We woke up in plenty of time to get ourselves ready for our excursion to Lake Atitlán today. Trying our best to be quiet we tip-toed out of the room and spoke in whispers. Then disaster struck.

The front door, or at least the inner iron gate to access the front door, was locked!

We couldn't get out!

I rattled it in frustration and hissed "FFS!" Our pick-up was due in 5 minutes. So with both hands I rattled it again in hope of magically unlocking it. I even gave it a kick.

At this point the receptionist appeared, stumbling out of her room, half asleep and having thrown on her clothes. Dazed and dishevelled she shuffled to another door we hadn't noticed, and simply opened it. It had one of those latch locks.

We apologised profusely for waking her up. She forced a smile and went back to bed.

We stood outside. It was still dark but dawn was fast approaching. We could see the silouhette of the Agua Volcano as we looked South.

It was a scene that reminded me of Pompeii, the cobbled streets, the stone houses with terracotta roof tiles and of course a brooding volcano. It was comforting to know that volcan de agua was considered extinct. 

Giovanni, our driver arrived on time. We jumped in the back and settled down to try to get some sleep. Today was going to be a very long day. Ahead of us was a three hour drive to Panajachel, on the shores of Lake Atitlán. We weren't due back to Antigua until 6pm. 

Fifteen minutes down the road we reached the Pan-Pacific Highway, heading West. Thankfully traffic was lighter at this time of the day than it was last night.

By now the sun had risen. We could see the twin peaks of Acatenango and the smoking Volcan de fuego with its constant plume of smoke, now a pink cloud reflecting the morning sun.  

We really didn't get much sleep because we were too busy looking out of the window. Every moment was exciting, always seeing something new, even the mundane was interesting.

Despite being at considerable altitude of around 1750 metres above sea level the landscape had been surprisingly flat for much of the first half hour as we drove across the plains beyond Chimaltenango. 

We continued towards Tecpán, a significant town in the country's history as it was Guatemala's first capital. Unfortunately the road bypassed the town and we saw none of it.

The scenery changed after Tecpán as we began to meander up into the mountains, a constant climb along the road cut into the rock. Thankfully the road was wide enough to pass any slow moving vehicle struggling with the gradient.

We ourselves were overtaken a few times, none more surpring than when a chicken bus went hurtling past us, taking the corner on two wheels! They do have a bad reputation for being involved in fatal accidents.    

After being on the road for over an hour we stopped at a roadside hotel called Chichoy. The timing couldn't have been better. I was starting to get very hungry for some breakfast.

It didn't look like much from the outside but the inside was built of wood in the style of an attractive Alpine lodge.

In the corner of the dining room fresh corn tortillas were being cooked on a large steel tray over a traditional charcoal oven.

It was fascinating to watch how she scooped out dough from tub with her hands and then flattened it out in the palm of her hands into a perfect circle before placing it on the hot surface of the steel tray. She then waited a minute before turning them over using her fingers to do so. No utensil in sight.

I ordered the Chapin, the traditional full Guatemalan breakast which consisted of scrambled eggs, some black beans, griddled plantain, chilli sauce and two corn torillas filled with cream cheese, like a breakfast quesadillas. I enjoyed every last bit.

Oddly enough, as it did yesterday, a complimentary quinoa pudding arrived. This time it was left on the table before I could say anything.

I hesitated, unsure what texture to expect. I can remember my mother making tapioca pudding, in the style of a traditional rice pudding (which she did really well), but those little pearls were bloated with the sweet and creamy milk giving it the consistency of frog spawn.

Despite my misgivings, eventually curiosity got the better of me and I tried it. Of course it was delicious but I was shocked by how much I liked it.  I even ate Julie's!

I certainly had my money's worth. Julie on the other hand hardly ate a thing.

Given her dislike of egg and beans, and the idea of a hot banana replused her, the other breakfast options were limited for her. She was left on her plate with a strong tasting chorizo style sausage, another thick dark looking sausage meat fritter thing, and a slab of a wet sour cheese, like an out-of-date feta.

At least she enjoyed the sweet and tangy freshly squeezed orange juice.

Back on the road we continuned our journey.  We still had over an hour to go before reaching Panajachel. The views along this stretch of the road were breathtaking.

As we got closer we were teased with a marvellous view of the three volcanoes Atitlán, Tolimán and San Pedro, but we could not see the lake. The morning mist had yet to rise. 

Three hours after leaving our hotel we finally rolled into the town of Panajachel, driving down Calle Santander lined with many colourful tiendas (stores) serving the local community. We parked up at the front where Giovanni, our driver, handed us over to David, our guide for the day.

We followed him through a small park down to the shoreline, to the many boats moored by a rickety wooden jetty. I had to stop several times on the way down to admire the view On the opposite side of the lake were the twin volcanoes of Tolimán, and Atitlán.

When we reached the boat were pleasantly surprised. Either I had booked a private tour, without realising it, or we just happened to be the only people who had turned up, but we were the only ones travelling with David today.

He introduced us to our captain Jorge, (Spanish for George but pronounced more like Horche, of course) as we set off on our journey across the lake. There were lifejackets onboard but David suggested we didn't need them as it was going to be a "gentle ride".  To be fair, the water was nice and calm.

"Perhaps on the way back" he suggested and motioned with his hands the boat slapping into some choppy waves. Julie and I turned to each other competing who could raise their eyebrows the most!

We sailed towards the perfectly formed conical Volcán San Pedro. It was here, right in the middle of the lake, where the rush of adventure hit me, and it felt awesome.

Captivated by the main attraction David steered our gaze away from the immense volcano to point out the towns of Tzununa and San Marco. "They are only accesible by boat." he said, but weren't going to visit them today.

Almost half an hour after leaving Panajachel we reached San Juan La Laguna, the first of three towns we were visiting on this trip. We arrived at the pier. The boat was bobbing up and down and it took considerable effort and skill to get off. To do it gracefully was impossible.

The next challenge for Julie was to walk along the jetty. Her knees were already weakened from the disembarking, she now had to walk along the platform with a few missing planks and no sides to stop her from falling off. Her sense of balance had deserted her. She felt like she was still on a boat!

"The water in the lake is rising" explained David "many houses on the front have gone under water now"  Although it appeared to be quite the opposite as we walked along the jetty over dry land for quite some distance.

The last section of the pier was lined with shops, on both sides, which made Julie feel more at ease. There was an instant buzz about the place.

Before long we came to land and a tarmac road. Here David explained the itinerary of what we were about to do in San Juan La Laguna which involved walking up the hill and back down again. "But first we visit a chocolate factory"

A minute later we stepped inside Xocolatl, a store selling all sorts of chocolate products 

We were greeted by a member of staff in a traditional Mayan dress with the exception of a brown chef's hat and the name Xocolatl Factory embroidered on the rim.

She began by giving us a little demonstration, opening a box and showing us the various stages of the cocoa bean, from the pulpy white seed, to them being roasted, not too disimilar to coffee bean. 

The roasted bean was then ground down using a traditional prestle of motar. We were given an opportunity to have a go. It actually began to look like chocolate. It was all very interesting.

The demonstration was followed swiftly with a tour of the store accompanied by our friendly demontstator. She showed us the varieties of chocolate bars from regular milk chocolate to 100% chocolate.  Yes, they actually had 100% chocolate!

Then came surprising cocoa products like shampoo, bars of soap, facial creams and other cosmetics. She must have heard all the excuses and before we could say "sorry, but we don't want to be carrying it around all day in the heat" she offered that our purchase could be kept behind the counter and collected later.

So an 80% chocolate bar was bought and left behind for safe keeping.

A little further up the hill we came across a quartet of percussionist, three of them were blind and playing the same very large wooden xylophone. Each knowing their place and the part they played. The fourth was on the rythm section with a drum and maracas. I had no coins to drop in their collection tin but when we came back I had made sure we had some loose change.

Their playful tune put a spring into our step as we marched up Calle de las Sombrillas.

The proper name for the street was Calle Chi Nima Ya' but is now more commonly known as the street of parasols because of the colourful parasols strung up overhead. They offered little in the way of shade but looked very pretty.

This alternative name mirrored what's happening back home where English nicknames are replacing ancient traditional Welsh names. The impact of tourists is a double-edged sword.

"This was a quiet place 10 years ago but it has become the most popular town to visit." said David describing what he called "the Instagram effect".

"It was always a colouful town of artisans but now it attracts more and more people" 

After a few minutes we had reached the top of the hill and the Plaza Principal where we stopped to catch our breath and for David to impart some facts and figures.

As we turned to look at the Catholic Church of San Juan La Laguna, he said "There has been a church here since 1787 but it was destroyed in an earthquake in 1902. It wasn't rebuilt until 1969."

"What we see today with the older facade dates is from that period but they demolished the rest of the old church to rebuild (again) to increase its capacity. It was only completed in 2015." he continued.

"This is the centre of San Juan. Nearby are three other villages of Palestine, Panyebar and Pasajquim. The people here are mostly Tz'utujiles or K'iche', all Mayan people."

Inside the church was draped in swaythes of purple fabric. Easter was still several weeks away but we were in the period of lent and building up to the Holy week or Semana Santa where they have a fabulous celebration.

We felt a little intrusive walking around the church. There was a family praying to the statue of St.John the Baptist. They all seemed distressed, some were in tears.

We left through a side door, following David as he talked about how the town was  changeing. "Many streets now have these decorations" he said poining to colourful ribbons rustling in the breeze above our heads. "There are also many paintings."

We hadn't seen a mural yet but he knew we would soon come across a few.

 The first was an incredible detailed mural on the walls of Comida y Restaurante La Cofradia.

The image on the left showed two local women, one stirring a very large cauldron, the other on bended knees, praying. Coloured maize hung from the roof. On the otherside a brightly dressed woman was drinking out of a traditional cup, one of many piled up in front of her.

Next to it was a handicraft store called Textil Arcoiris with a superb colourful mural. On one side was an image of a gentleman called Pedro Perez Mendoza with his dates of birth and death (he died in 2021 aged 98) and an array of tools in front of him. Behind him were several pieces of lacework.  There was also a Mayan glyph, its significance I've not yet decyphered.

Moving on we turned the corner and soon came to our next stop, Casa de Tejido, (or The Weaving House). It was run by a cooperative called Asociacion Kemo an all-female group of weavers.

We were given a demonstration how raw cotton was spun into thread, then dyed into vibrant colours and then how they use a backstrap loom to create intricate patterns found on the traditional dresses worn by Mayan women for centuries. 

The young girl who gave the demonstration wasn't very engaging. She had clearly memorised the script in English and spoke like she was reading out loud. It's strange how unatural that sounds, reading out loud as opposed to speaking freely.

However, she spoke clearly and we understood everything we needed to know about the weaving process. It made me realise that Julie and I should really be learning Spanish.

We had a look around the store. There wasn't anything we really wanted but felt like we should buy something, to at least contribute towards the collective. We have come to realise, especially since the pandemic, the importance of contributing to the local economy when you travel. Every little helps.

We left the weaving house with a few nick nacks and continued up the street towards what felt like the outskirts of San Juan, where we reached Mundo de Abejas Mayas, the world of Maya bees.

They found someone who spoke English to give us a brief talk about the bees and a tour of their hives. Jose stepped forward and first gave us a lesson on the anatomy of bees. 

They had several different types of bees on display, most of them stingless. 

"You learn something new every day" I said and today's nugget of information was that stingless bees exist!

Although, despite not having a stinger they could still give you a nasty bite if they had to, protecting their hive. They also prefer to live in the cavities of trees, for example.

The first variety he showed us was called Abeja Limoncillo, lemongrass bees. So called because of the flavour of their honey.

The bees were busy coming and going, collecting their pollen. Jose drew our attention to the gate keeper, a guard bee whose sole purpose what to check all who came in and ward off anything that didn't belong. 

Another variety, the Abeja Doncella, had created an entrance to their hive in the shape of a cornet, made from the same paper like material they create for their "combs". They had a black head with a golden body and legs and much smaller than the average bee we have at home. 

The Abeja Real looked more familiar to the bees we were used to in Europe, larger with black and yellow stripes. They were not native to Guatemala but brought over by the Spanish. The "real" of course meant "royal" in Spanish and not real bees.  

Moving away from the wooden beehives we came to nests built onto tree branches. The Congo Negro and the Talnete were small and black, looking more like flies than bees. Their black mass of nests are often found on the ground or even underground.

It was all very fascinating.

Before leaving we visited the shop where we taste a selection of honeys, including the Abeja Limoncillo, which did have a slight hint of lemon. Most had strong flavours, similar to manuka honey, almost medicinal. We did buy a small jar of the Abeja Real honey. Theirs was the sweetest and more familiar to our tastebuds.

We saw David sucking on something and it turned out to be sticks of honey, or to be more percise honey filled straw like tubes.  So we picked up a few of them also. Julie thought it would help with her tickly cough but she found it too sweet.

We left the world of Mayan bees behind and returned toward the centre of town, passing a few more paintings on the way. These were not murals but images of prominent people painted onto a board.  One was of Margarita Yojcom Gonzalez also known as Doña Lita a local midwife and heroine of San Juan La Laguna.

A different route down the hill took us along 5th Avenue or Calle de los Sombreros. Everywhere we looked was awash with bright colours, not just the hats above our heads but even the tarmac road surface had been painted. A man in a hat, coloutful shirt and trousers, and a pair of sandals stretched along a section.

There was also a 3D mural where a jungle scene with a parrot and a jaguar sticking out. I don't think there was any purpose to it, only to brighten up the street. 

"Hang on a minute" I blurted out as we passed a clothing shop. I had noticed a football shirt of the Guatemalan national team. Despite the Umbro badge it was obviously a fake, especially when I only paid £10 but I was so pleased!

I had looked in Mexico City and an official shirt of their national team was £120!

We walked down the street of parasols, stopping to give a donation to the blind musicians still playing the xylophone, and pick up our chocolate from behind the counter at Xocolatl.

At the jetty, a busy boat load of locals had just arrived which made walking down more of a challenge. We had to step aside, right onto the edge to allow them to pass. Julie was not happy. By the time they finished her knees had gone, hardly able to hold her up.

Somehow, although without grace or dignity, she got into the boat, ready to sail across to San Pedro.

It only took a few minutes. It literally was just around the corner, situated in a little bay. 

"San Pedro has always been popular" explained David "since the sixties when the hippies arrived. It has a bohemian reputation with plenty of hotels, bars and restaurants."

It was in a beautiful spot, in the shadow of the San Pedro volcano.

We pulled up at one of the many wooden piers in the bay. At first, stepping off and walking onto a beach, where a few kayaks were piled up, and a couple of tuk tuks waited in line, it felt less touristy than San Juan La Laguna.

However, the nearer we walked towards the centre of town that all changed. Along a street (either called Calle 8, or Calle del Embarcadero, I'm not too sure) were Reggae bars, Irish bars, restaurants, cafes, shops, literally one after the other. Plenty of places to occupy the visitor.

San Pedro is also known for its murals but we didn't see many. There was one interesting image of a farmer pulling up a plant. I knew it was the work of artist Ande Peren and called Jardinero but I'm not too sure what it represented. The farmer had a skeletal skull for a head, a beer bottle sticking out of his pocket and the bulb of the plant looked like a heart.

On a street corner David explained the next part of the itinerary involved walking up a steep hill and suggested that we either take a tuk tuk up or perhaps Julie could sit it out and wait for us. Which is what she decided.

So whilst Julie sat down outside Cafe Tz'utujil sipping a coke zero David and I began to march up the steep hill. It was a good workout to reach the top.  Along the way he pointed out a few signs written in hebrew on stores, a barbers, and kosher restaurant that serviced a sizeable Jewish community in San Pedro. There was even a synagogue here.

The main faith is of course still catholic. Once the hill began to level out we had reached Parque La Puerta Hermosa a neat and tidy green park in front of San Pedro's main catholic church. Another victim of the 1902 earthquake it was soon rebuilt.  

We walked past the "I 'heart' San Pedro" sign which no self respecting aspiring tourist destination would be without. Behind it was a colourful statue of who I assumed was San Pedro himself. Apparently the St. Peter in question was not the biblical figure but a local saint.

After a brief moment to catch our breath we were on the move again, scurrying down dark alleys and across a school playground with a basketball court popping out in a colourful local market. 

It was a genuine market serving the community not a tourist souvenir flea market.

It was especially a joy to witness local farmers selling their fruit and veg direct to the people. The produce looked incredibly fresh and good quality. "They were probably picked this morning" I said

"Or perhaps yesterday or a few days before at the most." replied David.

It's been like this here for centuries. Sadly in the UK we have lost this way of life. Now with the convenience of supermarkets we can, on any given day, buy a kilo of carrots costing only 69p plus half a kilo of carbon emissions per bag having been transported from Kenya!

It was gone midday and some stalls were winding down for the day but the market was still busy. I followed David, returning to the steep street, where I found walking down was more difficult than getting up, especially on the old knees.

We rejoined Julie who had been kept entertained by an incident between rival tuk tuk drivers. David had mentioned that they were more agressive here in San Pedro, for whatever reason. Julie had just witnessed a confrontation.

From Cafe Tz'utujil we continued down the hill towards the pontoon where Jorge was waiting with our boat. Julie stepped into the boat with relative ease this time.  "I'm getting better at this" she said with genuine surprise.

We set off towards our third and final town on the shores of the lake, the largest and more established town of Santiago de Atitlán. The journey took us about twenty minutes as we headed South towards the Tolimán and Atitlán volcanoes.

Along the way we passed local fishermen in their wooden canoes. At first I thought they were paddle-boarders because they were all rowing stanging up. 

We did see a few paddle boarders but there wasn't much watersports taking place on the lake, which I personally thought was a good thing. Although there was this one guy kite-surfing in the waters of the inlet that brought us to Santiago.

There were some expensive looking properties along this stretch of the lake.  "This is my home" said David. For a brief moment I thought he meant one of the million dollar houses but he meant Santiago. 

We arrived at David's hometown and immediately walked through a tourist market.

There wasn't any need to do so. We could have bypassed it. However he gave us the option to stop for lunch now, before we walk around Santiago, or walk first and eat later. It was almost 1pm and we were getting hungry. So lunch it was.

David agreed, adding "a walk later will help with digestion".

Right in the centre of the market was Restaurante Cafe Luna Azul, a very popular place where the tables and chairs were all colours of the rainbow.

We ordered our drinks. When my michelada arrived I was seriously impressed by its presentation! It came in a heavy thick glass, almost like a triffle bowl, which was almost completely covered in the chilli powder mix. A bottle of Gallo beer was held upside down in a tasty spiced tomato drink.  The best michelada so far!

The food arrived. Julie went for the grilled chicken which she managed to get the sauce served on the side, rice, fries & dip, guacamole & tortilla. What didn't belong on the plate was a side dish of carrots, broccoli and courgettes. 

I struggled to find a main dish that didn't contain meat so I opted for a few sides. A very plain quesadilla was tasty enough, the chips (fries) seasoned with paprika were nice, and the tortilla chips loaded with fresh and salsa and guacamole were delicious .

After we had eaten we went to use the facilities but they were out of order. Thankfully they had a solution. They handed over a token and told us to go next door to the public toilets. To be honest I was dreading it but they turned out to be very clean.

Ready for our tour of Santiago we rejoined David who was sat alone outisde the restaurant waiting patiently for us.

The main street, criss-crossed by a web of telephone cables and power lines, had moments where it impressed with old colonial style buildings complete with balconies & balustrades.

The Spanish established Santiago in 1524 but before that there was a town called Chuitinamit which was the capital of the Tz'utujil Mayan. In the Tz'utujil language, which is still spoken today by approximately 60,000 people in the region, Santiago is known today as Tz'ikin Jaay.

It wasn't long before we had reached a market set up in the central park where the abundance of fruit and veg was again a wonderful sight.

A traditionally dressed young girl came towards us carrying a small basket. She wore this wonderful red hat, with brightly coloured embroidery around the rim. Over her shoulders she had a scarf of black and white blocks and a band of red. Her tunic or huipil was also black and white with colourful embroidered birds and flowers. And her skirt was black and red stripes.

In her basket were these shiny fabric birds, that you could dangle off something, like a Christmas tree decoration. I'm not sure what purpose they served but they were pretty. The bird was bright green, red breasted, yellow beaked, long tailed, unmistakenly recognisable as a Resplendent Quetzal, the national bird of Guatemala.

The word respledent is not only an adjective but in this case it's also part of its name, differentating it from other Quetzals!

We couldn't refuse her poor little face looking at us, willing us to buy one. 

With a dangling Resplendent Quetzal in my pocket we continued on our way, reaching a large square in front of the Church of St. James the Apostle, or Iglesia de Santiago Apostol. An elderly lady sat on the steps of the memorial, a simple stone cross, in the centre of the square. She was also wearing the full k'apak traditional dress with the same style red hat worn by the little girl.

It is wonderful to see the traditional costume continuing from generation to generation but I wonder for how longer will it happen?   All the men have long given up their fancy pants. It's a very rare sighting indeed to see a resplendent male in full costume.

The original church of Santiago was built in 1547. A red and yellow flag flew from the bell tower, the colours of the Spanish flag. I don't know if it was a local flag or actually the Spanish flag?

"Would you like to go inside?" asked David. I nodded. 

An impressive semi-circle of steps delivered us up to the entrance. 

We waited whilst this woman was trying to shoo away a pair of stray dogs by waving her scarf at them. Her attempts were in vain. I shared a smile with her as she realsied I had noticed the dogs weren't paying any attention to her whatsoever.  

"Twenty" said Julie when we reached the top. She always counts steps. It's a thing she does.

Inside the church there was a large processional float, decked with fresh flowers and a statue of Jesus Christ carrying the cross, dominating the room. David asked around and apparently it was going to be carried out in a procession later today. It was a shame we couldn't hang around to watch it.  

We walked down one side, looking at a collection of statues clothed in colourful satin cloth, each represented a local saint. There was plenty more saints as we walked back up the other side.

Having done a full circle we came to a memorial to an American priest called Stanley Rother. His portrait hung above the marble plaque and to the side was a painted statue of him in his priestly robes and traditional Mayan scarf. In his left had he held a palm leaf and in his right some text in Spanish that said  "I am the Good Shepherd, the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep."

The memorial plaque quotes from the bible in Spanish "No hay amor mas grandre que este, dar la vida por sus amigos." or "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

Stanley Rother's support for the local population had made him an enemy of the state. He had beened warned that he was on a hit list of a death squad and on the 28th June 1981 he was shot, murdered in the church rectory where he lived. 

His killing was not the first and not the last to take place around this area.

Another plaque tells the sad story not only of his death but that of many others.

It said "Death threats, woundings, disappearances, assasinations became common place in Santiago at this time. This catholic church served as a refuge for many families who came here each night to sleep in the safety of the church."

A terrible civil war blighted this country for over 36 years. The plaque tells how ten men working in the fields were massacred by the military in 1980.

Then ten years later in 1990, another 13 people were gunned down by the military whilst protesting about an abduction. It's incredible to realise that the peace accord was only signed in 1996.

Stanley Rother was declared a martyr by the catholic church and then beaitfied. I'm not sure how Christian hierachy works.  I know he's not to be refered to as a saint but instead he can be called the Blessed Stanley Rother.

There were three laminated signs, in English, Spanish and Tz'utujil offering a prayer for his canonisation,  which would elevate him into sainthood.

"He was buried back home in Oklahoma, however his heart was removed and buried beneath the altar in this church." David informed us. It sounded gruesome yet is a common practice to keep a relic of someone so revered.  

We left the church and made our way back to the boat.

Along the way we were excited to have spotted the resplendent male Tz'utujil. He wore a black and white checked shirt, black and white striped three quarter length pantaloons and a sash scarf tied around his waist. It was all topped off with a wide brimmed cowboy hat. His only concession to modernity was a pair of comfy trainer shoes. 

He didn't appear to be wearing thr traditional clothes for any touristic novelty either. He had simply popped out to do some shopping. 

We followed David down a narrow sunless alleyway. "It's ok" he reassured us "I walk this way every morning". And in no time we had returned to the small tourist market by the pier.

Back in the boat we noticed two lifejackets waiting for us. The water was noticably different, the boat was bobbing about wildly. Two men tried to steady the boat for Julie to step on but the fear had gone straight to her knees. Julie could hardly stand up let alone step onto the boat. She practically crawled on to it.

With all dignity lost we put on our lifejacket and sat down in silence.

We set off towards Panajachel cutting across the middle of the lake where wind was really whipping up the waves. The local Maya speak of Xocomil, a wind that comes from the South, usually around midday, that carries away the sin. But if the wind arrives from the North they believe the lake's spirit wants to get rid of a bad person.

Jorge was in a rush as we sped across the lake, the boat cutting through the waves, slapping hard each time. Julie's nerves were being tested to breaking point.

By the time we reached the middle she was petrified, letting out screams of fright each time we hit a wave. David asked Jorge to slow down, but instead he stopped. We bobbed about, being tossed about by the waves, getting nowhere, which felt worse.

"No, no, carry on" shouted Julie.

Off we went again, slapping hard against the frequent waves. It wasn't pleasant but I was ok with it until we took a violent swerve to avoid something. I reached out to hold on tight, Julie let out another scream. She was absolutely terrified. I'd never seen her so scared.

Jorge quickly regained control and we continued our way to Panajachel. "It's ok, it is normal" said David in an attempt to calm us down. He then continued to recall a story about the day it wasn't ok, and he was working as the guide on board.

Julie politely but firmly asked him to stop talking about sinking boats.

Finally we could see Panajachel getting closer. The nearer we got the calmer the waters became. When we reached the shore Jorge decided to beach the boat, up againt the pier. 

With the boat perfectly still and Julie determined to get off as soon as possible she disembarked like a professional.

Safe on dry land she encouraged David to finish his story of when he refused to take a couple out onto the lake because of poor weather. However, they insisted that he took them. Concerned they would complain and that he would lose his job with the tour company, he gave into their pressure and agreed.

Apparently two boats sank that day and lives were lost.

Giovanni was waiting for us at the place he dropped us off this morning. Suffering a little (I think) from post traumatic stress we sat in the back and hardly said a word all the way back to Antigua.

Exhausted we both managed to get some shut eye as we drove along the Pan-American highway without stopping. 

The traffic was busier on this return leg but we didn't get caught in any congestion. In fact we made good time and were back at the hotel by 6pm.

It was dark when we arrived, as dark as it was when left at 6am this morning. I realised that we wouldn't have seen any of Antigua in the daylight. In hindsight an extra night here would have been a good idea.  

Tired and weary we decided to head straight out again, after a quick shower and costume change, in search of supper. 

We had decided on a recommended restaurant called Las Antorchas on 3a Avenida Sur, so we set off, following the familiar route, walking under the Arco de Santa Catalina, and down to the Central Park.

Unlike last night, this time we entered the leafy green space of the park and had a closer look at the Fountains of the Sirens. We had of course seen it before, but it was good to see it again.   

Originally installed in 1738 by Diego de Porres, an architect who was apparently inspired by the Fountain of Neptune in Bologna, the Fuente de las Sirenas was recreated in 1936 after it had been damaged beyond repair by a succession of earthquakes.

We found Las Antorchas housed inside an old colonial palacio. It was a pleasant evening so we sat outside in its pretty inner courtyard with a lovely little fountain in the middle. It had a wonderful relaxed atmosphere. We were seen to by waiter Jorge and waitress Marisol who were both very welcoming and attentive.

I didn't have much meat-free choice other than pasta, pizza or a veggie burger. They did a multi-vegetable topped pizza which they called the Ironman which caught by eye. Julie ordered the steak.

The first thing that arrived at the table however was our drinks. The Gallo beer didn't last long as I knocked it back in almost one go. I was so thirsty.

My pizza was fresh and tasty. I ate it all but the base was ridiculously thin, like a cracker. like the Huaraches I had in Mexico City. If they served this in Naples they would been laughed out of town.

Julie really enjoyed her steak, not because its was chargrilled over coals but because it was served with a jacket potato filled with cheese! It was possibly one of Julie's favourite meals!  

We paid our bill and returned to our hotel, passing through the park again, this time stopping to look at the stunning facade of the Catedral San Jose. Built originally in 1541 but rebuilt several times after numerous earthquakes. The facade we see today dates back to 1680 but its two bell towers were lost after a devastating earthquake in 1874. Many churches in Antigua were left in ruins in 1874.

We walked beneath the Arco de Santa Catalina for the last time reaching a small streetfood market that had popped up in the park in front of the Iglesia de la Merced.

My eyes widened as I had a good look around. Despite having only just eaten I was was excited to try something different. However, I left disappointed as I couldn't see anything that wasn't meat based.

Back in our room we packed our bags ready for a very early start tomorrow.  Lights out 10pm, with an alarm set for 3:30am. Let the real intrepid adventure begin!