Aguas Calientes to Ollantaytambo to Cusco : Fri 9th May

A storm lashes against our roof and windows all night, keeping up restless and nervous about the silly journey ahead. Our 05.35 train appointment is the cherry on the cake, and my bleary eyes have been open half the night by the time 4.30am rolls round. We are leaving behind a funny little hostelry, but one that I can safely say had the best shower in South America.

Pull clothes on, check under the bed, plastic-bag our still drying clothes, have half a cup of tea and a bit of crap bread, off we go.

The storm has eased to a very light drizzle as we head up the street, over the bridge, past the queue of miserable-looking Machu Picchu enthusiasts, through the market with its corrugated plastic sheeting roof and coverings pulled down over ever single stall, a creepy place at 5am, and into the train station. Tickets checked, fifteen minutes in a bleak waiting room, onto a train, once again have to swap seats with a pleasant human being as Sarah and I are situated across the aisle from each other, and off we go.

The train journey gets some decent reviews for its view of the scenery. I can safely say that on Friday morning, dark and wet, it was an anticlimax. The mini-van trip was much better. Having said that, as I am increasingly aware that no one gives a damn about scenery unless they can pose in front of it and upload it instantly to Facebook. So I look out the window as the light slowly brings clarity to the world, spotting pigs and rivers, a few folk living in the middle of nowhere, and try to remember all the words to Simon and Garfunkel's "America". I haven't thought of that song in years. Sarah sleeps beside me, no one smokes a cigarette, and no one knows what gabardine is. Fortunately I feel neither lost, empty nor aching, and I know exactly why. Peru has left an indelible mark inside me.

Two hours later, closing on 8am, we pull into Ollantaytambo station, a platform that makes Clipperstown halt look metropolitan by comparison. As backpackers exit to find their tourbuses , we trudge up the road to Hostel Inti Killa, passed by taxis, mini vans, moto-taxis, the occasional Cadillac. Veronica is already up and working in the shop, we get some breakfast, sort out bags (at this point fit to burst, I look forward to ditching all my ugly clothes, I have awaited that day for five months now), and call HM Passport Office yet again.

Why? Because we have received a letter from HMPO, the Complaints Department in Newport. In it, a circular letter with a few interesting mistakes that doesn't seem in any way related to our situation, we are informed of two problems. Firstly, we haven't provided the necessary supporting documentation. That might include a letter from our local government, our birth certificate, or in an emergency a utility bill. Secondly, our request to have our passports forwarded to the British Embassy in La Paz has hit a brick wall. HMPO can't understand what relevance this delivery address has to our application. We need a confirmation letter from the Embassy asserting they are happy to take receipt of our passports. We also need to fill in a declaration (at the bottom of the letter), explain why we are having our passport delivered there, and post it back. After all that, maybe we can have a passport.

Pity we'll be home in just over three weeks. Let's have some fun on the phone instead!

This time we have a sort of breakthrough. We speak to "Karen" in the "Progress Department" (a euphemism, surely?). "Karen" is very helpful. She explains that the Belfast Call Centre is nothing more than that; a call centre. They have no powers other than to pass on emails or reports to other departments where the actual work gets done. She is sympathetic to our plight but admits she cannot say or do anything to help but pass on another 'Escalation Report'. She says she understands that we are 'very upset' and that when we return to the UK I plan to 'kick up a storm' (definitely both euphemisms). We explained we would be calling next week to confirm we would not be needing passports, pursuing visas for Argentina and the US instead. She's alright with that. We have a quick chat about the Giro d'Italia and the weather and part on good terms.

Finally we leave Ollantaytambo by minivan. On the Plaza de Armas, bidding farewell to our hosts and promising to leave them positive feedback on all the relative websites, we flag down a colectivo and jump in with a little Quechua woman. Ten soles back to Cusco, the same way we came, beauty surrounding and overwhelming us, although this time both our rucksacks are sitting free on the roof. Sarah spent two hours looking out the back window, I spend two hours explaining that it would take a carbomb to shake those bags off. Still, as our final hours in the Sacred Valley proper, its wonderful.

Dumped out in on Plaza San Francisco, a couple of minutes from our hostel, Samayak Hostel Cusco, we were relieved to find ourselves in yet another hostel that seemed to be up for sale. Nothing like being able to see through the floorboards, the shower drain regurgitating water, the bins unemptied, there are no ceiling lights in the dorms, we seem to have a long-term resident in our room who douses himself in Chanel Allure every day, and there are no sheets on the bed. It's a classy joint absolutely worth the GBP5 we're paying.

But today is the first day of the rest of our trip. We have three weeks to travel a stupid distance, sort out travel documentation, see a few Inca sites, book some buses, print things out and phone some people. It's a madcap dash over 3000km and we have barely time to draw breath. Good fun!

So we take a taxi to the Inka Express office and luckily there are two seats available on the 07.00 bus on Saturday morning to Puno, our last destination in Peru before making our way into Bolivia, and on the edge of Lake Titikaka. But that's tomorrow. Enough time to take a photo of the statue of Pachacutec, the greatest man the indigenous peoples of America ever yielded (according to Markham, anyway).

There is also enough time to take a photo of a stall selling chickens with their feet still attached.

Back out, up to the Plaza de Armas, lunch and a final decent pint in Norton Rat Pub, then out onto the streets of Cusco to try and find Sarah a pair of sandals. The shop she had found on our last visit was sold out of the single design she liked, so we wandered the streets for a while, I bought some more football shirts, and Sarah loads up on pruck. It's a fairly successful experience.

Cusco is still cold and getting colder and today we have the added bonus of rain. It's permanent long-sleeves and jeans and jumpers weather. The big green woollen jumper I brought from home is getting plenty of use. There is a lot less sunshine for us to dry our clothes in if we wash them ourselves, so lavanderias are getting lots of money out of us (comparatively speaking). No one is getting their hands on my jumper though, it is a prized possession (and one of the few items of clothing I brought with me that I actually liked).

After all the shopping and Sarah getting discount on things and me nearly getting some rare Brazilian club football shirts (just too damn big for me) we are back at our hostel, staring through the floorboards, I knock over a floor-standing lamp and break some glass bit inside (not that you would know) and cut my fingernails, which had driven me mad during my time in Aguas Calientes away from my washbag. I don't know why my nails grow so fast but I think its something to do with one's thyroid. It drives Sarah nuts. It takes her three months to grow her nails like I can in two weeks. We repack our bags one more time, with each stop we have more and more must be left behind in anticipation of flying home.

We try to find dinner in a little tapas restaurant we spotted two weeks before but its a full house, so we end up in a little restaurant drinking wine. Good wine. Good, dry, Peruvian wine. There isn't enough dry Peruvian wine. 'Seco' is in short supply, and usually comes from Chile or Argentina. Here they mostly make 'semi-seco', or 'dulce'. At least semi-seco is like drinking a young Port wine. I just can't handly dulce at all. Anyway, this stuff is good, compensating for the 'free' ('no alcohol') pisco sours we receive upon entrance. It's a lot of fun watching the table beside us picking gingerly at their deep-fried guinea pig whilst the other table (weird mother / son combination) keep sending back their pisco sours, firstly because they're too sweet, secondly because they're too sour. THEY'RE FREE! I wish to gulder. But if I started pointing out other travellers' faults I would never be done. This time tomorrow we are on the shores of Lake Titikaka.

Postscript - back at the hostel our shared shower unit has vomited up all the old water from the drain, a combination of dirty body waters and urine. One night, we tell ourselves, one night.