Then we open our eyes and we’re standing at IntiPunku – the Sun Gate – and we’re on the edge of a sheer drop, looking down on the breathtaking ruins of Machu Picchu. The sprawling, long-lost city hacked out of the depths of the Peruvian jungle only a hundred years ago is spread below us, and the sight is more magical than I could ever have imagined. No guidebook could ever do this justice.

Everyone lifts their arms and cheers together. Then there’s a group hug and happy dances. Blake breaks out two bottles of champagne that he’s lugged up here.

‘Oh, Greg,’ I whisper when we’re alone again. My husband wraps his arms round me and we hold each other tightly as the tears stream down our faces.

‘We made it,’ he says thickly. ‘We made it, love.’

‘We did.’ I sob. ‘We bloody well did!’

The sun peeps over the horizon and lifts the cloak of mist from Machu Picchu’s ancient shoulders, showing the mountain and ruined city below it in all its glory. The pinnacle of Huayna Picchu guards the city from behind, flanked by cliffs that drop away vertically.

Blake hands us two plastic cups of champagne and we hold them up in a toast together. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I know that BC understands that it’s for so much more than the fizzy stuff.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says with a wink and fades away to join the others.

Greg and I hold hands as we sip our bubbles together. This trip has really brought us together again, closer than we’ve ever been. Soon we’ll walk down to the ruins and explore the sights I’ve memorised from my guidebook – the Temple of the Condor, the Sacred Plaza, The Royal Tomb, the Windows of the Solstices. But, for now, I just want to drink in the spectacular view.

My husband breathes out happily and I turn to him. There’s a contented smile on his lips. ‘It’s not Cromer, is it?’ he jokes.

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘It certainly isn’t.’

‘Mrs Emerson’s Clifftop Guest House will never seem quite the same.’

‘No,’ I agree. ‘It won’t.’

‘Where shall we go next?’ Greg asks.

‘Not Cromer?’ I venture.

‘No. Not Cromer.’

‘I quite fancy China,’ I say. ‘Or Vietnam.’

‘I’ve always had a yearning to go to Angkor Wat.’

‘You never said.’

‘Oh, Annie,’ Greg sighs. ‘There was so much that I should have said that I never did.’

‘I know.’ I lean against him. ‘But it doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now.’

My husband turns to me. ‘Thank you for making me do this,’ he says. ‘Thank you for shocking me out of my comfort zone. Thank you for making me see beyond the end of my own nose.’