4th March 2013

My body clock, still stubbornly stuck on UK time, decided that 5 a.m. was the perfect hour to wake me up. Back home, I’d probably have been pedalling furiously on the bike, but here I was wide awake in Rio, sulking at the ceiling. After a few futile attempts at drifting back off, I surrendered, grabbed my tablet, and finished the episode of The Walking Dead I’d abandoned the night before. Zombies at dawn, very civilised.

By 7:30 a.m., Sue and I were showered and presentable enough for breakfast. The spread was impressive: international delights ranging from banana bread (Sue’s choice) to my more traditional scrambled eggs, sausage, and the safety net of cereal.

The plan today was to conquer Sugar Loaf Mountain, which looked temptingly close. “We’ll walk it,” I declared, in my usual optimistic fashion. Fifteen minutes later, under a cloudless sky and a blazing sun, I began to regret not hiring a sherpa. We arrived just as a convoy of tour buses pulled up, so we legged it to the entrance and managed to beat the masses. Ten minutes of queuing later, and we were gliding upwards in the first cable car.

A tip I’d read suggested going straight to the top before working down, so like obedient tourists, we did just that. I filmed the whole ascent, of course, because who doesn’t want a shaky video of a view you could simply enjoy with your own eyes? Another short wait and we were on the second cable car, the scenery growing ever more jaw-dropping.

At the summit, we took a cliff path shaded by trees. Locals were jogging past, drenched in sweat and, quite frankly, madder than a box of frogs. Our pace was more… “British in the heat.” Then came the highlight: Capuchin monkeys. Dozens of them, happily accepting snacks from locals and entirely unfazed by our cameras. Up close, they looked enormous on screen, like furry little bouncers.

At one point, having picked up an annoying stone, I sat on a rock to de-sandal and discovered I wasn’t alone. A lone Capuchin appeared, parked itself beside my knee, and gave my sock a thorough inspection. Sarah would have adored it, until, of course, some clattering locals came charging down the path and scared it away. Timing, eh?

After our monkey encounter, we returned to ground level and rewarded ourselves with a paddle in the sea. Feet in the surf, sun on our backs… bliss. Across the cove we spied a restaurant, so we strolled over: a fresh coconut for Sue, and for me the largest, coldest beer they could muster. It was liquid perfection. As we sipped, we amused ourselves counting vultures circling the mountain and speculating whether they were waiting for unlucky climbers to tumble. A morbid but strangely fitting game.

The slog back to the hotel in the heat was softened by a detour into a gigantic shopping mall. Did we need anything? No. Was it air-conditioned? Absolutely yes. Priorities sorted.

Back at the hotel, after a restorative shower, we headed to Copacabana Beach for the afternoon. Sand between the toes, people-watching, the occasional splash in the sea, it all brought back memories of our kids when they were small, shrieking with laughter in the waves and generally causing seaside mayhem. Growing up, it seems, is optional, and I’m quite happy to opt out.

That said, Sue has informed me that tomorrow I must act my age. Why? Because I’ll be 60. Sixty! I feel about thirty, give or take. No doubt Sue will remind me, probably with a smirk and a present or two.

We rounded off the evening with a stroll back to the now-familiar mall (air-con sticks in the memory), where we shamefully opted for Italian food. In Brazil. I know. But at least we knew what we were getting, and after a day of monkeys, mountains, and vultures, predictability was rather comforting.