Our niece Louise flew in from the UK to join us for our last week of vacation in Colorado. She’s at the unfortunate age of 20, meaning it’s been perfectly legal for her to drink in the UK for over two years – but in the US, where the legal drinking age is 21, not a chance. This is the country where just about anyone can get ID’d at the supermarket buying alcohol. Even Judith, at the ripe old age of – let’s just say over 50 – got refused alcohol because she didn’t have her ID on her to prove her age. Luckily, we’d saved some fun stuff to do with Louise that didn’t involve drinking.

I’m very nearly running out of fingers to count the number of times we’ve been to Colorado. We did a quick tally, and since we first fell in love with Summit County in the Covid summer of 2020, this would be our tenth trip. The vast majority of which have featured in the blog. So what could I possibly have to write about or photograph?

I admit, there’s some things we’ve done again and again because they’re just that cool. But what’s unique about this trip is that we had company. Brother and sister-in-law Wayne and Judith came to visit. And seeing somewhere familiar through someone else’s eyes brings a whole new magic to the proceedings.

In September 2024, after four and a half years of working remotely, I returned to the office full time.  Well, not quite five days a week, because on Mondays and Fridays we were still able to work from home.  But it might as well have been full time, insomuch as it put a full-on hard stop to our nomadic lifestyle.

Nearly a year on, and not to be deterred, Darren booked an Airbnb in Colorado for a month.  I was pretty sure I could swing two weeks holiday.  As for the other two weeks, it’s only really six days worth of in-office-ness.  Surely they’d bend the rules a bit and let me work remotely?  

Err… nope.  

Not a chance.

That’ll be a no then.

So that’s how I ended up commuting from Colorado to California for two weeks…

After years of threatening to do Napa ‘properly’, we finally went for it: four days, two bikes (e-bike for me, thank you very much), and what would otherwise be a frankly ambitious route through the valleys and over the hills of Northern California wine country.  Starting and finishing in Geyserville, we set off to see if it’s possible to combine exercise, sightseeing, and moderate wine tasting without falling off.  (It wouldn’t be the first time – but that’s a story for another day).

Day 1

There’s nothing quite like realizing you’ll be living in the same bike shorts for the next four days to focus the mind.  Chamois Butt’r is our new best friend, and we made sure to pack plenty of it into my panniers.  A few too many beers on our impromptu San Fran Waymo brewery tour the day before contributed to a later start than planned.  But what a day for it: blue skies, row upon row of emerald green vines stretching forever, and that unmistakable sense of freedom and anticipation that you get at the start of a trip.

Things got interesting outside Guerneville, when we started to encounter some ominous “Road Closed Ahead” signs.  Cue much muttering about battery range and what would happen if we had to backtrack twenty miles. Turns out a major landslide had carved away half the road. Cars: no chance. Bikes: well luckily, with a bit of sidestepping, we were able to squeak through. Crisis averted.

Clearly the cycling gods were in our favor, because next up was a stop at Korbel – only the biggest, most famous sparkling wine venue in the region – where rather than the expected wallet-busting tasting fee, we were offered a complimentary glass of their Blanc de Noirs.  Result!

As we neared the coast, the wind had other plans for us.  Battling into a 25mph headwind with unpredictable sideways gusts, I’m amazed we made it in one piece.  When we finally rolled into the hotel, we were rewarded with a free bottle of Chardonnay waiting in the fridge. I’ve never been so happy to see mediocre white wine in my life.

Day 2:

Heading back inland, the road up Middle Lane was pure nostalgia — classic British hedgerows bursting with dandelions, elderflower, and brambles, with wood pigeons cooing away from above.  If it hadn’t been for the California poppies and the sheep looking slightly smug, we could’ve been pedaling down a country lane in Devon or Hampshire. All that was missing was the drizzle.

Stopped for a civilized glass at Roche Winery (lovely friendly barman, excellent picnic tables). Darren had an IPA, obviously.

Last stop: Three Fat Guys Winery, where we were served ironically by not a fat guy but a very skinny lady.

The day finished in Sonoma with a plunge in the world’s most enthusiastic hot tub.  If you ever need your bike-weary muscles pummeled to oblivion, I know just the spot.

Day 3:

Today’s route served up some beautiful country roads along with some truly horrific tarmac in need of TLC.  Denmark Street, I’m looking at you. You could lose a small child in those potholes. We spent a fair bit of time retracing our steps thanks to some classic navigational mishaps.  Darren, I’m looking at you!

Eventually, we found our way to Oxbow Public Market in Napa, where I packed my panniers full to bursting with picnic supplies: a crusty French baguette, some gooey cheese, Castelvetrano olives, melt-in-the-mouth tuna belly, and naturally, a bottle of Napa Valley Pinot Noir.  Striving for the classy picnic in the park look over the homeless wino look.  Surely it can’t be considered drinking in public if you’ve got cheese?

By mid-afternoon the heat was properly up, and for some reason the final stretch from Yountville to St Helena turned into Darren’s personal Tour de France time trial. Out of nowhere, he kicked it up a gear—serious hammer time. I did my best to keep up, failing miserably even with my bike dialed up to turbo mode.  I rolled in to Clif Family Wines in a puddle.  I had to down oodles of water before I was sufficiently revived for a glass of the good stuff.

Day 3, in the bag.

Day 4

Final day, and breakfast included!  The real mark of a quality breakfast? A hard-boiled egg.  You know you’ve made it when there’s an egg – a true sign of civilization. Spirits (and caffeine) high, we set off on the Silverado Trail, retracing the exact route we once did on a tandem beach cruiser ten years ago. (For the record: if you ever want to test a relationship, try a tandem.)

Wildlife highlights today were less David Attenborough, more local color: a spectacular California King snake smack in the middle of the bike path (but sadly, he had met a premature demise).  Plus a bonus sighting of a proud peacock strutting his stuff and a very alive and lively baby deer pronking across the road.

We breezed through Calistoga, then found salvation at the Dry Creek Store.  They’ve got a bar!  And an awesome one at that. We took refuge there to cool off with a cold Pliny – possibly the best beer in the world, especially when you’ve cycled nearly 50 miles and the temp is high 80s.  

Last stop: Pedroncelli winery, where we were treated to a proper wine tasting, and topped up the panniers ‘to go’.

And just like that, we were back in Geyserville — full circle, four days and 189 miles later, with two-tone sunburned legs.

Napa by bike: Worth every pedal stroke (and every glass).

Number of bottles acquired: Classified.

Days in Lycra: Four too many.

Would we do it again? Absolutely.  In fact, the four days was just the point to point cycling, with the rest of the week and more biking still to come 🙂

The mini San Francisco warm up to our cycling holiday started with fog, felons and a frankly outstanding performance at Club Fugazi.  It was just a couple of days but I have photos so couldn’t possibly skip this little highlight.

We kicked things off at Club Fugazi.  Think bougie Cirque du Soleil with a distinctly San Francisco twist. We somehow snagged front-row seats, which turned out to be “on” the stage.  Not just close to the action – pretty much part of it.  Incredible to see such up-close-and-personal acrobatics, with the kind of contortionist feats that make you question your own flexibility (or lack thereof). 

The next day, we had big plans to cycle over the Golden Gate Bridge, soak in those classic postcard views, and call it a warm up for the proper cycling to come. Our plans were unsurprisingly SF’d by that classic, stubborn blanket of fog.  

Instead, we scored some last-minute tickets to Alcatraz (way to go, Darren!). The boat ride out set the tone: bracingly cold wind, and water choppy enough to question our breakfast choices (breakfast burrito, if you’re wondering).

Alcatraz was… atmospheric. It’s one thing to hear about it, another to stand in a cell that once held Al Capone. The audio tour (highly recommended) walks you through the prison’s history and boldest escape attempts.

The cells themselves are stark and haunting, but the surprise twist was actually outside — Alcatraz is now home to thousands of nesting gulls and cormorants. Who knew? It’s basically a maximum-security bird sanctuary. 

Back on dry land, we checked off another SF classic: watching the sea lions doing their thing at Pier 39 — loud, lazy, and utterly unbothered by the wind whipping off the bay.

In need of shelter and sustenance, we holed up in Humble Sea Brewing to hatch a plan for the afternoon: a San Fran brewery tour.  Enter ChatGPT.  We asked for a route and, fair play, it produced a slick-looking map with fancy icons and numbered stops. Too bad half the stops were imaginary!

Undeterred, we set off anyway, to Barebottle (hello, Jalapeño lager), Harmonic, 21st Amendment and Olfactory brewing.  But here’s where it got weird.  Our chosen method of transport: Waymo.  Yep, bar-hopping in robot taxis.  Otherwise known as self-driving cars. I know many of you out there wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole, and I have to say it all felt very Black Mirror. No driver, just a cheery robotic voice and some slightly questionable music selections. After failing to find a decent playlist, we landed on Disney Hits.  Circle of Life on repeat it is.  Slightly dystopian but oddly fun. And a great way to see a different side to San Francisco.

We didn’t plan every detail of our Guatemala trip, but one thing was certain: we were going to climb that volcano. Guatemala has 37 volcanoes in total, one of which (Fuego) is currently active and can be viewed in all its glory from climbing nearby Acatenango. ChatGPT gave Acatenango an enthusiastic thumbs up, and Trek Guatemala made it sound like more of an adventure than an ordeal. So there we were: rucksacks packed, boots laced, and mentally preparing ourselves for 13,000ft of what they described as a “moderate challenge.” Ha.

My rucksack was carefully packed with essential hiking layers – yes, including the woolly hat!, snacks, water, and a few non-negotiables: my teddy bear (don’t judge, he doesn’t weigh much) and a hip flask filled with rum (I said don’t judge!). I figured if we were going to spend the night halfway up a volcano, we might as well do it with some creature comforts.

The trail to Acatenango’s summit started innocently enough — a light breeze, some sunshine, and our cheerful Trek Guatemala guide giving us a pep talk: pace is everything at altitude. “We go slow,” he said seriously, “poco a poco.” “Got it!” I acknowledged. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s going slow. Cut to him fifteen minutes later, practically sprinting uphill like he was late for happy hour. I guess his idea of going slow isn’t quite the same as mine.

Acatenango is known for its four distinct ecosystems, each unfolding as you climb higher. It begins in agricultural lowlands, where neat fields of corn and coffee line the trail. Then comes the cloud forest – lush, green, and, true to its name, complete with clouds. As the trees thin out, you’re into high alpine scrubland, where the views start to open up and the air gets cooler. And finally, you reach the volcanic scree: stark, dramatic, and unmistakably close to the summit. The landscape changes constantly, which keeps things interesting. The one thing that doesn’t change? The steady upward climb.

But the trail has its own distractions. Like the dogs.

Yes, dogs plural. Apparently, half the street dogs in Antigua moonlight as mountain guides. They trotted alongside us with wagging tails and the effortless grace that comes with four legs and zero concern for altitude. We felt honored when one befriended us, tagging along for miles. Until it became clear he was only in it for the snacks. Turns out, he pulls that trick on everyone.

After climbing 4,000+ feet, we finally rolled into Basecamp – legs aching, lungs slightly offended, but spirits high. The views were already worth the effort. Time for a comforting cuppa, a quick lie down, and maybe a moment to wonder what we’d got ourselves into, with the push to the summit still ahead of us.

While most groups huddled in their tents to rest before a 4am summit climb, we had a cunning plan. Why sleep when you can summit now and avoid the silly o’clock start.

And so, leaving enough time to get up and back down again before dark, we began the final mile to the top. It was steep, loose, and punishing. At this point, it’s not even a trail. It’s just sandy scree and gravity working against you. The upside? Just us and our loyal canine companions. No crowds. No head torches. Just the dramatic black volcanic rock landscape, the neighboring Volcan de Fuego doing its thing, and the buzz of static electricity in the air. Literally—my hair was standing on end.

The way down was… somewhat less graceful. The trail had transformed into a volcanic sand pit, ankle-deep in pebbles with zero traction. I eventually surrendered and slid down on my bum, dignity be damned.

Back at Basecamp, we were greeted with a welcoming campfire and a warm bowl of hearty soup, followed by hot chocolate. The rum from my hip flask made a not insignificant contribution to its success.

Meanwhile, as darkness fell, the eruptions from Volcan de Fuego glowed against the night sky. What had been a hazy plume by daylight became a full-on fireworks show after sunset, to excited chants of ”Fuego, Fuego” from fellow hikers. It was both mesmerizing and a little unnerving. And I’m pretty sure it’s the closest we’ll ever get to an active volcano.

We collapsed into our glamping tent, which was, let’s be clear, more “rustic hiker chic” than “Instagram influencer.” But it had a mattress, sleeping bags, and a teddy bear for company.

The next morning, we were treated to a different kind of magic, as the sun crept up through a thick blanket of cloud.

All that remained was the long descent back to Antigua. What goes up must come down, and in this case, must also navigate steep dusty inclines and loose gravel. And just when we thought we were making good progress, the trail just kept on coming. Because apparently, 4,000 feet of descent is just as long as 4,000 feet of ascent, only harder on the knees.

Would we do it again? Maybe not tomorrow. But the views, the challenge, the ridiculous elevation gain, and the magic of a sunrise on a volcano above the clouds? That’s the kind of once-in-a-lifetime hike you remember long after the soreness has worn off. Just don’t forget the hip flask.

We didn’t plan to go to Guatemala. In fact, a few months ago, I might’ve struggled to find it on a map. But after Plan A (a Princess cruise to Mexico) fell through, followed swiftly by Plan B (Holland America Line cruise to Mexico) and then Plan C (flying to Mexico City), it became clear: Mexico just wasn’t happening this year.

Enter Darren and his new best friend, ChatGPT, who suggested Guatemala as a worthy alternative. A little research revealed options for hiking, biking, and a vibrant, friendly Latino culture. Right up our alley.

Most of our recent travels have been in the US. Now don’t get me wrong, we lurve traveling in the US. But there’s something just a touch more tantalizing about going international. Going rogue! The chance to immerse ourselves in a different culture, with new sights, sounds, smells, and experiences. Plus, we had to dust off our backpacks, which hadn’t seen the light of day in a good few years.

To avoid you also having to look it up: Guatemala is in Central America, right next to Mexico (as it happens), bordered by Belize, Honduras, and El Salvador.

After an overnight flight into Guatemala City, the smart move was to get the hell out of Guatemala City and head straight to Antigua, Guatemala — the place where the cool kids go. Not to be confused with Antigua and Barbuda in the Caribbean.

We eased into the Guatemalan culture gently: a nap, a walk to a viewpoint, and a rooftop brewery. Not a bad start.

We quickly fell in love with Antigua’s pastel-colored colonial buildings, its cosmopolitan vibe with al fresco coffee shops and bars, and its dramatic backdrop with three volcanoes. I especially loved the little ice cream carts in the main square, modeled after the colorful local ‘chicken buses.’

The chicken buses deserve a mention. These are vibrant, retrofitted American school buses decked out in chrome, with religious slogans and blaring music — each one with enough personality to rival a parade float. They’re the standard mode of transport for locals and a visual feast for visitors.

We embraced the local culture with a coffee-themed bike tour, starting with a ride through the streets of Antigua Guatemala. (I find the whole Antigua Guatemala thing a bit odd, like when Americans say Dallas, Texas or New York, New York—where it’s really not in any doubt which Dallas or New York you’re talking about. Henceforth, let it be called just Antigua, and I think we all know I’m referring to the one in Guatemala.)

The thing about Antigua is that the streets are cobbled. Quaint and charming that may be when you’re wandering around on foot. But it rises to a whole new level on two wheels. Every cobblestone becomes a mini speed bump, providing an unwelcome medieval massage and testing the integrity of your dental fillings.

Having survived the cobbles, we cycled through rustic villages and scenic countryside, past horses, dogs, and goats, to a coffee plantation on the lower slopes of Volcano Agua.

Surrounded by lush greenery in the plantation, we learned the life story of a coffee bean. Back at the family home, we helped turn the already shelled, fermented, and dried beans into a cup of the good stuff. We took turns roasting them over an open fire in a kitchen that looked like it time-traveled from the 1800s, then hand-ground them on a stone the couple had received as a wedding gift 25 years ago. By the time we brewed that coffee, we were spiritually bonded with it. No wonder it tasted so good.

After soaking up more of Antigua’s atmosphere, we took another (mercifully cobble-free) bike ride down to Panajachel on Lake Atitlán.

To reach Tzununa across Lake Atitlan, we had to cram into a small public boat with far too many people, most of whom had no concept of personal space, even if there had been any. The ride across the windiest lake ever was so bouncy I narrowly avoided biting my tongue clean off.

But it was worth it for a couple of truly relaxing, chilled-out days in a stunning setting. It’s times like these, you know you’re on holiday.

Guatemala wasn’t even on the cards earlier this year – but it turned out to be an awesome choice. Sometimes the best trips are the ones you never planned. And it’s not over yet – because there’s a volcano out there with our name on it.

After working our way back up the coast from Tarragona, Barcelona was all about reconnecting with Wayne and Judith for a few days of fun and laughter.  Oh and ham and sherry.  And flaming absinthe.  There’s so many good places to eat and drink in Barcelona, you really can’t go too far wrong.  (Except for the absinthe maybe).

As we’ve all done some of the sightseeing highlights of Barcelona before, we decided to venture out of town – on public transport no less.  We took the train about an hour out of the city to Lavern-Subirats, not even a village really, just a train platform and a bike hire shop.  Darren and Wayne went for mountain bikes, while Judith and I opted for the laid-back e-bike option.  Or so we thought.  It turned out to be the jerkiest, most temperamental e-bike  I’ve ever ridden.

I’d assumed the ride was going to be on meandering country lanes, but oh no, it was straight on to steep, windy gravel tracks with mud and ruts.  Proper full on mountain biking.  Darren and Wayne seemed to think it was nothing like full on mountain biking but what do they know.  There were a few shrieks and “what the holy %$#$” from the ladies as we negotiated the terrain.

Lovely countryside though, as our route took us past endless rows of vineyards and through quaint, picturesque villages.

And what better than to end up at a winery!  The sun was out, we had wine and snacks, and we breathed a sigh of relief that we’d made it in one piece.

The next day, we rented town bikes in Barcelona using an app called Donkey.  After a few false starts with bikes being zip tied together and flat tyres, we got on our way.  My bike was called ‘Falafel’ – cool little name but was anything but a cool little bike.  Still, we got to see a bit more of the city.

And just like that, it was time to ring in the new year.  Party hats and garlands galore! Somehow Darren and I just made it to midnight as we were flying the next day. Bring on 2025!

So our plans had changed when it turned out mum and dad unfortunately couldn’t make it out to Benidorm. Instead of flying home to California on New Year’s Day, we boarded a Vuelig flight to Manchester instead. We hired a teeny tiny Citroen C3 car as Plan A to get the train to Scarborough was no longer an option due to flooding.

Darren had excelled in finding an awesome Airbnb on North Marine Road, with a lovely outlook onto the north bay, and just a hop, step and a jump to mum and dad’s.

We got out and about a bit, checking out some of the old haunts around Scarborough, including Princess Cafe (who’d have thought my career would have both started and ended up (at least so far) at ’Princess’!).

We worked our way through a barrage of British gastronomic delights, from curries to Sunday roasts, fry ups to Wagamamas.

With a little time to spare at the weekend, we ventured to York to meet up with Wayne & Judith.

Woke up to snow!!! Very Christmassy 🙂

But what we really came home to Scarborough for, was to spend some quality time with mum and dad.

As there are no direct flights from LAX to Barcelona, we found ourselves stopping at Dublin airport en route to Spain, with a stopover just long enough to let the good things come to those who wait.

Our Barcelona arrival time late in the evening meant it wouldn’t be worth trying to do anything other than grab a bite to eat and collapse into bed at the airport hotel.  Top of mind: ham, cheese, bread and red wine.  Nothing fancy, we’re simple folk, easily pleased.  We needn’t have worried, an Enrique Tomas shop at the airport fitted the bill perfectly.  

We’d recently watched an Anthony Bourdain episode of No Reservations on the culinary delights of Catalonia.  We’d learned all about calcots, transforming the humble spring onion into both a delicacy and a feast.  And they were in season when we were visiting!  To be fair, these are not your bog standard spring onions.  Leek size jumbo spring onions, charred over an open flame, stripped with your your bare hands, dunked into romesco sauce and ceremoniously lowered into your open mouth for best effect.   Yes, they give you a bib!

After checking out a few Spanish villages along the way, our first evening destination was Zaragoza, renowned for its tapas bars.  

Driving inland, it doesn’t get more typically Spanish than Albarracin, in Aragon.  Pretty as a picture, this small medieval town of around 1,000 people is nestled within sandstone hills above the Guadalaviar River.   It looks like it belongs on a Game of Thrones film set.  

We had an Airbnb for a night within the old town, with great views over the town walls and surrounding scenery.  

Climbing the adjacent hillside gives even better views over the whole town, with the ruins of an alcazar, or Moorish castle dominating the cliff top.

Take a look on TripAdvisor for Albarracin and you’ll see that in addition to being one of the most beautiful towns in Spain, it is gastronomically renowned, with a number of highly rated restaurants for its size.  What they don’t tell you is that on a week day in the run up to Christmas, they’ll all be closed.  Not even one of those airport vending machines to be found.

Heading south to the coastal town of Denia, we had ourselves the gastronomic feast we’d been denied the day before, at D’excaro Ossadia.  From the initial dinner invitation made of tangy rice paper designed to be eaten to the multitude of petit four desserts, and all 15 or so courses in between, it really was a culinary experience.

And after the typically Spanish Spain of Albarracin, it doesn’t get more typically British Spain than Benidorm.  Or Brits abroad anyway.  Gotta love a bit of Benidorm, or Chavvy Benny as John calls it.  We didn’t even have fish and chips or a bacon butty.  But we did fit in a good old curry, a massive paella, as well as a delicious Christmas Day buffet at the hotel my sister, Denise was staying at.  

What a fantastic way to spend Christmas with family – Pat and John, Denise and the kids – lapping up the sunshine by the pool and stuffing our faces with tasty food and drink.  We called mum and dad on FaceTime (albeit the worse for wear – us, not them!) as unfortunately they weren’t able to join us.  So instead we’ll be joining them in Scarborough post-Spain celebrations.

Our Airbnb in Benidorm probably had one of the best views in the resort, just breathtaking.  And a great excuse to get everyone together for one last Christmas celebration.

The walk up to The Cross and out to El Torre Mirador made for more awesome views, which along with the Old Town, show you a different side to Benidorm.

Last up on this leg of the trip was tapas in Tarragona, before heading to Barcelona to celebrate the end of 2024 and ring in the New Year with Wayne and Judith.