Journey to the end of the world DAY 2

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MONDAY

Promising to return very soon, I reluctantly left Buenos Aires.
Twenty five hours and three buses later, Tom and I arrived in Bariloche, in the heart of the Argentine Lake District. The town, nestled in the foothills of the Andes, hosts spectacular scenary (one of the best views on the planet, according to the National Geographic). However, as I moved around the bus station, I could tell I wasn´t going to fit in. Bariloche´s residents and vistors epitomise the term "outdoorsy". Trekking poles and fleeces are a popular accessory, and nothing less than a hiking boot passes for footwear. Tom is, of course, in heaven, and within minutes was seeking out the most challenging hikes and beaming about "the great outdoors".

Our first night in the tent comfirmed my fears. Uncomfortable and freezing cold, I hardly slept, and even had a little cry. But, with a stubborness my Grandmother would have been proud of, I refused to relocate to a hostel, and instead treated myself to a sleeping bag upgrade. For the remaining three nights in the tent, I bedded down in duck-down, duvet-like luxory and, despite the wind and rain, was a much happier camper.

We camped on the banks of a river, in farmhouse garden that belonged to a man named Sebastian. We shared our living space with Sebastain´s young sons, seveal dogs and hundreds of geese and chickens, who pecked freely at our possessions (the chickens that is). The honking horns and screeching traffic of BA are behind us; the only sounds of a Bariloche night are the trickle of the river, the wind moving through the trees and the occasional soft cluck of a chicken.

After four nights, lots of rain and one mini-trek, we gratefully threw our soggy things in the boot of a rented car. I´d like to say we sped off into the susnset, but it was more of a tentative crawl, as we natvigated driving in reverse.

Today is Monday and we have now been crusing down Patagionia´s dusty and gravelly highways for two days. As bumpy as it is, Ruta 40 lives up to its mythical appeal. With good music, great company and amazing landscape - the road is an adventure.

With a view to re-connecting with my ancestors, we stopped earlier in the Welsh settlement of Gaiman. The residents have conserved the Welsh language, and as a result speak a wonderful Welsh sounding, sing-song Spanish. The town was bizarre but delightful - Welsh dragons and tea-houses on every corner.

And now, with bigger fish (well, whales) to fry, we are in Purto Madryn. We are lucky enough to be here in Orca season and tomorrow, at high tide, we hope to see one hunting. I've tried to convince Tom to lounge on the beach in a seal-skin, but he´s not having any of it....

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