The knock at the door came at 5.30am.
Breakfast wasn’t until 6.30am but it took that long to extricate ourselves from under the blankets – not because the bed was especially comfortable. I realise now, why the llamas carried so little on the Inca trail. Their wool is as heavy as chain mail.
After breakfast we marched across the village in the rain for a pottery display.
There are times and places for pottery displays, and 7am in the rain is not one of them- especially when the ladies of the village bolt the doors and stand by the exits. In the end it was delightful. Sebastien whipped up a beautiful pot in thirty seconds and like an Andean episode of The Generation Game, with TJ compering as a Texan answer to Bruce Forsythe, Sophie splattered the walls with clay and made a strangely fat but limp version of Sebastien’s creation.
The market was not hard sell and in the end I came away with the two things I had wanted since long before arriving in South America – a brass bell and some pottery bird whistles.
I lie.
I only bought them so I could name this blog.
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