Lucy and I have a slightly unconventional approach to altitude acclimatization. From prior experience, I tend to feel altitude reasonably strongly much above, oh, 4,000m and we were keen not to let the sheer height of the Inca trail cause us any problems. As such, we took our acclimatization pretty seriously. There are the usual tricks to this: spend a good amount of time at altitude before any trek (a few days hiking around Arequipa sorted this out), don’t overexert yourself at first (three days crammed in an overloaded jeep in Bolivia – big tick), trek high sleep low etc.. To this, we added our own personal flavour: spend at least one night drinking red wine in bed while watching bad television (Puno), eat lots of ice cream (San Pedro de Atacama) and – critically – make sure to have at least one blow out meal at the best restaurant in town. Which brings us to Cuzco.

Cuzco is many things. It is the historical capital of the Inca Empire, so it is the place where the Spanish conquistadors felt most obliged to ponder the grand apex of Inca civilization, culture and engineering and CRUSH IT. Think large, flashy cathedrals full of gaudy Spanish imagery (Jesus was Spanish-looking? With a silly pointy beard? I thought so too) built literally on top of the original, still-visible foundations of the Inca Temple of the Sun. It is the main base for treks to Macchu Picchu, so it is ram packed full of tour shops, equipment shops and sleeping bag rental places. Finally, it is a major spot on the gringo trail, so it is full of pizzerias, pasta shops and latte bars (including a stealth Starbucks next to the Cathedral). And if you actually do the Inca trail, this pile of sleazy little luxury looks a LOT more attractive on the way back than on the way in.

So we continued our acclimatization. We stayed in a nice little ex-children’s home hotel (“institutional chic” – nicer than it sounds). We spent a couple of days gentle hiking in the sacred valley, passing through amazing ancient Inca sites and little villages full of markets, tiny back streets and – in Pisac – a charming local festival which consisted entirely of overweight drunk men in fancy dress riding round and round the main square on increasingly tired looking horses to the sound of two competing brass bands (nicer than it sounds).

We also hit “Limo” which is a truly world class yet reasonably priced restaurant overlooking the main square. Our waiter Francisco – the cheesiest, most charming cheeseball since the dawn of cheesy charming cheese – had seemingly laid on a religious icon procession for our personal viewing in the square below our balcony window and crammed us full of ceviche, rare meat, raw eggs and all the other food-poisoning-courting things one isn’t meant to eat when on the road. It was fabulous.

One impromptu Pisco tasting later (six brands, the answer is “Viejo Tonel Italia” if you can get it) we rolled back to our hotel. Incidentally, you have to hand it to Lucy, who, in ten minutes, in Peru, can smoothly change outfits (and mental gears) between hiking boots / fleeces and short sparkly skirts / Christian Louboutin sandals AND is capable of handling steep, shiny cobbles at night in spike heels. What a girl.