabbit to my orthodontist.  I really did not want all this great work to be wrecked in a very avoidable sandboarding accident caused by collision with an angry cactus, or similar.  

I stood, wavering inside.  The driver handed me a huge flat board which looked like an ironing board.  We seemed to be positioned at the top of a precipice.  My new bus friends all seemed unfazed and one by one, they took their turns to go down the precipice, variously rolling off, or not, and all seeming to come off unscathed.  There were no cacti in evidence, and the driver seem to have chosen a good spot - in fact there were miles of nothingness.  'What's the worst that could happen', I thought to myself, then decided not to entertain all the terrible things which could happen - I train in this stuff and could write a 20-page risk assessment on sand-boarding alone - I thought as I lay down on the board and looked ahead - 

'Could you push it slowly please?'

'To brake you just press your feet in the sand - you are the brake'

'Oh great.  But what if...'

It was too late, I was careering down a vertical incline at what felt like a thousand miles an hour, adrenaline-pumping, heart wedged in my mouth, not quite believing that I had agreed to this - had I?! I arrived at the bottom, heart racing like never before, reassured to realise that all faculties, and all teeth, were still intact.  

'That was simple run.  Now, we do another!'

And we did.  The second run made the first look like a bit of a picnic - the second was faster and the incline sharper.  I shelved my risk assesssment criteria and just went for it.  

The journey back was very long and with sand in places where one wouldn't generally feel sand, a little uncomfortable, but it didn't matter.  After four hours on the road, variously reading, writing, dozing and looking out of the window, I was deposited - awkwardly about 5 blocks away from where I should have been deposited, but it didn't matter - back in Miraflores.  This had been one of the best days I have experienced whilst travelling and I would thoroughly recommend it.    

Well, it's my penultimate day here today, so I'm off to wander and see what's happening in Miraflores today.  Thanks for sharing this journey with me.