The first thing we did was make for the 'Pizzeria Trattoria' at the top of Avenida El Sol and gorge on their delicious fayre.
Having a penchant for much spicier toppings than is on offer in Peru, we requested the Tabasco sauce to pep proceedings up somewhat.
Kerry was extraordinarily dainty and cautious in her administration: putting a single drop of the fiery condiment on her knife before adding it strategically around her pizza.
I took a more liberal approach and ended up half drowning mine in error, the sauce flowing out of the bottle much quicker than I'd anticipated.
With numb lips and gurgling innards we made for the Hotel San Blas to reacquaint ourselves with our main packs and our unsmiling hosts.
My stomach gurgling became more violent and by the time we had checked in I was in a mad panic to expel half a bottle of Tabasco, with accompanying thunderclaps.
How we laughed. The toilet in our original room at the San Blas reeked of the drains for some reason and now I had rendered this one a temporary no-go zone.
Well, I think Kerry was laughing - tears streaming down her face, knees up to her chin and rocking back and forth.
With the door to the loo firmly closed, we spent that afternoon luxuriating on our beds, catching up with familial news from Blighty and uploading photos to facebook for your enjoyment.
Having been down as low as 8000ft on the trek we were both feeling the mild effects of returning to 11000ft+ so it was nice to just be still.
One job that we did have to do though was sort out clothes for the laundry.
Our trainers stink to high heaven at the best of times so given that we'd walked 30 miles or so and, in my case, not changed our socks, meant that a proper wash was a pressing necessity.
I think I'd had my trousers on for a month too and my pants, well, probably best not to go into too much detail, some of you may be eating.
After depositing the 5kg bag of clothes two doors up and being told they'd be ready in 24 hours we prepared ourselves for a night on the tiles; a trekkers reunion.
Over the course of the trek we'd gradually got to know everyone and found them to be largely a splendid bunch.
We had particularly bonded with Swedes Per and Erik and Frenchie Nicolas but were delighted to see San Franciscan Derek and German couple Natalie and Andreas waiting for us under the statue in the Plaza de Armas too at the allotted rendezvous time.
Derek, recent of another trek in the cordillera, had brought along some friends from that endeavour so we were thirteen-strong as we sought sustenance, both solid and liquid.
We had a great night with even a half-dead Mikos stumbling across us and joining proceedings after staying up in Machu Picchu an extra day to climb another mountain.
Perhaps our policy of "flashpacking" (nice hotels rather than hostels) has prevented us from meeting as many people as we would have otherwise so it was lovely to swap tales and talk at length with like-minded people.
By the end of the night and with us all feeling slightly merry I suggested that we ought to try to reconvene annually in our respective towns by way of keeping in touch.
It might happen, it probably won't, but it made parting all the easier.
Next day was very lazy, not least because we were nursing sore heads.
Pretty much all we did was extract two free t-shirts out of SAS Travel as compensation for our bus breaking down the other day and collect our pleasantly aromatic washing.
So that was Cusco and the Sacred Valley of the Incas well and truly done.
It had been a truly fascinating period of time and we'd met some wonderful people.
Next on the Gringo Trail is Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world (whatever that means).
You can look at it, sail on it, stay on one of the islands or visit the tribes who live on the floating islands which are made of the abundant tortora reeds.
However you choose to enjoy it you have to first get there and, with there being an option of travelling to its shores by train we gleefully exercised that option.
The 'Andean Explorer' is a train operated by the same people who run the Orient Express and departs Huanchaq station in Cusco, bound for the city of Puno on the shore of Lake Titicaca every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday at 0800.
We has ordered a taxi and he showed up as expected at 0720.
"Huanchaq?" said I, checking with one word that this was our cab and that he knew where we were going.
"Si señor".
We set off and the driver began explaining that there were no flights for the foreseeable from Cusco due to fog.
Very interesting we thought, particularly as Swede Per was due to fly to Rio today.
We drove on and on and then I saw a sign for aeropuerto. I reminded our driver that we wanted Huanchaq at which he let go of the steering wheel, held his head in his hands and then slapped his forehead in self-admonishment.
We performed an about turn and were soon at Huanchaq, asking everyone for two tens for this twenty because our driver had no change.
Nobody in this country has any change. Ever.
With cash points administering 50s or 100s it is a perennial pain in the khyber.
A 4-piece Andean folk band played as we had our tickets checked by the pretty representatives of Peru Rail and we were then relieved of our baggage and ushered towards coach A, a wonderfully appointed carriage with armchairs, table cloths, a single rose on the table and a lamp.
At the rear of the train was an open observation car, allowing you to not only get fresh air but to see at close quarters the terrain you were passing through.
We ambled out of Cusco, the railway tracks running through the streets and the locomotive honking a warning to everyone to get out of the way. It was seemingly quite an event, many people, particularly children, waving at us as we trundled past.
We had some breakfast on-board and were then invited, along with everyone else, to the lounge car for a "fashion show".
This was as cheesy as it sounds; two Peru Rail members of staff parading up and down in various knitwear whilst we supped Pisco sours.
Next up was the folk band from the booking hall, playing a set of typically Andean tunes on guitars, pan pipes and flutes.
They introduced a dancer for a couple of songs and during the second dance she sought a partner from the passengers ranks.
There's sometimes an air of inevitability about proceedings and this was one such case in point. She ignored everyone and with each passing nanosecond it became more and more apparent that I was on her hit-list.
I succumbed to her invitation, primarily because I thought I'd look a bigger dick if I declined than for the passable impression I was about to give of a shire horse gambolling about a confined space wearing concrete boots.
The train stopped at about 14000ft up to give us all an opportunity to buy more knitwear and crafts from a trackside market.
We did buy something but as it was for one of our readership I can't tell you what it is.
Lunch was served after I'd struck up a conversation with South African Terry and her adorable nine year old daughter, Indigo, who are five months into a year long trip.
The beef was divine and the chocolate mousse enough to elicit moans of delight from my left.
We passed beautiful scenery and towns and villages that if they had ever seen better days they were an awfully long time ago. Some of the indigenous settlements we saw gave us a perspective of Peru that, despite our extensive journey through it, we had not hitherto experienced.
Another band and dancer entertained us for a while and then we were invited to a Pisco Sour cocktail making demonstration courtesy of the barman.
Afternoon tea was served: sandwiches, fruit and champagne and then, much to everyone's disappointment, we arrived in Puno.
The ten hour journey had flown by and the train had lived up to its billing.
It was an utter joy, if periodically more naff than fluorescent socks or a hairpiece.
Puno was awash with indigenously dressed people partying in the streets as we rolled into town. Women in bowler hats and men in ponchos and woollen hats were singing, dancing and glugging cerveza for all they were worth.
It seemed a little intimidating after the sanctity of our gilded transportation so we took a cab through the fading light to the hotel Don Giorgio.
With Puno sitting at about 12800ft, the rarefied air was having an effect on our breathing. Lying in bed was an exhausting endeavour and to visit the latrine would render us as cream-crackered as a 100m sprint at sea level.
Never mind. It won't be too much longer before the altiplano is but a fond memory.
First though, there's a lake to explore.
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