(G): Well, there’s been ups and there’s been downs, but it’s never been boring. We’ve been fantastically fortunate to have been able to take off for six months galavanting around world; see some breathtaking sights, survive some terrifying experiences, and meet some terrific people. And now it’s over. And it’s a strange feeling, because you kind of get used to travelling as a kind of way of life. Like that’s what you do. When someone asks you: “So, what do you do, Graham?” You want to say: “Me? Oh I just travel.” But it can’t be that way. Not forever, anyway. The harsh realities of life drag you back to work and mortgages and routine. Which is not a terrible thing because although it was an awesome once-in-a-lifetime experience, it was difficult at times too, and tiring, and we missed home, and friends, and family, and even work (a little bit).

So now we have to move on to the next ‘project’, whatever that maybe. And I think we probably deserve a holiday soon too. Not travelling though. A proper holiday.

And we’ve got the blog – a really pain in the ass sometimes, for sure – but great for us to look back on as well. So thank you to everyone who followed us and especially those brave souls who commented from time to time – it meant a lot knowing you were there.

Hasta luego.

(L): Here is where the travelling ends for us, and since we shall do little but relax in the sunshine for a few days here in BA, this is our last blog entry. It is a strange feeling. Since I was a youngster I have always wanted to travel ‘round-the-world’, and now I’ve done it. In many ways the experience has far exceeded my expectations, although sometimes it has been a rocky ride. I shall not miss writing the blog, I am a scientist and no word-smith, although it has kept my brain ticking over. Nonetheless, thanks to all of you who have been reading, it has motivated me often.

I can’t say that I have discovered anything about myself – in true traveller fashion – that I didn’t already know, I am much the same Lloydy as I was when I set out. Some things have been noteworthy, nonetheless; I hate humidity, unless I am doing nothing on a beach; I hate bugs; I *loathe* coaches; I am lazy, mostly, unless I have a challenge; I am very lucky to have a good job, some amazing friends and family, and to live in the UK – I missed you Blighty. I’ve also been reminded how much I love mountains, and lakes, and forests. And I love Graham. Even when he’s grumpy.

I suspect that the urge to travel has not been satiated forever, but for now, bring on those beans-on-toast…

i want a cabin in the woods

(G): There was a slight touch of chaos to our arrival in San Martín de los Andes today. It’s the last stop on the GAP Patagonia itinerary but there’s not really anything much to do here.

That’s not strictly true, of course – you can hike spectacular Mt Lanin but that takes two days and we only have one (way to go GAP planners), so we went into DIY overdrive and cornered some hapless national parks official and started badgering him about where to go and what to do. In a cruel twist of fate, however, Ricardo turned out to have much more stamina for the telling than we had for the listening. An hour later, after a bamboozling discourse on the trails, mountains, rivers and lakes of San Martín, we bade farewell to Ricardo with no clearer notion of what to do than when we arrived.

Then one bright spark suggested we hire a car for the day and spin ourselves around the famous Siete Lagos – plunging the group into logistical turmoil. “How far is it?” “Where can we hire a car?” “Do we need two cars, or just one?” “Can we go hiking as well?”

There’s a good reason these things are normally planned months in advance and it’s because any group of people larger than two seems to be chronically unable to agree on and execute a plan without a decisive organiser. It’s almost enough to make you wish you had a bossy teacher in the group. Almost.

(L): After almost three weeks travelling with the same seven people, it is a wonder that we are all getting on so amicably. As time in the same company passes, odd habits grow irritating and sometimes a little space is needed. So I confess that Danielle is really getting on my tits. In conversation, she never asks anyone else a question, and only ever talks about her and Dominic; Dominic this, Dominic that. Dominic is her boyfriend of several years, and I can tell you almost everything about him :/ in fact, I’m tempted to ask her how big his cock is, as that is probably just about the only piece of pointless information that she hasn’t imparted to her ever-patient audience.

Fortunately I have several equally irritating habits, that become apparent to anyone who is in my company long enough. Apart from being an opinionated, impatient control freak, I also have an automatic switch to turn my brain off at the socket and not listen to a word…

not the view from our room

(L): The Swiss have been regaling us with lusty stories of fondue parties. Fondue, of both the cheesy and broth variety, figures as a regular treat in the cabins of the Alps. Fortunately, the punishments for losing one’s bread in the pot have been moderated somewhat since the days of Asterix’s visit, and perpetrators are no longer thrown into the lake with weights tied to their feet. Although it is still regarded as a social faux pas of the highest order to display a lack of manual dexterity and accidentally leave ones crouton in the goo. (Although I can’t imagine how anyone who combines melted cheese with cherry liqueur can make judgements about social nicety.)

Having pondered the merits of fondue, and indeed raclette, we decided to patronise a Germanic-style restaurant this evening. All I can say is that there is a good reason that such restaurants are terribly difficult to find :/

(G): Personally, I think the idea of dipping fruit in melted chocolate is culinary genius and I won’t hear a word against it. Besides, Bariloche is supposed to be the chocolate capital of South America and even Richie can rustle up a passable fondue, right…?

Frozen margaritas on the other hand – pure evil. Deadly poisonous, but wickedly delicious alcoholic slush puppies. Thankfully I didn’t have quite as traumatic a reaction to last night’s booze-up as my toilet-bound friend. Nonetheless, I managed 0/1 of the day’s designated chores – namely to look for a replacement camera battery so we can give Laurie her monster machine back before one of us drops it and the world ends.

Now, because of my hangover sloth, we have a least another week of photography ‘tutorials’ to look forward to which I have neither the grace nor the patience to endure.

(G): Finally the bitter heartache of the Queenstown white-water rafting non-event has been eased. No one felt this pain more keenly, or more relished the idea of splashing around in an ice-cold mountain river than Adventure Boy Lloyd, who immediately upon stepping into the raft assumed the role of Vice-Captain.

“Let’s keep time. One. Two. One. Two.” Urged the new V-C

“Let’s not.” Countered the real Captain, pulling rank. “I’ll call the strokes. You listen.”

Then, to brighten up his little dejected face: “But you can go at the front, since you’re so keen.”

Order restored and morale recovered, we plunged headlong downstream into the churning, chalky-green river. It seemed like only a few exhilarating and turbulent minutes later the Captain was telling us we were approaching the final rapids and it just wouldn’t be rafting if we didn’t flip the boat. So, two seconds later I found myself flailing around under the water, wondering which was up and whether it would be an awfully long time before I could breathe again. Thankfully it wasn’t, and Paco was close at hand with his rescue kayak for me to grab on to.

It was awesome fun and all over much too soon, so we’ll just have to nip over to Queenstown to try it again.

(L): Keen! Keen? The captain moved me because my extensive rafting experience was obviously apparent in my oar-play (if that’s the technical term). And also perhaps because Michael the German, who started at the front, was the most hopeless oarsman one could imagine. Despite extensive tuition and encouragement, the poor chap appeared to be physically unable to lift the oar away from his body, let alone move it through the water.

It was a mixed blessing being at the front. Although I had a good view, this was often simply a drop of several metres into the hole (that *is* a technical term). And holes were bad; it was very difficult to keep stroke when the oar kept hitting air instead of water… and of course Paul and I, as the stroke setters, got the blame when it all went wrong. Nonetheless, we didn’t flip the raft at all during our decent through the rapids, which was a rafting first for me.

The deliberate flip of the raft at the end reminded me why flipping is to be avoided… It was a lovely sunny day though, so we all dried off and got warm pretty quickly, and wanted to do the whole thing again

(L): One fabulous thing about this Wild Patagonia tour is that all the coach travel is done during the day. Argentinean and Chilean coaches are extremely comfortable – infinitely preferable to their Brazilian counterparts – with substantially reclining seats, a toilet that doesn’t smell like a putrid sewer, seatbelts that work, and drivers that are only moderately life-endangering. Travel during the day means that the landscape can be enjoyed, I don’t get coach-sick (I can see the horizon), and sleeping is undertaken in a bed, in a horizontal position; exactly as it should be.

Thus, if one discounts the hair-raising blind-corner overtaking manoeuvres, today’s journey from Puerto Varas to Bariloche was thoroughly relaxing. And we got a sandwich. Brazil, you should be ashamed of yourself

(G): Yeah, it’s strange how something like coach travel can be hell on earth one time [link] and almost borderline enjoyable another. I had a good old laugh on our journey back into Argentina today, mainly because of the unexpectedly amusing entertainment.

Normally, I’d have made a swift grab for the iPod at the sight of the unpromising title screen for Aliens in the Attic but after three solid hours of full volume show tunes in the seat next to me, the poor battery had had enough.

Not such a bad thing as it turns out, because the movie quickly began to reveal a quirky humour that soon had me attracting mildly irritated glances from my fellow passengers with my over-enthusiastic lol-ing. Particularly when the hapless extra-terrestrial gets tangled in the kid’s slinky, which he takes to be a cunningly laid trap for alien invaders (you really had to be there, I guess…)

So, er, moving on. We’re in Bariloche [map] today – the heart of the beautiful Argentinean lake district, so no time for kid’s movies for now.

Don Silvio's steaks

(G): We hiked around Mt Osorno today, which is another classic Mt Doom-style dormant volcano, and then rewarded ourselves with a trip to Don Silvio’s estancia for dinner. Don Silvio is an ageing hippy beef farmer with a kind face and a jovial nature. He is a fervent environmentalist who laments the “death of the planet” and offers sanctuary to endangered native animals. His estancia is miles from town along an endless gravel track, and his hospitality is legendary.

Before dinner he took us round the farm to pet his cute little dwarf deer and then to see Ayene the majestic puma, which nuzzles up against him like a domestic cat. Ayene had recently been joined by a stroppy female companion who spat and hissed threateningly if the visitors got too close for comfort, and Don Silvio was hopeful that the two might one day get it on if Ayene could win her over. Ayene didn’t seem to think the chance of a sharp claw swipe to the nose was worth the risk of approaching the female and preferred the company of Don Silvio.

Dinner was out-of-this-world, but I’ll leave it to the boy to wax lyrical on his favourite subject.

(L): Indeed, it was unquestionably one of the most memorable steaks I have ever eaten. It could, quite literally, have been cut with a spoon, and it was cooked to perfection; salty, seared outside and soft bloody inside, mmm…

The evening was much more than the steak, however. Don Silvio was dressed as though for the stage, with a felt beret atop his long grey hair; baggy pantaloons; high leather boots; and a tatty green waistcoat. We could have been in a Mozart opera, with the aging Don lamenting the world in his gravel-ly baritone. He did indeed sing for us, with his talented son, Silvio, a student studying music in Santiago. The whole evening was surreal, but this only contributed to amplify the experience. We sat in the wooden gazebo, warmed by the roaring fire, listening to the rain beating on the roof, and we were hypnotised by the music, the food, and the wisdom of a remarkable man.

Scandi-Chilean roof-top spa

(L): The marvellous hotel room of Hotel Indigo, with picturesque views across the lake, was the perfect place for a lengthy lie-in and a lazy recovery day. We just about made it down in time for breakfast. Breakfast in South America is noteworthy in that it always features some form of cake. In fact in many of our hostalrias we have had a veritable Sunday-afternoon-at-the-Ritz selection; almost always monumentally sweet, and covered in dulce de leche, which is the toffee stuff made from condensed milk – used in Banofee pie. I’m afraid that I just can’t get terribly excited about cake for breakfast. ‘But why ever not!?’ our Argentinean/Chilean hosts proclaim, ‘it’s a lot better than your beans – who would ever want beans for breakfast?’ they grimace. Well, me, actually. Come to think of it, I haven’t had baked beans for 6 months! One of the many things I’m looking forward to enjoying upon our return. Along with proper tea, of course, proper crisps, real milk, coffee that doesn’t need twelve sugars to make it drinkable, and last but by no means least, a bloody good curry

(G): Aaaaaahhh…tea. How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways… Not to mention: loos you can flush toilet paper down rather than chucking it in a basket , fluffy bathmats, Calvin Klein pyjama bottoms, Hugo Boss aftershave, Hula Hoops, bacon rolls, Channel 4 News, rainy Sunday afternoon sex, hitting a backhand return of serve winner down the line, The 2Brewers etc. etc.

Happily, we had some of these lovely things at Hotel Indigo so it made for a very pleasant stay – even with the hangover. The hotel was a Torres del Paine achievement treat (any excuse), so we lolled around the funky Scandi-Chilean room gazing out the window occasionally to the fjord, flopping on the huge bed or standing under the thunderous waterfall shower. Then we had to leave to meet up with the others in Punto Arenas for our evening flight up to Puerto Varas.

Laurie was very pleased with herself, having given the owner of the other hotel – where the rest of the GAP crew spent the night – a good piece of her mind that morning about the shoddy service. I broadly agreed with her – the breakfasts were particularly crap – but I also get the impression Laurie just likes giving people a piece of her mind. Whether they deserve it or not.