The city and the rainbow

It begins with pancakes and honey. Well, it does for Amanda and me. For Dave it's more the other way round - a lot of honey with a side of pancakes. We are all feeling more rested and chatter over breakfast about how most of Dave's photos so far have been selfies and flowers. Make of that what you will.

We pack up and walk to the station to catch the train to the start of the final day's trek. Waiting for the 7.30 train with us are a few kids in blue uniforms heading to school. Education is really valued in Peru - the schools are easy to spot because they're brightly coloured and clearly cost a lot more to build than the houses. We board the train and gaze out of the window at the Urubamba as we follow it towards Machu Picchu. Thanks to a dodgy table I end up with orange juice in my lap not 15 minutes into the journey, and spend the rest of it mopping up and feeling wet and slightly irritated.

We hop off seemingly in the middle of nowhere and begin to climb again, heading up to join the Inca Trail. We are much lower here, and it's lush with rainforest. We take our minds off our aching limbs by pointing out wild orchids and beautiful butterflies. In Peru, the name for orchids is Winaywayna and means 'forever young'.

We pause at an Inca settlement, an outpost where traders would stop to eat and sleep between Machu Picchu and Cusco. Elkin explains the features of the ruins: where people slept and where the food was stored; what the little niches in the walls were for; how to identify the original stonework from that which has been reconstructed. From there we continue our ascent, which is easier thanks to the past few days' practise and the lower altitude, but still hard going as there are a lot of steps.

We are heading to the second of three Inca farming and storage bases, also named Winaywayna. Each is positioned at a different altitude, enabling the people to cultivate different crops. We cross a bridge where a waterfall tumbles over the rocks and flows out through the forest. Dave and I take the opportunity to dip our fingers into the cold, clear water and snap some photos. It's here that my SD card runs out, and Dave is kind enough to lend me one of his for the rest of the journey.

We arrive at Winaywayna, which to my utter delight has wild llamas pottering about on the stepped terraces. I am so excited that Amanda declares, "Charli's having a llamagasm". I am not ashamed, they're fabulous creatures with their slightly haughty look. I wander onto a terrace to see if one of them is friendly, and Amanda manages, somehow to achieve this photographic gold:

Llama antics over, we head on towards Machu Picchu. The steps are rough on Amanda, whose thighs are still giving her grief, and it's with some sheepishness that I admit we were overtaken by a pack of sprightly American tourists in their seventies as we struggled with the steps. To add insult to injury, we realise too late that we should've been more liberal with the insect repellent - we are covered in black fly bites which itch like crazy. I've also come out in a rotten cold and am blowing my nose every 10 minutes.

We break for something to eat by some more ruins, where there's a long drop into the valley. Dave jokes about me not throwing myself over, to which I respond jovially, "Just cos I'm depressed, doesn't mean I'm suicidal!" It's a light-hearted comment, but a pertinent one. Many people seem to think there's no scale of depression, that having the illness automatically makes you a suicide risk, and it simply isn't true. Even on the worst days I never wanted to kill myself and I am far, far too chicken to try.

Further on, we come to a place where we can see Machu Picchu. As we take our first proper look at the city, a rainbow appears, arcing over the valley to our right. It's a magical moment, standing on a rocky ledge with the end of our journey in sight and a rainbow promising hope. There's an American girl travelling solo who shares it with us and it dawns on me that soon we will be looking at Machu Picchu up close.

The rain has stopped by the time we arrive. We pass the Sungate, but don't stay long as it's thick with tourists and doesn't compare to the one we encountered earlier in the trip. Instead we continue on, descending towards the city.

And then there it is, this magnificent, abandoned realm, nestling in the shadow of Huayna Picchu. We take a minute to take in the sight, and what we have just achieved. I have seen this image so many times on the internet that it seems strange to be looking at it for real. I allow myself to just be, to fully experience this moment before we don our charity T-shirts for some pictures. Standing together with Amanda and Dave for a photo I feel like I'm part of their family - we have been through so many highs and lows together over the past week. And our journey, which has been so much more than these five days of trekking, is finally at an end.

An unexpected day off

I wake up after a deep, exhausted sleep. It is light, the first time I have slept till daylight in several days. It's warm here in the valley, and I can hear a stream running behind my tent. I inspect my scraped legs, gently wiping away the dirt with a wet wipe and then slapping antibacterial gel onto the cuts. It stings like hell but at least they're clean.

Elkin stops by the tent with this morning's tea. I haven't seen him since we watched the condors together the previous day. He places a hand on mine and tells me how sorry he is for yesterday, how I was brave and how he regrets his decision. I guess I learned something in therapy, because I forgive him. It's something I've been practising, because there's been a lot I've needed to forgive myself for these past few months. For sure, he was a bloody idiot, but we're both human, he and I, and sometimes we mess up. Anyways, I'm too tired and too relieved to be pissed off.

I sip my tea and the sound of voices floats over to my tent. They're alive! I wonder if they need some time, but I can't help myself, I have to go see Dave and Amanda. They're holding cups of coffee, still inside their sleeping bags, talking about yesterday. We compare notes on what happened - they took a different route and never made it to camp until 9.45pm, long after I was asleep. Amanda is bearing scars too - cuts on her legs and deep muscle ache in her thighs. Dave's legs are so dirty it looks like he's wearing tights. Both are angry, and I can't really blame them - I think how hard it must have been for them, worrying whether they'd get down in one piece and both with kids at home.

Breakfast is served and I realise I'm famished. Amanda and I eat bacon and eggs, Dave goes for a shower. There's a lot of tension. But there is also bacon. And I like bacon. I eat more than I have eaten in one sitting since we started the trek, and Amanda and I have a good stretch out on the grass.

We're not up to walking to Piscacucho and the camp at the beginning of the Inca Trail, so we agree to get a cab there. The journey is a little hairy - bumpy roads in an ancient car with no seat belts and a couple of near misses on the small village roads. But I for one am kind of glad not to be walking. I'm also very careful not to see this as a failure. After all, today was to be a walk of only a couple of hours, and we certainly put in the extra time yesterday. I'm keen for the others not to see it as a failure either. Turns out I need lots of the lessons I learned in therapy today.

So we're installed on a proper campsite, in a hut with proper beds and - to my ultimate joy - a shower. It's freezing. I wash with no more contact with the water than I can bear, and then I shove my head under and wash my hair. I dry and dress as fast as possible, but I'm not about to complain. I just had a shower!

The campsite is in a beautiful setting, surrounded by mountains and with the Urubamba rushing along its edge. We are brought beer and soft drinks, and we spend the day taking it easy, eating, talking, napping. Amanda and I pop down for a sauna to heat our aching bodies, and I begin to feel a little more human.

We talk a lot about getting down the mountain. How it kind of throws you closer to share something horrible, how we feel about everything. Dave tells me I should feel proud of myself given the past year, and I do - I'm proud that I got through it and I'm still smiling. But I think they should be proud too, to face something that dangerous and scary, to keep their courage and to get down in one piece. And to still want to finish the trek, despite the impossibly aching limbs, the disillusionment of the previous day and the overwhelming tiredness. It takes strength and guts to show that kind of determination. Yes, I'm proud of us all.

Don't look down (part II)

It is later. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, but dusk is beginning to fall. I am shifting myself down a channel of grey slate, one stone at a time. Elkin said I would be able to walk it, but I can't because it's too steep. My butt and my legs are grazed and bleeding, and my progress is beyond slow. I don't know where Amanda and Dave are, because I can't see them anymore, and I hope they're OK, and I worry for them because they both have kids.

How to channel anger

I feel anger well up inside me, and I hold onto it because it will drive me forward and get me down this godforsaken slope. In my head I compose an email of polite, yet firm complaint, and I'm surprised at how detached I can be from the situation when I'm thinking of what I'll say about it after. I think about this blog, and what I will be writing. That today is one of the worst days of my life. That I would probably take a day of rock bottom depression over this.

As the anger builds, I say my thoughts out loud to the slate as it moves and slips under me. Fuck you, Elkin, for putting me here. For putting Amanda and Dave here. For making a really, really dumb decision. And fuck you, Mount Veronica. I don't believe in God, and I don't believe in you. So if you don't mind, I'll have those coca leaves back and you can do one. I believe in me, and I will reach the bottom of this goddamn mountain if it's the last thing I do. But it won't be, because I'm stronger than that and I'm buggered if this is going to defeat me.

A large rock clatters down the slope and misses my head by about a foot. Fabulous. I have to put up with flying rocks now too? Don't you bloody dare.

Mind, you better do something bloody good with that cash I raised. Because this is for the others. This is for the people whose families and friends don't understand, for the people who thought that the way out was at the bottom of a bottle, for the people who think they might not be worthy of their lives. And I can take this hellish slope if it means just one of those people can feel better.

And finally, to the people who didn't sponsor me because they thought I was just going on a jolly, fuck you too. I'd like to see you go through this, and hold it together the way I am. Because if there is anything to learn from this, it's that I am a freaking badass.

Girl, alone

To my left, Joel appears, holding out a hand to pull me up out of the channel. I grip it and tentatively follow in his footsteps. It is almost dark now, and we are picking our way around the mountain by the light of a pocket torch. He stops intermittently to blow a whistle and flash the light into the valley, from where faint shouts are reaching us. He got help.

We get to a path, and he stops facing the valley. After a few more minutes of the whistle and some shouting, he hands me the torch and tells me to wait. I shine the light in the direction he tells me, and he disappears into the night. It's cold now, and I can't see much except for the lights of the houses down below. I want to be there with some soup and a blanket. In a burst of childlike longing, I want my mum.

Joel does not come back. The torch beams in the valley weave about, and one disappears. The other is moving far off to my left, heading (so I think) for Amanda and Dave.

Don't leave me. Please don't forget me. I'm here. Please... The tears come. I'm scared now, scared of being stuck here on my own all night with no protection from the cold, no water and no food. I don't want to be out here alone. Please find me. Please find me.

Superman wears a poncho

It must be 20 minutes later when Agustin appears. He approaches shyly, asks where Elkin is. I don't even know how to say, 'I don't know' in Spanish, so I just shrug and hold out my hands. He heads off up the path and the fear that I'm being left alone again floods over me. But he's back in a couple of minutes, and shoulders Joel's pack, which has been left behind. Then he takes my hand and leads me back the way he has come.

From the moment we set off to the moment we arrive in camp, he has my hand firmly in his, bracing his forearm against mine to guide me along. We hold branches for each other, exchange awkward smiles in the dark, and inside I am close to worshipping him. Forget Henry Cavill. Forget lyrca and capes, and wearing your pants over your leggings. Superman is a chef and wears a poncho. Sweet, shy Agustin who has barely said three words together all trip, is now a giant as far as I'm concerned. Between watching my step and avoiding further scratches from scrubby bushes, I contemplate asking him to marry me when we get to camp. I will make it to camp.

Twelve hours after setting off that morning, we arrive at my tent. I am suddenly exhausted. I put my bag down and throw my arms around his slight frame. Gracias. Muchas gracias. He brings me a bowl of soup that I savour despite my tiredness, partly for its flavour and partly for its warmth, and I climb into bed. For a while I lay, straining my ears for the voices of my companions, but sleep takes me and I know nothing until the following morning.

Don't look down (part I)

Marcus Aurelius is credited with saying,  "Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there." Although I didn't think of it at the time, I would apply these words to the third day of our trek. 

It begins well: we wake up to one of the most beautiful sunrises I will ever see. After breakfast, we stand together watching the light play and the clouds shift across the Veronica glacier, enjoying the peace of the early morning. There are times when total isolation is a comfort, when it's a relief to know that your frenetic everyday world cannot touch you. This is one of them. There is no phone signal. There is no-one but us. Only a handful of Europeans have ever stood on this spot and allowed this view to administer its healing balm to their aching souls. Now, we are among them.

To the sun gate

We set off at seven and are walking for three hours or so before hunger gets the best of us. By now we've realised that timing goes out the window when you're trekking. If you're hungry, you eat, whether it's usually considered an acceptable time for lunch or not. We sit on a rock looking down at the sun gate and nibble on sandwiches and fruit. Dave seems to be the only one for whom altitude has had no effect on appetite. I pick, eating slowly and saving half my food for later.

This sun gate is not the one that faces Machu Picchu. That one, Elkin explains, is not a 'true' sun gate, as it faces the abandoned city, rather than facing east towards the rising sun. The one that we are heading to frames the Inca goddess, Mount Veronica. The path to the sun gate (or Inti Punku in Quechua) is probably the flattest one we encounter during the whole trek. Reaching the gate itself is another moment where a sense of achievement is mixed with wonder, and the last point at which all three of us feel entirely positive.

The way down

It's after this that things go south. Instead of taking the clear path back from the sun gate and down to the town, Elkin instead leads us across the side of the mountain where there is no real path. To say that we are careful not to look down would be an understatement; we are practically pressing our bodies into the rock wherever possible and fixing our eyes firmly ahead.

Instead of being a ten minute ordeal, the descent turns into an eight hour nightmare as we shuffle and falter and curse our way down an incredibly steep mountain that has no path. There is no room in my brain for fear as I negotiate the slippy ground and sharp rocks, holding tight to a hand when it is offered and otherwise hoping my poles will see me through. My mind and muscles are entirely focused on inching myself down the slope. 

Before long I am out in front of Dave and Amanda, purely, I think, through my eagerness to get off the mountain. The sun is thudding onto my neck, my arms, my face. My toes, pressed against my boots because of the angle, are throbbing dully with every step.

At around 3pm I run out of water. I am sat now, resting for a moment and reapplying sunscreen before I can continue. Suddenly a shout goes up: "Condor, condor, condor!" I look up to see three magnificent birds silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, wheeling and gliding on the thermals. One approaches, flying close enough for me to see his white collar. For precious seconds I forget my sore feet, my aching legs, my hot skin as I make sure this sight is etched onto my memory. I have seen real, wild condors. It crosses my mind that there are three birds, and three travellers, and I hope it's a sign that we will all arrive safely in camp before too long. 

It's a relief when, at around 4pm, the sun begins to sink behind a mountain, offering some shade. No matter how far I seem to descend, the valley looks a long way off, and I'm beginning to wonder if any of us will make it before nightfall, but I press on, my optimism hanging on with gritted teeth and broken nails, unaware, as yet, that the worst is still to come.

The summit

We're woken at 5am with coca tea and a bowl of washing water. It's still dark and removing myself from the snug warmth of my sleeping bag feels like a terrible idea, so I stay bundled up, clutching my mug and sipping until I can face the dash to remove my thermals and don my trekking gear.

Gradually, sunlight slides over the mountains around us, casting an orange glow on the land. Over breakfast, we watch with anticipation it advances over the valley floor to our little table, and bask in the early morning heat when it reaches us. To our right is a little school, painted in bright red and attended by children from miles around - we are far from any village here - and behind us is the path we are due to take this morning, a track that climbs around the mountain and up to the highest point of the trek.

An encounter

We start out around 7am, immediately climbing and before long we're looking down on our campsite, hundreds of metres below. After an hour or two we run into the only people we will meet that day - a mother and her two children who are shepherds on this land. As we are battling the altitude, our lungs heaving with the unfamiliar strain, the two kids run around with no problem at all, leaving us with a mixture of admiration and shame at our apparent lack of fitness.

We ask the mother for permission to give our snacks - oranges and chocolate - to the children, who accept graciously and allow us to take their pictures. It is a moment I will not forget; a moment of pure, innocent humanity, out here beyond nowhere with nothing but the forbidding Andes to bear witness to our shy exchange of smiles and broken Spanish. I think of them still, am torn between feeling lucky to live in Europe and have so much, and a lonely kind of envy at their uncomplicated lifestyle and a fortune richer than any I could earn: waking up each morning to the untamed beauty of those mountains.

An offering to the goddess

As we approach the summit across a track of red sand, we stop to wait for the team and horses to catch up. This is a moment we want to share, and it's made all the more special by the joy of the Peruvians as we reach the top. It isn't just the three of us who are delighted to have reached this beautiful spot; the mule drivers and guides are excited too because it's a journey they seldom get to do, and rewards us with incredible views not only of the way we've come (we can see right to the mid morning stop on the previous day's trek), but also of the Veronica Glacier.

It's here that Elkin grants us an extraordinary privilege. Beside us on the ground are little piles of rocks that are, he says, where offerings to the gods are left. We each take a pinch of coca leaves from the tub he's carrying and he shows us how to offer them to Mount Veronica in exchange for safe passage across her lands. I am not religious, but in the shadow of this imposing example of Nature's power, it's easy to see why the Inca turned to her as an object of reverence and looked to her for protection. It's an undeniably special and spiritual moment that I am grateful to have experienced.

We slip our coca leaves between the stones and take another pinch to chew before beginning the descent. It's here that my camera runs out of battery, and I content myself with simply looking at the curves and edges of the scenery. An hour or so from camp we come across the bones of what I think is a sheep, stripped bare by scavengers and bleached in the sun. It's a reminder of the fact that here, life and death exist side by side, always cycling through one another.

Tonight, we camp in view of the glacier, on probably the flattest piece of land we've seen all day. It seems the sun has got to me: I'm feeling headachey and my stomach isn't happy. Nevertheless, I eat to keep my strength up and we are all asleep by 7.30pm.

10 things you'll learn in the Andes

It's fair to say that my trek in the Andes was the most physically demanding thing I've ever done. You also learn a lot in only one day. Here are the lessons I took away from day one.

1. You can be Usain Bolt at sea level, but you will still be a lazy, unfit heifer above 3,000m.

2. You will tread in, and probably sit in, horse poo more than you care to acknowledge. You won't care.

3. When peeing in the wilderness, employ the Taylor Swift method: shake it off, shake it off.

4. Sunscreen is necessary.

5. You will walk for a day and still have less of an appetite than you do after a duvet day back home.

6. You will see animal skeletons and wish the corpse was still decomposing, because it would've meant more chance of seeing a condor.

7. You will be shown up by small children, who run around like the effects of altitude are optional.

8. You smell. But so does everyone else, so sod it.

9. Every time you stop to look around, it feels like you've opened your eyes for the first time.

10. It's possible to climb a mountain on little more than willpower.

The hard reality of altitude

An insane work schedule has unfortunately stood between me and my blogging, but here's the tale of our first day.

It is 7am, and we're standing by a river nibbling on snacks as the team prepares the horses and our luggage. We are at 3,200m, tired, excited and slightly apprehensive. When our water bottles full, we set off, immediately climbing up from the river. Right from the get-go, the views are spectacular - the river rushing below us, the beginnings of a road, snaking along the opposite mountainside, bright blue sky above us and the peaks serene in the early morning sun.

I learn my first lesson about altitude in the first half hour. It is this: no matter how fit you think you are at sea level, it is not the case above 3,000m. I am not an active 29 year old. I am a fat, heavy smoker who sits on the couch all day eating burgers. My heart is pounding, my lungs are stretched to capacity and my body is hammering on the door into my mind yelling, What are you doing?! After an hour of uphill trekking, I sit down heavily on a rock at the rest spot convinced I'm going to vomit. Elkin takes one look at me an insists my pack goes on the horse, meaning I carry only my Camelbak. Luckily I've had experience with nausea during exercise before, and can recognise the need to eat, so I pick at sugary dried fruit that I know I can metabolise quickly.

From then on I take it a bit more steadily, stopping regularly, drinking plenty and snacking when I need to. We are all feeling the altitude - except, Elkin, who is practically a tank and can keep going regardless. Rambo scampers alongside us, dropping to the floor and falling asleep as soon as we take a break. I secretly wish I could do this his way.

The highest point of today's trek comes just before lunch. We stop by a set of vacant tombs, the contents plundered by grave robbers long ago. The thing about the Andes is that they never stop taking your breath away. No sooner have you moved on from one amazing viewpoint, you find yourself at another. After a rest and some food I feel good enough to scamper up the hump to our left, where an Inca fortress once was. I have a good mooch about, take a few questionable selfies, and allow myself some time to simply stand and let the peace and the remoteness flood over me before heading back down.

Lunch is a delicious spinach soup followed by chicken stroganoff, which we eat in the mess tent overlooking another stunning vista. We have to admire what Agustin can whip up on a camping stove; the food is better than I've eaten in some restaurants! After lunch, it's mostly downhill to our camp for the night. As we walk over rich red soil, the clouds roll across and large raindrops begin to splash down. We're in our waterproofs just in time - the downpour soon become torrential and lasts the final hour of today's trek. On the path a red stream forms, the water in more of a hurry than we are to get to the bottom. There comes a point when you are so wet you stop caring about the rain and despite being soaked through I find myself enjoying the final stretch to camp. My feet, at least, are dry and my body is warm from the exercise. I feel more alive than I have done in a long time.

At camp, our tents are already set up, and we scramble inside to strip off our wet clothes and change to dry. Esteban and Agustin bring round tea and cake, and hot water to wash in, and I for one am soon feeling comfortable again. Thankfully there is time for a nap before dinner.

The sun sets as we eat, and by the time we head off to bed (at around 7pm - I have not been ready for a night's sleep so early since I was a child) there are stars overhead. Southern stars. We all take a moment to look up and feel the closeness of the sky under which we stand, miles from anywhere.

A glimpse of the Andes

It is 6.30pm, it is dark and I am alone. I think, under the circumstances, I can be forgiven some tears.
My Camelbak is empty and has been since around 3pm. Joel has my pack, so I have no food. What I do have, the only thing I have, is a hand torch, which I am shining into the valley in the hopes that someone is on their way.

But let us, in the knowledge that I am home and (relatively) unscathed, leave me there for the time being, because this is the middle and we must start at the beginning.

*

Maybe it's the angle of the sun as it touches the mountaintops, and maybe it's the writer in me making a romance out of an ordinary afternoon, but as the plane circles above Cusco, I find myself believing in the lost treasure of the Inca: the very peaks seem to shine with gold as the pilot makes his descent. This is the first real glimpse I have of Peru and it's a tonic for the final, hectic days at work before I left. The issues of the past 24 hours begin to evaporate, and I can feel the breath of adventure.

We are met with a very welcome cup of coca tea, an infusion brewed with leaves that are the source for cocaine base. Happily they're high-free in their natural state (although not enough for the drinker to pass a drugs test, Wiki tells me!) and a good antidote to altitude. Either way, it tastes like green tea, and gives the beginning of the trip a satisfying home-from-home feel.

We head to our hotel, where we take a quick shower and head out for 'lunch', which by 5pm is so much more like dinner that we agree to skip the actual dinner in favour of bed.

Acclimatisation

Our first full day is spent exploring Cusco, lingering indecisively at market stalls while enthusiastic women try to entice us with their wares. We chat to a painter in the main square and each end up buying a small piece that will roll up for easy transportation. Mine is, naturally, a rather silly a water colour of llamas who look very pleased with life in general. We're then hustled into Paddy's by Dave, who's whole plan for the day centres around a pint here. It's weird sitting in an Irish bar in Peru, with football on the TV and a couple of Germans next to us who soon fall into conversation about football related things that go right over my head.

Then we walk up to St Cristobel, which feels like pretty hard work given that we've been deposited by LAN at an alien 3,500m and the traffic is emitting some heady fuel fumes. En route we can see a wedding taking place in one of the churches, and Dave is rather taken with a lamb which is being carried around by some women and kids in traditional dress. The Peruvians dress so colourfully that it's tempting to start buying up a load of ponchos and hats and jumpers in all hues; we have to remind ourselves more than once that back home we wouldn't wear half the stuff we're thinking of buying.

"Sexy Woman"

At St Cristobel we get a taxi to Saqsaywaman, an Incan citadel that sits above Cusco. Getting into a taxi is an adventure in itself. Anyone who has been to Rome or Marrakech, or preferably both, will have some experience of fear when either sitting in a ab or crossing a road. Cusco more or less combines the two. We learn quickly that when walking, the best option is to just cross your fingers and go for it. In cabs, which incidentally seem to lack seat belts - at least any sort of seat belt that would offer adequate protection in a collision - we learn to not look. Ever. 

So to Saqsaywaman, often referred to by the English speakers as "Sexy Woman". It is here that we realise just how big Cusco is. It extends right along the valley and up the sides of the mountain, sprawling out in a way that seems impossible given its location deep in the Andes. 

Saqsaywaman is like nothing I have seen before. The citadel is made of huge - and I mean huge - square blocks of stone, each carved so perfectly that it fits with the next without cement and with gaps so small you couldn't fit a penny in.

There are llamas, which I find greatly pleasing, and there are incredible views of Cusco, and the Cristo Blanco on the next rise, which towers, arms outstretched benevolently, above the city. There are also preparations for a coming of age festival that dates back to Inca times. A stage is being set up in the green space between the two main parts of the settlement, and explains the boys in traditional dress running around the streets that we saw on our way up.

We return mid afternoon, tired and excited for our trek, which begins at 6am.

An introduction

First things first.

Allow me to introduce my excellent trekking buddies and the crew that prepared our food, set up our tents, cleaned up after us and, yes, disposed of our, ahem, biological waste.

Meet Dave and Amanda, my totally brilliant Peru friends, who stuck by my side through both the physical and emotional ups and downs. Amanda is brave, smart and a proper trooper even at only 50% fitness; Dave has the kind of appetite we approve of chez Carlton and an infectious kindness that makes me want to try and be nicer. 

This is the aforementioned crew. I called the horse Passepartout until I found out his real name, which is Agusto. Next is Florence, the head mule driver; then Elkin, part man-part tank, who you will hear about in due course; behind him is sweet, shy Agustin who whips up a mean soup (and pretty bloody good food in general); then Joel, who patiently waited each time I trailed behind the others, stopping to catch my breath every 10 steps; and Esteban, who helped set up and cook. I'm told he had medical skills but thankfully we didn't need to call upon them. Alas, I don't know the name of the chap squatting at the front.

Finally there was Rambo, a one-year old dog who scampered about the mountains while we trekked and promptly collapsed to snooze every time we stopped for a break. It was lovely to see his little head pop up over a ridge to check we were still following when the trail got tough.

And now that you know everyone, I can begin the tale...

Well this is it, then

In two days I fly to Cusco. Well, Madrid, then Lima, then Cusco to be precise.

I am excited!!!

This will be my last post before I fly, unless something absurdly funny or weird happens in the meantime. Not ruling it out...

Several people have asked me if I plan to update while I'm away. The short answer is no. Aside from the Andes being completely signal free (bliss!), I am far too lazy to try and write blogs on my phone. I will, however, update when I'm back and have lots of fabulous pictures to share. At least I hope I will - currently the forecast for Cusco is predicting thunder storms.

At the time of writing, I have raised £1850. I am over the moon about this. Huge thanks to everyone who donated, or ate cake, or drank wine, or did all of the above for the cause.

Courtesy of @DoWhatITellYou

The codpiece mask is taking a break for the time being (although I'm happy to whip it out on request at parties) and I am looking forward to meeting my fellow trekkers at Heathrow and getting started. The ice cream thing didn't quite work out in the end - I was seduced by a tub of B&J's cookie dough (not literally, that would be horrendous) and caved on Saturday morning. It was delicious.

I will say hi to Paddington for you all and am under instructions from my big brother to bring him back a llama. He even said he'd pay for its flight if I could pass it off as a human. Dave, Amanda: I think we can do this.

Happy September everyone - I shall update on my return :)

Final training and taking risks

I conquered a hill 

Last weekend I talked my dear and very obliging friend Nikki into coming on a ramble with me to get some last minute training in before the trek. She duly took me around Alice Holt Wood, some of the lanes around her village and over to the Devil's Jumps for some hardcore uphill walking. I set myself the challenge of climbing Stony Jump, the highest of the three, with my mask on - set to emulate breathing at 15,000 ft.

I'm not going to lie, it was hard work: my lungs felt like bursting and my heart was thudding harder than an elephant on a pogo stick. But, with a heart rate of over 170bpm and a decent helping of determination, I reached the top. This is what that moment looked like:

Taking risks

Part of the reason for me doing this trek (aside from it being on the bucket list) is that my New Year's resolution for 2015 was to take more risks. Some long discussions with my therapist made it obvious to me that becoming depressive had not only wiped my self confidence, it had also stifled my ability to step outside my comfort zone. 

So 2015 has been about saying 'yes' instead of making excuses and shying away. There are much smaller things that I am proud of having done this year, things like attending a hen do where I didn't know anyone, and taking a motorbike trial. I still get nervous - really nervous - about stuff that other people take in their stride, but the point is I'm doing it anyway, because more often than not the experience is worth the apprehension.

From 8 months to 8 days

When I signed up for this trek in January, I had no idea that the response from family, friends and others would be so amazing. With the help of many, many people I have almost doubled my initial fundraising target, and received loads of positive feedback about my blog. 

There are now only 8 days(!!) till I leave for Peru. There is a holdall in my spare room into which I am trying to fit everything I will need, with limited success. There are insurance documents and trip notes littering the floor. There is a Paddington keyring which will hang from my backpack for good luck. I am, inevitably, apprehensive about the physical demands and the altitude, but if nothing else, I am proud of this: proud of speaking up, of raising awareness and of doing something to help. Once again, thank you for your support.

Adventures in North Devon

As many of you know, I spent the past week in North Devon, combining some training with a final chance to do not a lot before I head off to Peru.

Day 1: A 7-mile walk around Croyde, during which we stopped briefly for lunch overlooking this:

And later walked above Woolacombe beach:

If you can't get to altitude, bring altitude to you. Guess how my tan turned out that day

...

Day 2: From Mortehoe to Bull Point via Lee Bay. We ate lunch looking at this:

And I bought a stylish sun hat. 

Our third day's walk took us from Velator Quay almost into Braunton. It was a bit boring after the first hour, so I don't have any photos, but we took my brand new walking poles, which turned out to be a solid purchase.

Overall a decent week training - no blisters, and I know where my aches are going to come from!

The second tasting

Having returned yesterday afternoon, I grabbed a couple of hours' respite in my parents' back garden before heading out to deliver a wine tasting for some friends. We took advantage of the beautiful evening, and after some chaos involving a lively pug and a terrified moggy, we went through six wines and a lot of cheese, finishing the evening with a game of Cards Against Humanity. A tidy total of £60 was raised thanks to their generosity.

Which leads me to my grand total. Since signing up for the trek in January, I have raised a staggering £1,705. This is far, far beyond my expectations, and I'm hugely grateful to everyone who has donated for their generosity.

Drugs, jabs and thermal underwear: 7 weeks out

It is now a mere 7 weeks until I head off on my trek. Lots of people are asking me if I'm getting excited, and quite frankly the answer is not yet. Aside from the fact that I don't tend to get excited about things until a few days before, there is lots happening at the moment, which is rather distracting me from thoughts of Peru.

My brain is a douchebag

Training has been a little difficult recently as I've been feeling pretty wiped out and kind of low the past couple of weeks. On Wednesday, following the first meltdown in several months, I made the decision to go back onto a full dose of antidepressants. For someone as obsessed with succeeding at everything as I am, that wasn't easy, but my therapist obviously managed to teach me something, because I'm not looking at it as a failure, just something that is necessary right now.

Since leaving therapy, the learning hasn't stopped. Perhaps one of the toughest lessons has been that all the therapy and all the meds in the world won't sort out some of the things that make me low, but I'm keen to try and remain as positive as I can. During one session later on in my treatment, my therapist told me not to stop fighting. I don't intend to.

On the plus side, Mumma C baked me a cake :)

7 weeks out

...which means next week is 6 weeks, meaning jab time. I get to bombard my body with typhoid and tetanus next Thursday, which should be all kinds of fun. I'm also nearing the end of the kit-buying frenzy. Thanks to a Millets voucher I got for my birthday, I have a silk sleeping bag liner to help keep me toasty warm at night, and have recently purchased a set of highly erotic thermal underwear. Check this out: 

Cat Woman wishes she could rock this.

As if that wasn't hot enough, I also bought a money belt, (I didn't dare don both for the photo for fear of causing grown men to swoon) which is a mere sidestep from the revered bumbag. The Peruvians better watch out.

And those Stairs of Death I mentioned? Dave sent Amanda and me some reassuring links to articles featuring Huayna Picchu, most of which include the words 'scariest' or 'dangerous' in the title. Good.

The Great Wine Tasting

Last Saturday was the evening of the Great Wine Tasting, during which I schooled my parents and a handful of their excellent friends in tasting wine like a boss, and somewhat surprised myself at the amount of information I was able to fish out of the dark recesses of my memory.

The evening was a great success - we explored the differences between old world & new world Sauvignons, Chardonnays from different climates and Pinot Noir vs Malbec. We sniffed, we tasted, we food matched (and if anyone can give me the Latin for that I will buy them a drink). We ate grapes and chewed stalks (one or two over enthusiastic tasters also swallowed said stalks) and finished with a blind tasting, by which time everyone present was a pro at tasting and managed to identify at least a couple of flavours in the wine.

Although spittoons were offered, they were roundly rejected and I'm told there was more than one aching head the following morning. Parents, eh?

At this point, I would like to say a very large, very warm and very fuzzy THANK YOU to Carrie & Keith Devonshire, who couldn't make the wine tasting in the end, but kindly donated £150 to the cause. This donation alone is enough to fund a local support group, enabling people with mental health difficulties to get their confidence and self esteem back. And believe you me, that's money very well spent.

In prep for high altitude

The very same day of the tasting, I obtained a training mask that simulates high altitude. This, when twinned with the aforementioned waterproof trousers, makes me so irresistible to the opposite sex that I've been banned by the authorities from wearing the two together. Behold:

My experience so far, aside from confirmation that it's really hard to breathe at high altitude, is that Darth Vader must've had it pretty rough, always having the noise of his own respiration in his ears. Seriously. I'm at the sitting-still-and-practising-breathing stage and I keep wondering why there's a Sith lord in everything I'm watching on TV.

Step two of my training has begun, with a program that requires me to make a concerted effort to be physically active on a more regular basis. The effort is largely home based, but I am also being good and parking a 10 minute walk away from my new office to build in a little daily walking. I'm hoping that at some point this year the weather might decide to, I don't know, warm up a little, and perhaps treat us to some sunshine and an absence of 70mph winds so that I can do a 1-2 hour ramble along the coast.

Donation total

Thanks to some ace baking by my mother and her buddy Mrs Ashley, I got a further £50 hit into the Just Giving account this week. Poppa C also managed to get some extra weight added to my Mind collection tin through selling cake and persuading people to give up their hard earned cash for a good cause. To my relief, I have not received any complaints about his methods of persuasion, which I'm assuming were above board.

So once again a big ol' happy thank you to those who have helped me reach an amazing £664 (+ what's in the tin). I'm genuinely bowled over by the support I'm receiving.

In the beginning

Let's start at the beginning.

Five months ago I was diagnosed with depression.

If I'm honest, I should've had myself diagnosed a year ago, but the thing about my depression was that it came on so gradually that I didn't notice there was anything wrong - or at least, was able to more or less ignore what was wrong - until it crippled me.

I'm very conscious that a lot of people still don't think depression is a 'proper' condition. They wonder why sufferers can't simply pull themselves out of their low mood and get frustrated with their inability to cope with everyday life. The truth is that once you've reached that crashing low, there's no coming up without professional support, and even then many sufferers struggle simply to function.

My first experience of depression was when I was 21. I was halfway through my Masters degree when I contracted glandular fever. The physical effects of the illness were frustrating enough but the mental impact was something else entirely. I'd find myself crying for no reason that I could think of, feeling negative and lacking confidence both in my abilities and my self image. When I went to the GP for help, she made me feel like I was wasting her time. She insinuated that because I wasn't suicidal, it wasn't important enough to be worth her trouble. That's partly why it took me so long to get help this time around.

Depression manifests itself in many different ways, and in retrospect it seems obvious to me that something was wrong a long time before I was diagnosed. I was increasingly irritable, intolerant of others' behaviour, felt guilty and ashamed of myself almost constantly, punished myself for tiny things. As the months went by, I felt sadder and sadder, lost my sense of agency and had all but forgotten what it was to have a feeling of self worth and self esteem.

By June, my thoughts were persistently negative and I cried. All the time. I wasn't sleeping well, and found myself totally exhausted by keeping up the pretense at work that everything was OK. I would finish at five, get to my car and start sobbing as soon as I was halfway up the drive. If I managed to hold out until I got home, I would often find the thought of having to feed myself - an activity most of us never think twice about - completely overwhelming, and cry because I didn't know what to eat. More than once I went to bed hungry.

I realised I needed medication on the weekend that I went to help my parents decorate their new cottage in Devon. I hadn't slept all night and when my dad greeted me in the morning, I just burst into tears (again). I had been keeping my condition from my parents because I knew I'd feel guilty for making them worry about me, but that morning I couldn't hide it anymore. I was a complete mess.

Over the course of the weekend, my mum gently persuaded me that medication was likely to help, so I duly went to the GP. The experience couldn't have been more different. He was concerned and sensitive and reassuring - and didn't bat an eyelid when I struggled to talk about my mental state without crying all over again.

From that point, I'm relieved to say things have improved. It's not been easy, I've taken more than a few steps backwards on my road to recovery, but I have been working hard to get myself into a better place. Thanks to the incredible support of my friends, family, coaches and colleagues, I'm in a place where I can talk about my experience of depression without fear or shame.

It is the events of the past year that prompted me to sign up for the Machu Picchu trek with Ultimate Challenges. It's something I've wanted to do since I was a teenager, and finally I'm ready - both mentally and financially - to take on the challenge. The money I raise will go to Mind, who do an excellent job of supporting people with mental health difficulties and their families. It's thanks to charities like Mind that depression and other mental illnesses are now making it into the public consciousness, and that people are realising that having a mental condition doesn't make you 'crazy' or 'weird'; it's simply that whether short or long term, your brain functions a bit differently to other people's.

What follows is my journey to Machu Picchu, which starts, inevitably, with seven months of fundraising and training.