It´s inevitable that you´re going to finish any long trip with a few regrets - wishing you had visited somewhere, or not been quite so hungover doing such-and-such.
I´m happy to say there aren´t many things I feel we´ve missed out on but one thing had been bugging me since we left Chile.
As our bus pulled out of Pucon, giving us a last view of the beautiful, smoking, snow-capped peak of the volcano Villarica, I wished we´d bust our budget to climb it.
It´s not every day you get to peer into the steaming crater of an active volcano.
So, we saw our first destination in Colombia as offering a chance to make amends.
On a clear day, the peak of Volcan Puracé, which last blew in 1956, offers spectacular views of a chain of 40 other peaks from its altitude of 4,700m.
Apparently.
I say that because things did not quite go according to plan during our visit. They started badly when our bus left 40 minutes late from our base in the beautiful, white-washed colonial city of Popayan.
Arriving just after 9am, we struggled for 15 minutes to find a national park warden, only for him to then tell us that we would only just have time to make the four to five-hour ascent and get back for the bus home.
At least, he said, it was "perfect weather" to enjoy the sights.
We set off across the uneven rainy season paths, turned muddy by cattle, then climbed through grasses which looked remarkably similar to those you get on sand dunes.
We had probably been walking about an hour when, as the path began to climb more steeply, the clouds closed in and things started to look grim.
Our tempers freyed as we plunged ankle-deep into boggy patches and we were glad to see a gravel road winding up a steep slope.
However, the respite was brief.
As the landscape became more rocky, mist closed in and it started to rain.
It was difficult enough to see 20 yards in front without my glasses steaming up to boot.
Our hands became numb - my fingers retain a funny tingle to this day - and the One With The Common Sense complained her jaw had seized up in the cold. It didn´t stop her grumbling, mind.
For once, my beard came in handy and I didn´t suffer - I now see the logic of Chris Bonnington and Sir Ranulph Fiennes having facial fluff.
We plodded on miserably until the climb became really tough as, with each step, the tiny volcanic rocks slipped under our feet.
And when with only 15 minutes before the time we´d been advised to turn back I saw "1,500m" painted on a rock, my heart sank. We weren´t going to make it.
At this point, however, an American girl who had been walking behind declared she would walk to the top of the next ridge.
We decided to join her given that we did seem to be near enough the top and were amazed to find ourselves at the summit pretty quickly.
It turned out the sign had read "a 500m" - translating as "500m to go".
Buoyed though we were at reaching the top, there was no chance of us actually seeing anything.
If there was a steaming mass of molten rock, I couldn´t spot it for the mist.
And with the wind howling around us, we decided not to wait too long near the lip of the crater.
We made it back down in record time, although I almost came a cropper on the slopes a couple of times, and were happy to be at the bus stop with time to spare.
We talked of little else except the hot shower that was waiting to clean our stinking, muddy feet, back at our hostel.
When an hour passed and the bus failed to arrive, we weren´t too worried. Transport here would make First Great Western trains look timely.
However, when a collectivo - a big taxi which runs on fixed routes - came by and was too full to pick us up, we began to have our doubts.
A little girl who lived on the corner where we were waiting assured us that the bus would definitely come but, as darkness closed and the last remnants of the day´s heat disappeared, our spirits were pretty low.
We bought some sweet coffee from a kiosk run by the girl´s mum and - as she saw us shivering in the dark - she invited us in to stand next to her fire.
This is typical of the genuine welcome we received from people in Colombia.
When our wait hit the three-hour mark, we finally conceded defeat. Buses here aren´t like the 27 to Chalk Farm (although they can suffer as much congestion) and if there aren´t enough passengers to make the journey worth it - they simply don´t leave.
The three of us trudged back up the road to the national park, where there were some cabins to spend the night.
We were delighted to find the restaurant serving hot food with agua de panela - a warming drink made with unrefined sugar.
The only problem was, we didn´t have the cash to pay the $15 each to stay the night.
Thankfully, rather than throw us out in the cold, the warden agreed only to charge us for two people and we scraped together enough pesos to pay the bill.
The cabin was cold but with four thick blankets my feet were soon toasty - if still grubby - and we slept like logs until rising at 5am to get the bus.
Thankfully, it came.
Travelling north through South America, you notice how the appearance and character of people has changed.
Where Quechua and related cultures are prevalent in Bolivia and Peru, both Ecuador and Colombia have a much more American feel - at least in the parts we visited.
You spot fewer indigenous women wearing the intricate blouses, wide skirts and high hats of the Altiplano, while the Carribean influence is stronger, with many more black people.
One exception is the village of Silvia, about 60km outside Popayan.
There, once a week, mountain people come from the community of Guambia to trade goods at the market.
We heard it was a colourful occasion and so took the bumpy bus ride to the village. There, hundreds of Guambiano sat around the square.
The women wore long black skirts and blue shawls, while the men sported black woven vests, red and saffron scarves and blue, erm, skirts.
One guy started chatting to us and I asked him about his clothing. He said black represented the earth, blue, the sky, and red, the blood of the people.
I asked him about the skirt, comparing it to a Scottish kilt, but didn´t really get a clear answer.
He told us there were 30,000 Guambianos, including 10,000 living outside their home community, and that their children learned both Guambian and Spanish so they could continue the culture of a simple farming life.
It was good to chat to him for 15 minutes or so because we had decided against a tour of the village and, so I thought, this helped fill in our knowledge of the people.
However, he soon got the One With The Common Sense´s goat by starting on religion.
Inspired by an English missionary, this guy had become a pastor and was soon preaching about the evils of drinking and, erm, dancing.
The One With The Common Sense reckoned that God didn´t mind if we indulged in the occasional Friday night boogie but our new pal didn´t seem convinced.
Relations soured further when he began asking for money, firstly for his community, then for his church and then for himself.
If he had asked for that in the first place, he might have had more luck, particularly as we were saving the expense of a tour.
But you don´t cross the One With The Common Sense, then tell her a cock and bull story, and come out of it better off than you started.
He certainly wouldn´t have approved of our night out in Cali - the home of Colombian salsa, complete with its fleet footwork and raunchy hip gyrations.
Slick moves abound. Except, that is, when the One With The Common Sense and I strut our stuff on the dancefloor.
It took us long enough to work up the courage to try.
We had been to one bar where, bizarrely, they were showing cartoons and the Spanish version of Art Attack (sadly, minus camp Scouser Neil Buchanan) on a massive TV behind the dance floor.
Not finding this conducive to sultry moves, we were hauled into a dark tavern by a friendly man who then charged us an outrageous sum for a jug of beer.
We polished that off while admiring how couples rushed to the dancefloor to perform the sort of maneouvres that would make Ann Widdecombe wince, without even breaking sweat.
More Dutch courage was required and we ordered a slightly fairer priced rum and coke. Here, it´s served by plonking a bottle on your table next to a jug of icy cola and two little paper cups to measure out the spirits.
Mine were large ones.
Eventually, somewhere around 1am, we found our dancing feet and began what I remember thinking was an expert assortment of grinds, twirls and spins, all while holding hands.
I´m not sure how bad we looked but they probably didn´t notice our dancing. They were all ogling the sight of a pretty blonde (rare enough in these parts) dancing with someone who looked like a wino, wearing shorts and flip-flops. Classy.
We were feeling a touch ropey the next day, rising as we did at 5am for a 10-hour bus ride to Bogota.
Matters weren´t helped when we ordered a set menu at our lunch stop and my chicken soup had bits of lung, stomach and who knows what else in it.
Still, we made it without any vomiting incidents.
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