A great deal of nonsense has been written about travel, and today I intend to add to that.

My problem is not so much the subject of travel but which of my many adventures am I to recount? Am I to tell you about mud wrestling with the other Pythons in full drag in a pigsty on the Yorkshire moors? Or recount the day spent as a humble woodcutter’s wife with John Cleese dressed as Little Red Riding Hood in the forests outside Mad Ludwig’s castle in Bavaria? You see my dilemma: A significant number of my travels have involved dressing up, often in female clothing, and being, quite frankly, silly. That is why today I have decided to tell you the true story of my attempt to be the first Python to climb Mount Cleese in New Zealand.

John, on one of his tours down under, had reached the city of Palmerston North, in the southern part of the North Island, where he became so bored he publicly described it as “the suicide capital of New Zealand.” Hardly surprising, this upset the locals, and, in revenge, the local council decided to rename their rubbish dump after him. Quite a witty response, really. And so Mount Cleese was born.

In spring 2016, John and I were in New Zealand on the last leg of John Cleese and Eric Idle, Together Again at Last … for the Very First Time. We had already giggled our way around Australia and now were en route to Wellington for our last night. Learning that we would pass near this legendary site, I decided to find Mount Cleese and attempt a daytime assault. Sure, it was only 45 meters high, but this climb would be made by someone over the age of 70, without oxygen, without Sherpas, before lunch, without alcohol, and accompanied only by a blond female New Zealand driver called Sev. Time was short, and so was Sev. “Don’t mess about with Kiwis,” was her comment. But she was up for trying to film the climb so I could surprise John at our last show.