After 2 days in Cusco we were deemed to be acclimatized enough to begin our hike. I still had a headache but not an intolerable one and I was too delighted with Peru to let it bother me.

You start the Inca trail beyond Ollantaytambo after a bus journey through the hills and down into the Sacred valley. The journey out of Cusco city made me realise that the locals lived in areas quite different to the tourist gloss around Plaza de Armas. On the outskirts of Cusco as we climbed out of the city, the streets and pavements were literally crumbling and I was struck by the utter dereliction of the houses.  Every house was unpainted, un-plastered and unloved. Buildings looked totally unfinished as if in the process of their construction some major event had occurred and everyone had to leave suddenly.

Feral dogs nosed through rubbish emptied out of refuse bags that had been left on the street. Obviously there wasn’t enough money for proper plastic bins to solve this problem but the amount of time and effort that must be spent cleaning up the mess would have been considerable.

This was an entirely different scene to the captivating charm of the tourist areas of Cusco. We three gringos gazed out the windows while Alfredo sat chatting companionably to the driver in front, accustomed to the poverty.

After an hour or so driving we descended into the Sacred valley. This is the wonderful fertile valley on either side of the boiling Urumbamba river. The Inca believed that the Urumbamba was the earthbound counterpart of the Milky Way and who was I to argue? In the Sacred valley people speak the native Quechua rather than Spanish and work the fields and harvest salt with methods unchanged since the days of the Incas. They grow white corn and coca and potatoes on spectacularly terraced green slopes.

Alfredo lives in a village in the Sacred valley and we dropped in to his home where we met his wife and adorable 2 year old daughter. We also picked up the 8 men who would accompany us as porters. These were men from Alfredo’s village, mainly peasant farmers who supplemented their income with their jobs as porters on the trail. He greeted them with great warmth and there was a lot of laughing and back thumping and then they all got on the bus after smiling a shy greeting to the 3 gringos. One of them was obviously the group joker. He was young and broad shouldered and handsome and Alfredo told us his nick name was ‘Hombre’ (The man).  Every time he said something they all laughed loudly.

When we arrived at the start of the trail, other groups and porters were assembling in a big open area. This is where the food and equipment is arranged on the ground and each porter takes his share. The Inca trail is a national park and UNESCO heritage site, and you need a passport and a permit to enter. Each porter must carry no more than 25 kg and that is checked.

Alfredo cast a professional eye over the preparations, offering words of support to the guys, joking with them and teasing us Gringos as we plastered the sunscreen on to our pasty bodies. We also prepared our own back packs which were pitifully small and light in comparison to what the porters had to carry.

After being on a mountain rescue team for over 10 years it was strange setting off on a hike with an almost empty back pack but earlier when I had tried to fill it up to ease the burden on one of the guys, Alfredo put his hand on my arm and said firmly ‘No Marie. The porters will carry.’ And carry they did but more about that later.

After the check points we all set off across the first bridge and walked along the rough path. The Urumbamba raced across massive rocks far below us going in the opposite direction. It was sunny and I felt incredibly buoyant and happy to be there in the midst of these beautiful mountains. Other groups massed behind and in front but despite the foot traffic there was never a sense of there being too many people and there was enough scenery for all of us.

The first day was an easy walk with hardly any incline at all and took us though forest at first where Alfredo stopped regularly to show us flowers like Andean Lupins and Fushia and of course a dizzying variety of Orchids which are famous on the Inca trail. Alfredo’s grandmother was a shaman and he had great interest in local flora.

He told us which plant was used by the local people for what. This one for joint pain, that one to alleviate cramps during a woman’s period. Another one possibly hallucinogenic.

 (I had obviously ingested that one because one minute I was at home in the west of Ireland making the dinner and now here I was, absolutely convinced that I was walking in the Andes!)

I wondered was there anything for my menopause but despite my penchant for sometimes making matter of fact comments that make my non-nursing friends cringe, I didn’t say it aloud. Men get all squeamish if you mention the menopause the poor things.

As the afternoon progressed the gaggle of people thinned out and I found myself walking alone to my delight. This was to be our routine every day, myself and the boys. Younger man Darren surging ahead like a springbok, older man Pat amazingly sprightly for his age but going at a more sedate pace behind, and little old me in the middle.  Alfredo was the sweeper. Every half hour or so we four waited for each other and stopped to admire and marvel at something or other or to listen to Alfredo who seemed to have an encyclopedic grasp of all things Inca trail.

We passed the first Inca site, Llactapata, down below us on the valley floor where the ruins of a town and its buildings fan out along the broad grassy terraces. It was my first ‘Wow!’ moment on the Inca trail standing on this broad expanse of grass surrounded by verdant mountains on all sides, the sun shining warmly. I had half a notion to do a Maria Von Trapp and fling my arms wide to the mountains and wheel around and suddenly break into rapturous song

The hills are alive with the sound of Music…..

Then I’d reluctantly gather my apron and go back to the nuns. Only there wasn’t a nun in sight only three men, one Peruvian and two Paddies and I didn’t want to alarm them. So I kept my arms down by my sides and listened obediently to Alfredo’s information on the ruins. (Which I can t remember. Google it for godsake….)

Our first camp was a pleasant field where the porters had already erected our sleeping tents and the dinner tent and were banging and clattering about when we arrived. Alfredo gathered everyone in a circle and for the next half hour we all introduced ourselves with Alfredo as interpreter.

The porters stood up one by one and spoke in beguilingly gentle voices and with great formality. They all began by saying Buenas Noches Senors, Senorita.” (‘There we go again! Senorita. I must be young,’ I thought wildly to myself!)

The porters only speak Quechua and maybe a smattering of Spanish so they told us through Alfredo what they did for a living and how many children they had. Alfredo informed them that I was a nurse and wilderness first aid trainer and that I volunteered on a team who rescued people off the mountains in my own country. They all oohed and ahhed at that and gazed at me with renewed interest.

‘Small mountains!’ I added hastily, lest anyone think I was a hard core mountaineer shimmying up Everest whenever I had a spare moment. Our Croagh Patrick at 760 metres would be like climbing a chair to these boys.

After the introductions were made we toasted each other. They had poured some pale cloudy mixture into small aluminium cups and I looked doubtfully at the liquid before putting on my game face and taking a big gulp. It was made of white corn and it was utterly vile. Despite my efforts to conceal this Alfredo caught my expression and pealed with laughter and muttered something to the boys who found it equally amusing.

There isn’t much to do in the evenings and other people are camped nearby but aren’t easy to connect with unless you re bold enough to go poking your head nosily into people’s tents. The dining tent was set up for us with table and fold up chairs. Roland was our server and he entered the tent with platter upon platter of delicious food. Rice and fried chicken and salad and bread and I don t know what else. He was as solemn and formal as a maitre D and I smiled at him but he ignored me out of shyness. There was barely enough room on the table for all the food and I was embarrassed by such bounty while camping but Alfredo dismissed my protestations and told me that the left-overs would be enjoyed by the porters which made me feel better. He also explained that they had their own food also as their taste is somewhat different.

Because there was really little else to do we went to bed at around eight and went off to sleep to the sound of crickets and a rather lively rustling from a couple of donkeys in a neighbouring field. Love-making no doubt. At least someone were getting some.