Beaches from Brazil to Buenos Aires & Beyond

- Day 32/33? -

After 4 weeks travelling via coach in South America, we were ecstatic to be under our own steam and incredibly grateful to have won Coco and take her on the longest but not necessarily hottest date; circumnavigating New Zealand’s sub tropical north over 8 days and 1000Km. Although the mixed weather stifled some beach fun, we made the most of it and fell in love with her charms. Saying goodbye was tough but we know we’ll be back as we’ve only just scratched the service of our Kiwi affair.

Crossing the international dateline mid-air was a little mind-boggling. We touched down just 15 hours - but two dates later than we’d left Santiago. One thing was for sure, we needed some R & R. The second mind boggling moment of the day was meeting Coco. Having never been in a campervan before, Cass’ first thought was, with such a slim figure, where does Coco tuck away all her trimmings? But within moments we were whisked on a tour of the no-frills-spared lady in purple . Cass quickly came to the realisation that this week, she’d be sharing her man with a lady who was far better endowed than she. With SatNav poised, a digital camera at the ready, an iPad connected to on-board WIFI and a dressing up box, she was ready to roll. Ian was particularly impressed, given this was not his maiden voyage in a Jucy lady.

We had no set plans or destinations and decided to ‘do’ a brown sign a day. Aware this could not only throw up some beautiful sights, but some unusual ones too, we arrived at our first – The Honey Centre. It was incredible to see the bees busy at work making honey behind the safety of a perspex viewing pane. After tasting a variety of New Zealand’s finest honey, we drove away with a big pot of Manuka honey, famed for it’s antibiotic healing qualities.

Next was the Goat Island Marine Reserve. As Ian swam out amongst the inquisitive snapper fish in the (freezing) water, Cass lay out and applied SPF30 in the scorching heat. But within minutes, out of nowhere the sky blackened and there was a mass exodus from the beach, so we too scurried toward Coco, sensing impending doom. Just as we’d finished preparing lunch the heavens opened but we sat happy and dry, dining at Coco’s pop-up table.

A little further North after a frolic in Coco’s dressing up attire at the wild Pakiri beach, we got to our campsite Waipu cove cottages. Coco’s stove was fired up and we feasted on some hearty burgers, they too looked like Jucy provided them with the green avocado, red tomato and purple onion.

As darkness fell we got to experience another of Coco’s fab features; transformer style, the back seats folded out into a comfy double bed, complete with a fluffy duvet and pillows. Heaven.

- Day 34 -

With an early dawn rise to surreal silvery light, Cass whipped up our healthy breakfast of muesli and coffee. Prepared in Coco’s compact but fully fitted boot kitchen, we then scampered down to the beach to watch the sunrise and a paddle in the surprisingly warm sea.

Soon enough the morning dew burnt off and with the sun high overhead, we were easily tempted to check out today’s brown sign diversion at Whangarei falls. The gushing triple waterfall spills dramatically down a rocky 50ft drop and leads into a lush scenic forest walk. Taking advantage of the quiet clearing at the base, Cass re-enacted the Timotei shampoo advert, a classic 80s bit of cheese and an activity we’d joked with in Brazil’s many waterfalls.

The winding roads around the heads, although easy to drive in Coco’s nimble body, made us feel a bit queasy and so we were too easily convinced to explore the straighter tourist route out to Marsden point. Suffice to say the oil refinery discovery centre didn’t spark our imagination, so we instead headed out to Whale Bay after being recommended a safe parking spot by the great team at Dive! Tutukaka. They advised diving was off the agenda for the next few days due to impending storms, so we consoled ourselves on Whale Bay’s secluded tree fronded beach and tranquil lapping waves, complete with a backing beat of clicking cicadas.

Pulling into the panoramic view of the bay at Oakura Beach holiday park for sunset, we feasted on a tasty tuna niçoise before bedding down in Coco’s cosy interior.

- Day 35 -

Awaking to squally sullen skies, our plans for an early morning canoe trip were literally blasted out of the water. This weather called for breakfast in bed, and even grey skies couldn’t spoil the serene bay view from our bedside window.

We navigated the winding but scenic route to Russell, a quaint little town with a colourful history, and New Zealand’s first sea port and European settlement. Coco tightly hugged the roads, but she was clearly more used to it than us, as we had to invest in some motion sickness wristbands on our arrival!

We put Coco on the ferry to Paihia, and were lucky to have crossed the water at all, as we later found out all boats out around the Bay of Islands had been cancelled due to bad weather. Not allowing our spirits to be dampened, and determined to go on a boat, we boarded Shippey’s, a fish and chip restaurant in a dry docked old sail ship. Tucking into battered bluenose and chunky chips we were thankful for our timing as once again the heavens opened. Because of the rain, in hindsight we wished we’d also visited the Kawiti glow worm caves nearby.

Hihi, a small bay at the base of the peninsula was our final stop for the night. We arrived to bright skies; somehow it hadn’t even been raining here! A large group of ex-Hell’s Angels greeted us at the campsite, surrounded by hundreds of empty beer bottles and a boombox blaring old school rock anthems. Awesome. We cooked up some juicy green lipped mussels, cracked open a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and sauntered across the road with Coco’s wig & parasol to perch on driftwood and soak up the sunset over the bay.

- Day 36 -

The drum of heavy rain on Coco’s roof awoke us and we cautiously rolled back the curtains to reveal a grey sky, but this hadn’t deterred the campsite rockers who were up early and powering up to rock on – Ian hopes he has their energy when he becomes a grey nomad.

The sub tropical climate and shelter of the shower block had brought in some giant cicadas, and although slightly gross, they are incredible to see and listen to up close while they generate their booming clicks – although perhaps not what you want when taking a shower!

The last time Ian was in New Zealand a huge storm had prevented him from reaching Cape Reinga at the northern most tip. This time we pressed on upwards from Hihi with the land transforming into Africa-like open plains and with the weather clearing up, we had a lunchtime stop and skimmed stones at the breathtakingly prehistoric looking Henderson Bay.

The lighthouse and supposedly some incredible cliff top views called us to the end of the Cape but as we approached, ghostly fog poured in over the hilly terrain and we were guided blindly by Coco’s GPS. Not ones to be deterred we continued on and with comic results, trundling down the “scenic” path, only finding the lighthouse when we practically walked in to it. Even the bright yellow distance signpost pointed blankly in the mist, marking out world capitals and our former home London, some 19271 Km away.

Again it seems the Maori spirits didn’t want Ian to capture the crashing waves with his camera and so keeping our own spirits high, we headed back down the peninsula on the west coast to Te Paki and its giant sand dunes. Amazingly the sun burst through and energised us to take up the sand board challenge from the somewhat intense master of the dunes. After bartering a $20 fee for Cass and I to override his very clearly signed “NO SHARING” policy, we hit the slopes. Now Cass is a bit of a scaredy-cat and took on the baby slope with trepidation, digging her toes in to inch the board down, while Ian practised at full pelt before climbing the “PSYCHO” slope. On reflection, Ian should have perhaps examined what looked like soft shrubs more closely, because when he hit them at 30mph after plummeting down the practically vertical gradient, the barrel roll he had to do to almost avoid them scrapped his feet. He was luckier than the next challenger though who somersaulted, head over heels when he struck a root – ouch!  This didn’t deter either of the silly boys from a second attempt though, although not before a rest to explore the Sahara-esque untouched snaking dunes.

Our evening pitch at Waganer Houhora Heads holiday park provided some much needed relaxation as Coco’s Jucy charms earned us free use of the Jacuzzi spa. The sheltered bay composed of millions of crushed seashells, offered the perfect spot to stretch out in the heat, read and idly watch the fisherman cast out their lines.

- Day 37 -

Ninety Mile Beach beckoned as sunshine burst through the clouds for the first time in days! We turned onto a tree lined gravel road, bizarrely (and disturbingly) passing a dead horse in the middle of a roundabout. Luckily the breathtaking beach shunted this image from our minds; a beach so long it disappeared infinitely in both directions. It is hard therefore to believe the name is a misnomer, the beach is only 55 miles long and the name originated by misinterpretation by explorers. Golden sand, a gentle but continuous swell, and not a soul in sight… bliss. The best part was that you can drive on the beach! We gave Coco a short spin over the sand for a photo op, but we were slightly unnerved by the incoming tide, so parked her safely and returned to the shelter of the dunes to catch up on some rays and reading.

Reluctantly we left the beach and drove on to catch another ferry over the Hokianga Harbour. We stopped in Kohokoho village for a picnic on the pier and a browse in the local art gallery. Then to Opononi with it’s tale of Oro the friendly dolphin who made home in the estuary, becoming so tame the village children used to ride on its back! Our ‘brown sign of the day’ was Arai Te Uru. As you can see, the Maori name gave little away. It was to be the most stunning view on our trip so far. We trundled along the manicured path of the Southern headland to overlook the mouth of the estuary. Giant rolling sand dunes opposite created north headland, turquoise waters swirled beneath us and the prehistoric rocky coastline took our breath away. We weren’t the only ones who thought so; a photographer and couple were rehearsing their wedding photo shoot alongside us.

The scenery quickly changed as we drove the winding roads into the Waipoua Forest. We parked Coco and delved under the cool of the canopy; via a tropical pathway we reached the famously enormous Tāne Mahuta Kauri tree. Looking up we swayed in his presence, in awe of the height and thickness of his trunk. We eventually escaped to the safely of Coco, berating ourselves for our lack of insect repellent. Our campsite was also in the midst of the forest, so the bug situation did not improve. Attracted to Coco’s shiny bright lights, she turned into a bloody battleground as we spent most of the evening swatting mosquitoes who’d sneaked in before we shut the doors!

- Day 38 -

Although Coco’s camp stove can’t quite deliver a Michelin star meal, Cass and I are keen foodies, with Heston Blumenthal, the chef/scientist a big favourite after we enjoyed our anniversary at his restaurant Dinner back in London. Therefore when we heard his method to make the perfect boiled egg on a Daily Bacon podcast we’d downloaded via Coco’s Wifi, we tried it out on Coco’s camp stove. We can report that we were rewarded with delicious soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, a welcome change from muesli and a good start for the long day ahead.

Surviving on a drop of petrol out of the Kauri forest, we made it to the Katui Gas station before looking for surf at Bayyls beach. Sadly the blustery onshore wind was killing any possible swell and so we took in the view and greedily tucked in to some double chocolate cookies.

As we’d missed out sailing the bay of islands and with the weather report improving for the following days, we took the chance to cross back over to the eastern coast seeking advice at the excellent Whangarei tourist information centre. They booked us in for the Perfect Day experience for the following day to sail, snorkel and canoe at the Poor Knights islands before directing us to Ocean Beach to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. This wind-swept but magnificent stretch of sand has a decent surf break and also hosted a junior Ultimate Frisbee contest, keeping us entertained as we enjoyed our lunch.

Escaping the beach just before the heavens opened once again, we headed to the superb Tutukaka Holiday park, ideally placed right next to the marina and dive centre, ready for our following day’s aquatic expedition.

- Day 39 -

Bright sunshine awoke us, perfect weather for a boat trip out to the Poor Knights Islands! We eagerly ate our breakfast, in the company of two equally eager ducks waiting for handouts.

The cruise out took about 45 minutes and was pretty choppy (the motion sickness wristbands coming in handy once again!) but once we arrived the conditions were perfect. The calm, glassy aquamarine water was inviting for snorkelling in the shade and caves of the wild cliffs above. Cass (a wimp about cold water) sealed herself into a wetsuit, and Ian donned board shorts to really get in touch with nature! There was so much wildlife under the surface, dozens of species of fish large and small, colourful and camouflaged. They floated and darted beneath us, gathering in the shade, hunting and feeding in the jungles of seaweed. We were exceptionally lucky to see shoals of Starry Toado, a bright blue tropical fish. They arrive at the island on a tropical current, and only live a day or two each year because they’re so tasty, they get eaten by the Snapper, wiping them out. You’d think they’d learn to change course, but I guess none live to send back the message!

After a delicious lunch onboard, we did some paddle boarding and then kayaked into the echoey depths of the largest sea cave in the world, Rikoriko, which only recently became the resting place of a dead floating dead sperm whale. The boat cruised around the islands as the very entertaining skipper recounted the history and tales of the Poor Knights.

Back at base we enjoyed an ice-cold shandy at The Schooner Bar and the last few hours of sunshine before making our way for dinner at the Mac Brew Bar in in Takapuna. In the retro stylish but relaxed atmosphere, we tucked into some delicious scallops and king prawns, savouring our last night and New Zealand’s fantastic seafood.

As we crept back through the holiday park to awaken Coco it was dark, most happy campers were in the land of nod- but Ian nearly awoke them all with his scream as he gashed his toe open on a speed bump, which he insisted had come out of nowhere. Coco’s new role as a mobile hospital came into play as Cass patched him back together again.

- Day 40 -

“And now the end is near…and so I face…” blub blub blub. Our final day in Coco, our Jucy dream machine and Takapuna’s harbour view didn’t disappoint. The sun was up and blazing early and I jealously surveyed a sister of Coco’s parked up, their owner’s just about to begin their own Jucy adventure. Although they may have envied Coco, who cheekily shouts on her side “Don’t you wish your campa was free like me”!

Driving back through Auckland’s urban city felt strange after a week in the rural Northlands, but Coco easily fitted in, drawing admiring looks at her striking outfit. Saying adieu, not goodbye, as we know we’ll be back to see her again, we kept our teary farewell brief and kissed her goodbye. We then quickly popped by the fabulous looking and centrally located Jucy Hotel to see the one and only “Jucy Lucy” and give her the low down of our trip.

It feels like we’ve only just scratched the service of New Zealand’s magnificent scenery, and we are already eager to explore the South Island and take up the Jucy ski4free offer when we return in July.

Coco, you’ve been a dream date, and – no offence – a cheap one at that! xxx

- By Cass & Ian

- Day 31 -

Not a lot happened in Santiago on Day 31.

Pisco Sours followed by several long neck beers the previous night took their toll - we’re not getting any younger - so we took the “opportunity” to relax in the hostel’s roof garden and catch up on our blog before succumbing to a healthy burger to shake it off.

We were very glad to have saved our last Chilean pesos for a taxi to the airport rather than navigating the bus and underground again, and as we took in the panoramic mountain view and waved goodbye to South America, we reflected on all it’s marvels. Incredible varied natural beauty, delicious food and wine and some very special beaches.

Now for Australasia… I’ve seen it before but I’m sure Cass’ artistic eye will bring new things into view.

- By Ian

-Day 30-

We made a final descent on a Valparaiso ‘ascensor’ and got on our very last bus journey through South America, sob sob! A couple of hours later we were in Santiago. The first thing that struck us was how modern, new and shiny the city was in comparison to the other South American cities we’d been through. Encompassed on all sides by towering mountains, every surface looked considered, polished & manicured, although we were later told there are older parts of the city which don’t have quite the same allure. The natural bowl shaped landscape means the city acts as an inescapable trough for stagnant pollution; apparently the general rule of thumb is the more money you have, the higher up you live because the air is much cleaner at higher altitudes.

We checked into our hostel in a trendy part of town known for its’ nightlife, BellaVista. Passing boutiques, burger bars and fresh fruit juice vendors, we were surprised at the number of city workers rushing around in the blistering heat wearing suits. Moving to Australia, this is something we would need to acclimatise to! Craving some greens (and a beer) we grabbed an artichoke and prosciutto salad nearby.

We were unfazed to stumble across a plethora of artisanal market stalls next door, but thought we’d continue the eternal search for the perfect pair of earrings (by the way, these earrings are purely an image in my head, they probably don’t even exist, and if they do we’d be unlikely to find them for a fiver in a market.) But we went in anyway. I do think we’ve encountered more artisanal markets than dodgy toilets in the last month, and that’s saying something. But this market actually had a really lovely selection of jewellery, and although they were made with cheap materials, I was pretty chuffed with the two jangly pairs of earrings I got for £2. They were not ‘the ones’, but they could keep my lobes pretty till pigs fly.

We’d planned to meet up with Sophie and Kieran that evening, friends of my old friend Aurelie back in London. They too had taken the plunge and moved to the other side of the world. They had just arrived in Santiago a couple of weeks prior, but had already landed themselves jobs and were in the midst of flat hunting. Santiago may not be Sydney, but it made me realise we weren’t the only people doing something so nutty, and gave me hope for the future! They were taking us for a surprise… we slid into an elevator, then into a second, as our ears popped and we rose to the W hotel rooftop bar on the 27th floor. The doors opened and we fell out into tanned fashionistas poolside soaking up the last few rays of the day. I scolded myself for my creased backpacking wardrobe, at this present moment it didn’t feel like we were ‘flash-packing” as we’d joked earlier. We settled into a white leather lounger and our waitress brought over some Pisco sour cocktails. We caught up and exchanged stories of our travels, as the Pisco went straight to our heads! We admired the astounding views over the city, and it felt as if we were parallel with the mountain tops as the city’s lights began to flicker awake beneath us.

Wobbling back to the elevator, Sophie and Kieran took us out for the best pizza we’d had in South America. Ok, the pizza we’d had in Montevideo was good, but it was on doughy focaccia - this was thin, wood fired crispy, and all topping. Inside were vibrant turquoise and red walls, and we sat in a breezy canopied garden out front. The entertainment was an unexpected “bonus”, as a woman accompanied by a portable karaoke box and children jingled around the perimeter. We felt obliged to give her money, if only to encourage her to move on to the some other unsuspecting diners.

Fuelled up with pizza and beer we returned to the W for a few more cocktails, this time lounging on a big white bed, and scolding myself for not having brought something warmer to wear. As the DJ cranked up the pop music and an influx of high heels arrived to eye up the well heeled, we made our exit. Kieran was keen for a night out on the town, and we were keen to see BellaVista in action, so we grabbed a cab to a different world. The three of us resisted Keiran’s begging pleas to go into a caged karaoke club. We all saw it doubled as a male strip club and heard the girl’s shrieks from within, but he’d thought it would be fun. We did not concur, and after a thorough exploration of the area, settled for a curb side table to have a beer and watch the (drunken) world go by. We continued onto another bar afterward, and things get a bit hazy from there… but I do remember two things. One, I smoked a lot of cigarettes for the first time in a month. Bad. Two, I remember seeing a guy enter the bar with an enormous model of a boat with sails and everything. Somehow, he sold it to people at the table beside us. It could have easily been to us because anything seemed like a good idea by that point. Luckily Keiran hadn’t seized the moment to suggest we return to the karaoke strip joint, or this blog entry would not end here.

- By Cass

- Day 29 -

After a quick change over from our twin single room to a more comfortable ensuite double in the Casa Kultour, we headed down the hill via our Southwalk made ascensor and caught a local bus for a day-trip to Valparaiso’s prettier seaside sister, Vina del Mar; the garden city. Although we’d caught a glimpse of the Pacific at the port yesterday, I was keen to complete our coast to coast voyage with a swim in the ocean, although I can’t claim I completed any strokes.

Our genial host at the Casa Kultour had told us there was a great exhibition on Easter island in Vina, and as the mysterious Chilean island is surprisingly still some six hours by flight away, we thought this might be the closest we ever come. Housed in an old colonial building, the natural history museum sports a 10 ft Moai statue, one of only two not on Easter island; the other as with many “recovered” antiquities is in the British Musuem and is even larger. Standing guard outside, it’s wide forehead and nose shade its uncarved eyes, which solemnly survey the small block of surrounding gardens. Though the museum is well designed to investigate, we were incredibly grateful to Diego, a young English speaking student who worked there and offered up a free tour of the Easter island section that was only in Spanish. He brought the exhibition to life, explaining the meaning of the carvings and how incredible it was that the largest Moai, weighing many tonnes, were constructed of two types of volcanic rock, carved and then hauled into place to protect the island from evil. It was from within though that the islanders’ civilisation was toppled. The increasing decadence of the ruling kings led to their undoing, with many Maoi statues overturned or destroyed by a people fearing starvation on the inhospitable island.

Museums always build up a hunger in me and so we were also glad of a recommendation for empanadas, conveniently located on our stroll to the beach. These were much more like Cornish pasties than others in South America, and although the spiced chicken with chilli (confusingly called aiji in Chile) was delicious, I nearly cauterised my tongue and singed my flipflopped feet on the piping hot sauce. Striding down the promenade and dodging the crashing swell against the protective boulders, we reached Vina’s attractive main beach, completely occupied with families on the sand. Large signs strangely indicated no swimming and then we realised why - the swell further up had not dissipated and enormous waves lept up 12ft close to shore, dumping on the sand with a tremendous crash, annihilating anything in their path. A few kids towards the decaying pier braved it, playing dare on how deeply they would go, but soon enough jet skiing life guards deeper out shouted them back on megaphones before zipping off with a pack of dogs pursuing, parallel on the beach.

Sporting a topped up tan and ignoring the less flattering reviews on TripAdvisor, we hit Allegretto, a snug little pizzeria a lazy stroll from the hostel. Served up on a wooden platter and washed down with a full bodied Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon, the delicious thin crust pizza with ample toppings of salami, garlic, olives and fresh avocado proved a simple but tasty treat for our penultimate South American cena.

- By Ian -

-Day 28-

Bleary eyed we awoke to a dark early morning in Valparaiso and caught a taxi up the hills of the town to our B&B. The taxi driver assured us that we were in the right place, although nothing about the steep blocked off alleyway looked very right at all. We paid our fare and tentatively toed our way through the dark down the stairs to find Casa Kultour.

We were met by locked gates and dark windows, but after ringing the bell a few times to no avail I was still relatively unconcerned, the seagulls were squawking and soon it would be light and they’d let us in. We huddled on the front step and tried to keep warm until someone in the B&B awoke or arrived, and within half an hour someone turned up the street. The closer he got, the clearer it became that this dude was not the hotelier, he was about 17. The grubby flip flopped feet should have given it away, and then he stopped in front of us and spoke Spanish. Ian being more trusting than I leant forward to try and correspond with him, but soon enough it became clear he was not after a conversation, but rather something out of our pockets. At this point I cursed having given up smoking as one, or twenty may have appeased him, but we had neither these, nor small change, but did have EVERYTHING we owned in the bags at our feet… and then it dawned on us that we were about to get mugged. As he became more persistent, edging closer and eyeing up our bags, Ian stalled him and I went mental ringing the doorbell and trying to wake up the street. Making enough of a racket eventually scared him off, and a hostel nearby was kind enough to let us kip in their communal room until it got light.

Once Casa Kultour opened it more than redeemed our unfortunate start to the day. With a quaint cottagey feel it was decorated in bright crocheted flowers hand made by the house keeper, and vintage chocolate and milk Nestlé posters adorning the walls. We set out immediately to enjoy the sunshine and meandered around the famous ‘cerros’ hills. Every winding turn revealed a colourful street, scattered with graffiti, boutiques and bistros. And yes, more artisanal shops, where we both picked out some handmade copper jewelry. Busking musicians created the perfect soundtrack to frame the steep but stunning views to the ocean below.

Traveling down to the sea level part of the town involves either going down hundreds of steep stairs, or boarding an ‘ascensor’. In most places, this would be a lift/elevator, but this was a fusion of a streetcar trolley with the aforementioned, and had me scared sh*tless! Two wooden boxes traveling in opposite directions on pulleys on metal rails, these things are manually operated and practically hand pulled. Funnily enough the ascensor parts were made in Southwark, London - perhaps I should have felt in safer hands, and maybe I did until I saw they were made in 1887…

The lower town of Valparaiso was a different experience altogether, and perhaps the reason behind some of the more unsavory reviews we’d read. We went hunting for the old fish market, but the only fishy thing we found was a derelict building and homeless drunks sprawled out amongst rubbish on street corners. Feeling a little vulnerable and very touristy all of a sudden, we quickly turned on our heel and returned to the main square overlooking the port, flanked in pretty buildings and statues. We watched giant pelican diving to catch fish amongst the tug and tourist boats, dwarfed by the giant naval vessels which tourists are banned from photographing for security reasons.

Up the ascensor (scary as it was, there was NO way I was climbing those stairs instead) we retreated to the cosy colourful streets of our cerros for a drink and a relaxing game of cards at The Brighton hotel as the sun set.

Supper became quite an unexpected event, and a pleasant one at that! Many of the restaurants that were highly rated on Tripadvisor were closed that evening, and as we walked around to choose somewhere to eat we were lassoed by Claudio and ushered into restaurant Paparazzo. With a name like that, it’s somewhere we’d normally not consider, but Claudio was quick to convince and we were given a fantastic seat by the window. Over an ice cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc we salivated over the menu and devoured a sea bass cevice amuse bouche, then settled on sea bream with gnocchi and fresh octopus for main course. We tipsily headed back to our hotel, key in hand, we weren’t sleeping rough tonight!

- By Cass

- Day 27 -

Although tipsily galloping along the beach in Uruguay had been incredible fun, boy did we suffer the next day from sore thighs. Getting back in the saddle and recreating our first Valentine’s day on horseback, two years previous, in London’s Richmond park, may therefore not have been the best idea. The spectacular views Uspallata offered though, paid off, but we felt sorry for the horses heaving our gourmand lumps in the heat.

Wisely choosing the half day ride to save our rumps, Damian, the young gaucho arrived early and we quickly inhaled our dulche de leche breakfast before being led to our steeds. Being proportional to our height, rather than our skill, I was somewhat perturbed mounting a huge stallion which towered over Cass’ pony sized mare. Diego assured us they were well seasoned though and would happily carry us on the trek to the Copper mines. What we hadn’t appreciated was how steep the assent was going to be. Climbing quickly but steadily up the ochre coloured earth out of the lush farm plain, we negotiated standing armies of giant cacti that added to the wild west feel of riding in the dry heat. The horses coped amazingly, with the deep sheep skin saddle absorbing the bumpy terrain. At several points though with the slope near vertical, Cass’ horse resisted and had to be coaxed up with Diego’s clicks, while my own took a breather and I rubbed his sweating muscular neck.

At the summit of the hilly outcrop though we were afforded a panoramic view of the Uspallata plain stretching out to the foot of the Andes. Too cool to harvest grapes for winemaking as in Mendoza, though rarely seeing snow, the farmers specialise in more hardy produce. Filling the land with emerald green in contrast to the harsh copper stained soil, all life is supported by the continuous glacial water flowing down from Aconcagua that we’d seen the previous day. Pausing to explore an abandoned copper mine tunnel, on our emergence in to the unrelenting sun, we bumped into some Argentine girls who we had met over dinner at the hostel and who worked for Green Peace. They had walked the route and looked pretty shattered so we were glad to once again mount up for the descent. Thankfully the return road was a much gentler, though less scenic. I felt sorry for the horses though, who must realise this path is available rather than the other steep climb and curse lazy tourists such as us under their whinnies. Circling round the back of the hostel via a bubbling stream, they lapped up a well earned drink before we jumped down, feeling a little roasted and ready for lunch.

Soaking up the hostel’s isolated charms by sharing a hammock in the garden and reading, we were pestered by the coy playfulness of the youngest labrador, who would implore us to play fetch with a rock. However, it didn’t seem he was too familiar with the rules as although he jabbed us with the rock in his jaws, he only reluctantly let it go and was easily fooled by my dummy empty throws.

Escaping washing dishes and making beds to pay for the hostel when we realised they didn’t accept MasterCard, the friendly assistant dropped us in town instead to use the ATM and pay. This gave us time to enjoy a final Argentine steak and glass of malbec at the El Rancho where we’d visited two days before. Although not the most salubrious of restaurants, with a vicious fly catcher buzzing like an electric chair overhead, the steak was consistently good and drew admiration from the table of sunburnt mountaineers who were just about to settle in to their well earned dinner.

Grabbing a final beer in the Tibet bar to sedate us for the overnight bus to Chile, we then almost missed it! Incredibly we were rescued by an unknown women who appeared in the parking area and ushered us to the front of the station as the bus would do a pit stop for us on the main road. We had thought as in the border crossing from Brazil to Uruguay the passing into Chile would be a formality. We were wrong. The abrupt wake up at 2am, out of my cosseted sleep induced by a full belly of steak, sedated with beer and wine and secured with ear plugs and eye mask, felt particularly unpleasant. Through groggy consciousness, we plodded to the dual passport stamp lines - Argentina Out, Chile In - inexplicably taking far too long at this wretched hour before we had our bags sniffed for fruit and could be on our way. We really hoped Valparaiso in Chile looked better in the morning as our Valentines day cheer had faded in the cold Andean night.

- By Ian

-Day 26-

It wasn’t the greatest idea to read a book about a woman who’d traveled to Tibet and suffered altitude sickness just days before today’s outing. We were about to ascend 4200 meters above sea level to the site of Cristo Redentor, where Argentine and Chilean soil meet.

We took a private bus so we could see several sites in a day, and it paid off. Over four hours we watched the mountains grow from already impressive to astronomically astounding, changing colour from rust to charcoal and everything in-between. We took the smooth concrete road beneath our bottoms for granted, until we took a turn onto the bumpy old route 7. Once upon a time, not even long ago, it had been the only passage from Argentina to Chile through the Andes mountains. It ran alongside the now also defunct Transandine railway, both tracks dwarfed by their surroundings and prone to landslides, flooding, and avalanches in winter. After a repeated battering, eventually both became casualties of the elements, and a more modern road was built alongside, but teetering on cliff sides the narrow passes, bridges and tunnels are still visible today.

We stopped at an old bridge & battle site called Puente Colonial de Picheuta which is miraculously still standing, and continued our ascent to Christo Redentor- our second Christ the Redeemer ‘viewing’ in South America. We were blessed with crystal clear blue skies and were lucky to see the snow capped peak of Aconagua, the highest peak in the western hemisphere! It is 7000 meters above sea level, and takes two weeks and £5000 to climb it (including all your food, a bargain we were informed!)

The climb up to Cristo was not one for the faint hearted. I’m not sure anybody was at all reassured that Christ was looking down on us (he was actually checking out the awesome views over Chile instead). Our ears popped during the rapid ascent, our tyres rolling just centimetres from the edge of the track which gave way to a sheer drop & a red dusty death.

All was forgotten however when we peaked the mountain at Cristo’s feet. The initial shock of the cold temperature and high speed winds wore off as we soaked in the view. It was almost impossible to comprehend the scale of our surroundings. Aconcagua and it’s glaciers loomed above us glistening in the sunshine, and mountains stretched into the horizon on all sides. Jaws dropped, skin numb and ear drums assaulted by howling winds, we bundled back into the minibus thirty minutes later and descended the mountain. Surprisingly the incline on the descent was a lot more stomach churning than the climb had been!

Soon we arrived at Punta del Inca. Deceptively named, this is not a bridge built by the Incas, but was first used by them. It is thought to have naturally formed in layers during the ice age, the natural hot spring beneath it forming a passage underneath turning it into a bridge. On arrival we meandered through market stalls, vendors selling their wares and usual trinkets. We were however mystified by an array of trainers and bottles that looked like they’d been involved in a chicken escalope recipe. Several strides closer, and we saw the whole area looked like it had been dipped in glue and then coated with sand. Every surface was coated in these rust coloured deposits, which we learned actually form naturally from sulphides, calcium and other minerals in the hot spring water. So rich are they, that once upon a time a hotel and spa was built here for its’ guests to take advantage of. Sadly, as with numerous destinations in this area, these were flattened by an avalanche, though miraculously the small church sitting adjacent to the hotel remained untouched. Cristo must have been looking in this direction on that day.

-By Cass

- Day 25 -

In one of life’s strange coincidences, our next destination, Uspallata, turned out to be where they filmed “Seven years in Tibet”. Being on the Andean edge of Argentina would make that strange enough, but I had spent the previous week reading Cass’ copy of “For Tibet With Love” by Isabelle Losada after running out of novels to keep me entertained on 14 hour bus journeys. The fun and informative book is about an English women from Battersea trying to prove that one person can make a difference and culminating in her meeting the Dalai Lama. With the chance alignment of the film, the book and our location, it felt His Holiness was calling us on our road trip through South America!

To say our hostel was in the middle of nowhere doesn’t really do it justice. We had taken the coach for 2 hours from Mendoza to Uspallata but had been told to tell the bus driver to stop at the Hostel Internacional. Tripadvisor described it to be in a beautiful rural location outside the town and as we were dropped at the side of the road, towering copper mountains above, we were a little nervous of its isolation. The friendly owner and his pack of slobbering Labradors soon made us feel welcome though, and the smell of an entire beef flank roasting on the BBQ distracted my attention.

Wanting to take it easy, we decided on a stroll into town along the old tree lined road, passing idyllic farm land and paddocks of horses that Cass eyed up longingly. We had been given a map and instructions to reach town but somehow missed the turn and ended up passing the less scenic but interesting Argentine mountain military school and brutal looking assault course. Finally arriving in Uspallata after at not so casual stroll, the T-shaped town that really is the last stop before Chile, roughly caters for 3 types of visitor: extreme mountain climbers who have just finished hiking up Aconagua and now want a steak and Malbec after only eating glucose and rice for 14 days; truckers taking a break before or after the Chilean border control; site seers who’s first or last opportunity it is to buy Argentine trinkets after a tourist drive through the pass. Now I’d like to have been in category one, but I think Cass may have baulked at scaling an icy cliff face, and as we left our plaid jackets at home, lazy category 3 it was, although I did devour another juicy tenderloin.

For those who it may have passed by, “Seven years…” stars Brad Pitt doing a remarkable impression of Peter O’Toole in “Lawerence of Arabia”; super Aryan/Ken doll blond hair and windswept/spray tan. Apparently Aconagua,the largest mountain in the Western hemisphere passed for those in the Himalayas, the largest in the East, and so commemorating the filming, and proudly adding to the town’s attractions, along with the somewhat out of place Casino, is an Asian bar, cleverly entitled “The Tibet Bar”. Lonely Planet lovingly describes this as “for those with a fondness for the “bizarre” - how could we resist.

With help from the girl at the tourist information shack, we grabbed a private car with an old local - rather than an apparently expensive taxi - back to our refuge. Cass still suffering with a stomach upset boiled up some rice but was easily persuaded to try some of the delicious salt crusted steak prepared by our host. I needed no such arm twisting to carnivorously consume steak number 2 for the day as well as some delicious morcilla blood sausage - honestly make sure you try it!

Content (read stuffed) we made our way outside to our room to hit the hay but were immediately compelled to look up and admire the shimmering stars overhead and the gossamer strands of the milky way which Cass had never seen before. London’s own bright lights hide this spectacle and so, at least for the next few nights, we were glad to be out in the wilderness.

-By Ian

-Day 24-

Mora Hostel’s pastries were scrumdiddlyumptious. Under the bow of Ian’s raised eyebrow, I demolished five in quick succession, fuelling up for a day of relaxation at the Cacheuta natural spring spa. Then realised I’d peaked too early, when they brought out the duche de leche crepes, oops.

Our exuberant and rather toothless bus driver gave what we assumed was an entertaining speech in theatrical Spanish; we chuckled along with the other passengers, wondering if we were missing any vital information about our trip? We’d find out soon enough…

From Mendoza, our bus climbed 2000 meters above sea level, passing through valleys of vineyards cocooned in barren chestnut coloured mountains. We reached a dusty “village” (though I’m not sure that’s what this was) it was a dust bowl with a couple of tired wooden shacks selling the usual trinkets, cold drinks, and fly-covered pastries. Then everyone got off the bus. Were we here? This wasn’t exactly what we’d imagined when we’d heard about the famous Cacheuta springs?

In it’s heyday, Cacheuta was home to one of Argentina’s most luxurious spa resorts. The Transandine Railway used to stop in Cacheuta, and a special lift would transport the guests and their furs & gold, directly from the platform to the hotel. Today all that is left of the resort is this very lift shaft, after it was devastated by a glacial flood in 1934. Since the train line stopped coming here, the town sadly never returned to it’s former glory. However more recently a new spa has been built on the same site, and adjacent a natural spring water park was also constructed.

Unable to extract a word of direction from Mr Funny Driver, we followed a trail of people and found we were indeed at the springs. And they were fabulous! Waterfalls cascaded into about forty different pool sections, staggered at various levels down the face of the mountain. The water blue and crystal clear, the sun blazing; today was a day for topping up our tans and not much else!

Choosing a pool was like russian roulette, some were scorching hot, others luke warm and some were freezing cold! So after making a circuit of the whirlpool and Ian convincing me to go down the waterside (which was much scarier than it looked) we sprawled out in a cool shallow pool for the afternoon. It was a busy day at the springs, and as midday crept up strings of people arrived and set up camp in the sounding barbeque picnic areas. We were envious of the racks of ribs and scent of barbecued chicken floating by our noses, as we’d come equipt with an unimpressive selection of apples and bananas. But then I discovered the alfajores ice cream sandwich, and all at once, equilibrium was restored.

We got back to the hostel later than expected, but just on time to take part in the empanada making course with two Australian girls. Over a glass of Malbec, the fantastic hostel cook and her translator guided us through the surprisingly simple steps of making her delicious Carne (meat) empanadas. Try it at home, here’s the recipe:

Carne Empanada Recipe

Ingredients (in order of appearance):
2 eggs
Olive oil, drizzles
2 onions, finely chopped
1 red pepper, finely chopped
Green olives (approx 15) roughly chopped
Pack of mince meat, 250g
Chilli powder, 1 teaspoon
Cumin powder, 1 teaspoon
Salt & pepper
Empanada pastry - either make your own, recipe here or ready made puff or filo pastry cut in the right shape should do ok too!

How to make them:
Pre-heat the oven to 200 degrees celius.

1. Hard boil 2 eggs (for about 9 minutes). Once cool enough, peel and chop them up roughly into lots of small pieces, put to one side.

2. Drizzle some olive oil into another pan, when hot add the chopped onion and red pepper and cook slowly until browned through, add a few big pinches of salt and pepper.

3. Add the mince meat, cumin and chilli powder to the mixture and cook until browned through and smelling delish.

4. Take off the heat and mix in the chopped eggs and olives

5. Make the empanada pastry or lay out and cut the ready made stuff

6. Grease up or line a flat baking tray

7. Put a large table spoon or two of the meat mixture into one side of the pastry round. Then fold over the send half of the pastry, wet the edges with your fingers and pinch to ‘crimp’ the two edges together and seal in the mixture in a pretty crescent moon shape.

8. Bake for approximately 20 minutes (or however long it says on the pastry packet)

9. ¡Buen apetito! They should look something like this!?

-By Cass

- Day 23 -

It’s amazing how although you’ve not done something for years, you can miss it. These were my idle thoughts as we lazily stretched out on terrace overlooking the regatta lake in General San Martin park, sipping a shandy in the hot afternoon sunshine, catching up on our blogs and watching crews warm up in their boats. It’s fair to say that our last few weeks have not been filled with rigorous exercise - the occasional body surf and long beach walk have not offset the cake breakfasts and dulce de leche treats. Although I don’t feel we’ve been lazy, my muscles felt twitchy watching the rowers, remembering the same pain/pleasure of being put through their paces on the Thames.

The morning had started migrating from the convenient if uninspiring Savigliano hostel near the bus station to the welcoming and centrally located Hostel Mora.

After picking up some picnic provisions, we marched up Mendoza’s elegant boulevards to the main park, reminiscent of Hyde park in London with tree lined avenues, shady trellised walkways and an enormous artificial lake with its own Andean mountain backdrop. Perfect for us to took into a Scooby size sandwich of ham, avocado, tomato and lettuce.

What we hadn’t been told either in the guide book or from the helpful receptionist at the Mora was that the park had an amazing Regatta centre on the lake complete with swimming pool. Sadly we hadn’t brought our cozzies and so instead we retired to the terrace to sip our cerveza and 7up and watch others exercise in the increasing afternoon heat.

Strolling back into town, we tried to grab an afternoon alfajorez and coffee at a Havanna café, but the service was so slow, we skipped off our table and continued back to the hostel for a siesta.

We didn’t venture far in the evening with Cass still suffering a stomach upset and settled on a parilla in the main precinct where I could grab a delicious Bife Chorizo and Cass some digestible pasta. The live music and entertainment complete, strangely, with a rendition of the pink panther theme offered up a lively distraction, before we hit the hay, ready for an early start to the mountain water parks of Cacheuta.

- By Ian

-Day 22-

Hellooo, after many years of a long distance love affair, I am so pleased to finally meet you Mendoza. We have at last arrived at holy grail of the bottle. Ian and I, and several girlfriends back home (you know who you are!) should be proud to hear we are largely responsible for keeping Argentina as the 5th largest wine producer in the world.

Not that you’d have known I was pleased to be here if you’d seen the state of me this morning AFTER I DISCOVERED MY SHOWER GEL HAD LEAKED OVER MY BRAND NEW (was) AMAZING LEATHER HANDBAG. Not cool, much stomping in mediocre hostel room ensued. But things inevitably got better when wine got involved.

We decided to go on a self-guided bicycle tour around the Maipu wine region. Against our better instincts, we went to ‘Mr Coco’s’ - the first bike rental shack we saw after getting off the bus. We were handed a map detailing ten vineyards staggered along the 7km Urqroadulza Road. Brilliant! And off we went!

We straddled our clattering “mountain bikes” and cycled along, dodging squashed tomatoes on the road which had fallen from the top of an overstuffed produce truck, which we also narrowly avoided. We then jealously passed smug tipsy cyclists coming in the other direction, depositing their shiny new ‘Mr Hugo’s bikes’ (complete with baskets) only two minutes further up the road than Coco’s. Damn. We decided we’d cycle all the way to the end and work our way backward through the vineyards, knowing that after a few wine flights, a 7k pedal through wine country wouldn’t be half as appealing.

We turned into Familia di Tommaso and were greeted by a gorgeous little courtyard overlooking rows of vines. We decided to tuck into a delicious lunch of cannelloni and an obligatory tomato mozzarella salad. And then the Canadian couple cycled into the courtyard! Was it possible they’d planted a tracking device on us?? After bumping into them four times in three different countries in remote or obscure locations, yes, we very much think it is possible, if not likely.

Together we did the tour of the oldest winery in Mendoza, it is still run by the same family it was started by in 1869. They produce just 40,000 bottles a year, exporting very little and exclusively selling to individuals (like us!) or through a small number of retailers. By keeping their vines and production levels small it allows them to continue producing the same top quality wine they have for all these years. It was absolutely fascinating to see them filling the french oak barrels by hand. It was also an insight into the past to see the old fermentation tanks fashioned from brick and concrete and lined with wax. Today they are used as wine cellars as the winery now have to employ newer controlled methods to comply with health & safety, but the original tanks have been given protection as historic monuments.

Of course the best bit was the tasting! We tried three different Malbecs; one non barrel oaked, and two aged in the barrel for 6 and 12 months respectively. Then there was a 17% walnutty desert wine which was to die for, sods law they don’t export hey!

We got back up on the scrap metal tied together by two wheels and realised it was already 4pm (time flies when you’re drinking wine!) We only had time for one more winery before they closed at 6! With Ian’s broken chain, we got to the Trapiche winery as slowly as humanly possible.

In contrast, Trapiche is the largest wine producer in Argentina (owned by an investment bank. It would be, wouldn’t it). As we turned our bikes off the dusty track, we were faced with an impressive modern brick structure flanked by sculptural olive groves, vines and fountains. Much to our dismay, we’d missed the last tour of the day, but they let us jump in halfway and tag along for free. Once again it culminated in a wine tasting. First off a Sauvignon blanc, for which they grow their grapes much closer the the foot of the Andes mountains as it’s cooler. We then tasted two reds, a Malbec and a Cabernet Sauvignon. Similar to the previous vineyard, they were both aged for a year in french oak barrels. Absolutely delicious, and I believe Laithwaites in the UK stock Trapiche, so go and grab yourself a bottle!

Ian’s bike chain had completely broken so it was a lengthy journey to return the bikes. We received a shrug rather than a refund from Mr Coco, but after the wine we didn’t seem to care much!

We were still on Buenos Aires time and headed out for supper in Mendoza at 11pm. We were met with quizzical looks from the hostel staff, as they told us the places we’d chosen to go will have finished serving for the night. Nevertheless, after browsing through a late night artisanal market, we managed to find a cute restaurant called Quinta Norte around the main town square, Plaza Indepencia. Satisfied our grape fuelled hunger with a yummy rotisserie chicken and rice, and a bottle of Trapiche Malbec no less!

- By Cass

- Day 21 -

One of the pleasures of spending 3 or 4 days in a city is that you get to backtrack and reexamine the areas you’re already covered and ticked off the “Must See” list. Having hit San Telmo on our first day for the market, I thought as it was our last day and our Hostel’s neighbourhood, we should have a mooch and check out the streets we missed due to the crowds, making our way back up to the centre.

Although I’m not sure when the “perfect” handbag become the holy grail of accessories, I’ve learnt over the years to keep my “helpful” observations to a minimum - why do some women shackle themselves to what is effectively a piece of luggage for daily use, groaning under the weight of filling their Mulberry with “essential” items. Rant over…

Despite Cass coping without a handbag over the last 3 weeks ( instigated by Brazil’s wise women avoiding muggings and my deep pockets) , I knew acquiring an Argentine “buttery” leather bag was high on her priorities for BA. She’d ear marked one in the mall yesterday but felt a cheat to select one from VitaminA, a Brazilian brand. I knew what she meant, as I, similarly eschewed a pair of loafer Hushpuppies as I wanted an Argentine brand - if your going to go with clothes as a souvenir, you at least want some sense of authenticity to justify them. Although we pored through every boutique in San Telmo, keeping our energy up with empanadas, it wasn’t until we reached the centre and a veritable Aladdin’s cave of outlet stores that we came upon THE bag, proudly displayed in the centre of the shop window. With a bit of haggling Cass become the proud owner of a Cul de Sac cream snake skin pressed and natural calf leather bucket bag, complete with “Hace en Argentina” stamped inside. I was equally pleased to complete this seemingly Sisyphean task as well as find my own pair of handmade leather loafers, with a half price matching belt thrown in.

Dashing back to the hostel to collect our less fashionable rucksacks, we discovered that although our 1st class seats on the overnight bus to Mendoza were all set, Lao Hostel had apparently double booked and we were now without a bed for the following night. In what felt like a repeat of our experience for Ilha Grande, we then had to chase around for an available double room, Cass keen not to repeat her Colonia dorm experience. Thankfully we managed to get two hostels booked for the 3 nights, minutes before we needed to head out to catch our ride to wine country.

Now I had been told that Argentine long distance buses were the cream of the crop in South America, and for only an extra £7 each, not choosing the first class cama suites seemed churlish. Other friends who had done the journey had remarked how incredibly spacious the fully reclining seats were and that some even served up a steak and glass of malbec to ease you into sleep. On the comfort side, Andesmar delivered and even my 6ft 3 frame was just about accommodated with some knee bending. The food however, was interesting. Served in what I can only describe as a Fisher Price sealed plastic puzzle tray, each compartment offering a “surprise”. Gelatinous cubes whether sweet or savoury I couldn’t tell, a just about edible potato tortilla and another triple deck crustless white bread sandwich. Strangely the waiter whisked this away after 5 minutes, seemingly familiar that little would be eaten, and followed it with a microwaved chicken fillet in sauce. Andesmar, on behalf of your countrymen, bring back the steak, as it will go perfectly with the delicious Norton Cabernet Sauvignon you provided. Only the free bubbly rescued the meal but it was shame after being tempted by a showcase of classic cinema, the Zookeeper was the night’s film feature.

- By Ian

- Day 20 -

There’s nothing like powering up on boiled eggs for a day at the cemetery.

Graves are weird things. On the one hand they are objects which allow the deceased to retain a physical presence in the living world and provide a focal point for loved ones to visit and grieve. But on the other hand, graves are equally temporal as life. They too will crumble and return to dust, and beyond the immediate family generation eventually become forgotten and replaced. It makes me quite sad to think about it. So, anyone who is reading this, please ensure I’m cremated and you can keep me on the mantelpiece!

To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to visit the biggest cemetery ever, a labyrinth of sarcophagi so big you can get completely lost inside. But as we arrived at the famous Recoleta Cemetery, I’ll admit (while feeling a bit wrong for saying so) it certainly did have the wow factor. This necropolis is certainly not a place where people are buried to be forgotten. A woman was even buried alive by accident there. With a guestlist of writers, political and military heroes and Argentina’s rich and famous, it is a tourist destination to not only pay their respects to the likes of Evita, but also to admire the architecture within this maze of mausoleums.

Each has a basement, on average housing about six coffins, and at ground level above, an enclosed altar area which you can look into through a small window or door from it’s grand exterior. Perhaps to represent their ‘owners’, or at least their wealth, some are simple and functional, others beautifully ornate, and some just hideously ostentatious. Since some are about the size of our flat in London, what I really want to know is, how much does each of these plots cost? We sat and pondered this at a cafe afterward, and were equally perplexed by our first dry microwaved empanada and watery coffee in South America to date. We made up for it with an alfajores afterwards (duce de leche sandwiched between two biscuits!)

After jetting through the huge Galleria Pacifico mall (this time on a hunt for leather - shoes for Ian and a handbag for me) we stepped out to an ominous sky, the air thick with humidity, dark bruised clouds looming low in the sky. We jumped on the Metro back to the hostel and reached it just in the nick of time as the heavens opened for a cracking electrical storm.

When it rains it pours. Coming from the UK we ought to be familiar with the phrase, but I haven’t seen rain like this for a long time. Big fat sheet rain, sideways upwards rain, and it didn’t stop till morning, which pretty much bamboozled our plans for the evening. We managed to get a cab to Gran Parrilla del Plata, a steak restaurant just down the road in San Telmo. Our waiter was fantastic, and I’m not just saying that because of the four free glasses of champagne he gave us! He took an immediate liking to Ian because he’s Mancunian, and because he thought he looked like Sting? He recommend we share a ‘lomo’ steak rather than getting one each, it must have been 600g or so, god knows how they consider it to be a dish for one!? I’ll stop saying how amazing the steak is… just look at the pictures.

- By Cass

- Day 19 -

As you may have noticed, Cass and I have not been maintaining the rigorous backpacker moneysaving discipline of cooking our own pasta in the hostel, before venturing out. In fact we freely admit we are what some call flashpackers. Many of our best travel experiences have been enjoyed over a great meal, and thankfully Buenos Aires has plenty of restaurants on offer.

On a blisteringly hot day we decided to spend the morning cycling through the city parks, picking up an Orange bike in a great sponsored collaboration with the Dutch airline KLM who now fly direct from Amsterdam. Thankfully these were a lot more reliable than those in Colonia and we quickly headed out from Palermo (bizarrely bumping into the Canadian couple once again), past the Zoological park and melting track runners, before finding ourselves (no pun intended) in the beautifully tranquil Japanese gardens. These were a gift from the Japanese emperor to the city and are some of the largest outside Japan. Order and calm are maintained while BA’s frenetic pace fizzes at its borders; the apartment blocks towering above giving the only indication another world exists outside.

When I was last in BA, after 5 days of steak, I had craved broccoli. Similarly this time, after our previous night’s carnivorous exploits and a heavy bread diet over the last few weeks, we both craved a salad. Strangely our lunchtime hunger always seems to coincide with being surrounded by great shops. However, after my “hangar” ( Hungry +Anger) kicked in and we couldn’t find the recommended café amongst Palermo Hollywood’s labyrinth of boutiques, we settled on La Salamandra, pulled in by the temptation of spoons of Dulche de Leche served with your coffee and home made Alfajores. We forced ourselves to initially stick to our good intentions and were rewarded with delicious bowls of crisp peppery arugula (rocket), torn mozzarella, meaty tomatoes and generous portions of pan fried chicken. The energy kick from the coffee and postres (dessert) though was what powered us round on the hunt for replacement leather sandals for Cass’ flapping gold ones and another obligatory stripy T-shirt for me.

After an early evening siesta to keep up with BA’s vampiric night scene, and Cass enacting a cliché by slipping on a banana skin in her new shoes, we caught the 67 bus to head out. I had hoped to repeat a night I’d done two years before, showing Cass the wonderfully characterful El Cuartito pizza restaurant, but sadly it was closed on a Monday so we headed to my second venue and dined instead at Milion. This beautifully restored terrace mansion has a Soho house feel with sweeping staircases, a delicious cocktail menu and courtyard garden where stylish Porteños relax. Opting for salmon stuffed ravioli and seabass we continued our exploration of epicurean delights, saving home cooked boiled rice for another day.

- By Ian

-Day 18-

Nobody told us that we were meant to get a Uruguayan “entry stamp” in our passports. Nobody told us that we would incur a fat fine for not having said stamp, or where one might acquire one of these illusive stamps. Even Lonely Planet failed to mention this mildly crucial point. And we weren’t the only ones. A special queue of other ignorant English speakers stacked up behind us at port immigration, running back and forth to the cash machine looking bewildered.

But, all things happen for a reason I suppose. £100 lighter, we boarded the ferry bound for Buenos Aires and started chatting to a nice Australian girl called Stephanie who’d been caught out making the same mistake (ahem, money making scheme). It didn’t take long for us to discover she was friends with our Aussie mate Chongi- she went to school with him in Avoca in Australia & we know him from London. What a tiny bloody world we live in!!

We arrived at the wonderful Pax hostel in San Telmo, and couldn’t believe the size of our double bedroom, which randomly came wrapped in a complete vintage medical library.

My only previous experience of Buenos Aires was looking at Ian’s beautiful photographs from his trip here two years ago. One particular shot captured me, of old seltzer bottles made from vividly coloured glass. I want one, or five, they look so scrummy. So we headed straight out to the famous San Telmo Sunday antiques market. Before we even saw a seltzer bottle, we bumped into the Canadian couple (Dana & Oliver) we’d met on the Parati boat trip, two countries ago in Brazil. Small world indeed, twice in one day!

Alas, next to the couple dancing tango on the corner of the square, we spotted the seltzer bottles. Pink, blue, green, red, yellow… gorgeous, and only about £5 each! Then I realised we had no way of bringing them with us in our already bursting backpacks. We could post them home- but wait, we’re homeless! Doh, epic fail. So we left empty handed, but spent the rest of the afternoon feasting our eyes on more incredible antique silverware (which we couldn’t buy), pocket watches, panama hats, and strange dolls with missing eyes!?

We ate lunch at an adorable cafe called La Poesia. Ian had been before & photographed bars of soap stacked higgledy piggledy among jars of pickles, cheeses and wooden crates of coca cola bottles. Once again, Ian grossly over-ordered a sandwich, which you’d think would be hard to do, right? They have a thing about cutting crusts off sandwiches here, which anywhere else would mean you have a sandwich large enough for a 3 year old’s lunchbox. But in Argentina the solution clearly is just to bake MUCH bigger bread. And make sandwiches with three layers of bread instead of two. Which resulted in another sandwich bigger than his head. It was pretty impressive.

Armed with a doggie bag containing half a loaf of oversized bread, we headed for La Boca, home of the Boca Junior football team. The Argentine passion for this game is visible in all corners of this city; street art paying homage to Maradonna beside kids of all ages kicking a ball around, extremely skilfully I might add. And for the third time this holiday some kids called out at Ian - “David Beckham”, ha ha, Ian dislikes this likening more than I do!

La Boca has a bit of a bad reputation for safety, and we did cross the invisible ‘safety’ line once or twice, though we were quick to return to the popping colourful streets of La Boca center. Tango dancers, a bit saucier this time, were framed by this insane multicoloured backdrop, it felt like being inside some sort of Willy Wonka creation!

That evening we were ready for some world famous Argentine steak. We waited till about 11pm (when in Rome…) and headed for Palermo, the ‘trendy’ part of town, to the highly rated La Dorita de Enfrente restaurant. We devoured two enormous steaks (I was starving but couldn’t finish mine, I nearly cried), chips, garlic butter spinach, accompanied by a stunning bottle of Malbec, all for about £25. Priceless.

- By Cass

- Day 17 -

After a trendy psychedelic private bedroom in Montevideo, the conversion to a shared mixed dorm of 5 in Colonia didn’t initially endear the town to Cass. However we were won over by the charm, even if somewhat contrived nature, of the port.

The day had started with our usual hasty planning for the next 4 days, sorting out our accommodation and transport. Taking a local bus we reached the terminal and settled in for some lunch while we waited for our intercity to Colonia. I unwittingly ordered enough food to feed a family of 5, with just one of the two Milanese meal deals being bigger than my head! Thankfully the waitress understood I wasn’t running a marathon today so didn’t need that much food; splitting one dish and wrapping the other to go.

Unknowingly Colonia was busy, and for a small picturesque town that means full hostels. The reason for this became apparent after accepting a shared room in the dilapidated HI, when we were greeted by an expensive looking Triathlon bike, it’s owner busily checking his gel pack supplies and female supporters. Tomorrow was to be Colonia’s half Ironman tournament - he could’ve probably done with eating my Milanese!

By now the strange phenomena in Uruguay of it actually getting hotter after 2pm had turned the dorm into a sauna. The inadequate fan swirling an airless room and echoing the windless dry air outside. Taking advantage of the hostel’s free rental bikes, we decided to make our own breeze but navigating the cobbled streets on these relics proved comical, with much of our exploration of the undulating town done on foot. Several of the town highlights do feel a little staged with Havanna-esque vintage cars parked casually under cascading flowers and wooden carts positioned on side streets outside boutiques. The real draw and highlight of the town though is sitting outside the old lighthouse bar. Sipping an icy cold beer, tucking into the other half of our lunch, and watching the sun set in brilliant orange. We moseyed down the pier and looked out over the wide Rio Plate to Buenos Aires, our next destination.

As I have said our Milanese lunch had stretched over 2 meals but Cass had researched a great cheese and wine bistro tucked off the main square in a tiny courtyard garden. We thought we could fit in some late supper but were unprepared for the very generous local cheeseboard and accompanying goblet size wine “flights” for roughly £5. Feeling like I should be doing an Ironman in the morning to burn off the days cheese, we headed back to the hostel to be slowly grilled on our bunks like a bit of Welsh rarebit.

- By Ian

-Day 16-

Goodbye chi-chi Punta, hello Montevideo! For a short two hour bus journey costing about £4 each, we were overly chuffed to discover that the bus had free WIFI! Back home, a few hours in an internet cafe would cost the same as the bus journey itself!

After some to-ing and fro-ing, a local bus and a lot of help, we found our hostel El Viajero at the top of some very, very steep stairs. Off a pretty square in the old town with an antiques market in full swing, the first thing we noticed were the awesome vibrant murals! Unfortunately we weren’t able to find out the name of the artist, but his colourful street art could be found not only in the hostel & our bedroom, but adorning the many nooks and crannies of the surrounding Ciudad (old town).

Other than my tripping over every five minutes (nothing unusual there!), the other thing we noticed about Montevideo’s uneven pavements were the sporadic colourful mosaic tiles which punctuate the ribbed grey concrete every block or two. We’ve not found out much more about it since, but we were told that there is a local artist who scouts out the loose or broken paving stones and replaces them with these handmade ‘tiles’. What a beautiful idea, cleverly escaping the ‘graffiti’ label given to other street art found around town whilst pleasing the council at the same time. I found this great article about the Montevideo street art, it’s worth a look at the pictures because we sadly didn’t get many photos as it didn’t always feel safe enough to get our cameras out. 

An artistic vibe has been woven into the fabric of this city for many years. Perhaps it started with Joaquín Torres Garcia, probably Uruguay’s best known artist, you can see his constructivist murals dotted around the city in prominent positions.

All this looking had given us an appetite, so we headed for the Mercado del Puerto. This had been recommended as the ONLY place to go if you were after some meat- and it did not disappoint! We meandered around what used to be a meat market, now brimming with parillas (barbecues) and little bars serving “medio y medio”, a rather potent half white & half sparkling wine drink unique to the mercado. We grabbed a bar stool at El Palenque, took a sip, and ordered two of the fattest juiciest steaks (entrecôte and pichane) with meat so tender you could have cut it with a spoon. This is a whole meaty world I never knew about! I don’t think I can ever look at a supermarket steak again, perhaps the only thing I’ve ever had that came close was steak at The Hawksmoor- for more than 10 times the price!

As we worked hard to digest our larger than usual lunch, we wandered the streets of Montevideo. Got rained on by churning air conditioning units jutting out of buildings, admiring the large statues and architecture against the cobalt sky & watching complete strangers play impressive street side games of speed-chess on their way home.

After a siesta back at the hostel we ventured out for a late supper at Bar Fun Fun. It turns out Google doesn’t know everything. Particularly not where we wanted to go. It sent us into dark roads in a shady side of town, where we were accompanied only by street scavengers collecting rubbish and recyclables onto their horse & carts. We later found the bar, 8 blocks in the other direction and it was closed. Damn. We were lucky to find a row of bars with people spilling onto the pavements, and a bustling pizza joint across the road called Bar Tasende. Given the low prices & empty plates scattered around people, we guessed you ordered by the slice, so by the time we got a table, we got stuck in & ordered 6 plates. Our waiter pretty much refused, and let us order 3 which we thought was odd - until they arrived. Each was about 9 inches square, thick herby focaccia smothered in cheese, olives or ham. So delicious, but we couldn’t even finish it all… not bad for a fiver, including beer!

- By Cass

- Day 15 -

Those we had met in Punta del Diablo had warned us off Punta del Este; “it’s overly developed, expensive and far too commercial”. Cass and I have always enjoyed contrast though, mixing London’s city refinements with weekend country simplicities; both offering their attractions and giving balance.

Our 5:30am taxi from the hostel to the bus shack to make our early departure, however, didn’t seem particular balanced. We were rewarded though with a full day to enjoy Punta del Este’s charms, soaking up the scorching sunshine on Playa Brava and Ollo beaches, before cooling off surfing in the noticeably colder water that crashed onshore. We had dumped our bags at the very well appointed Tas d’Vieja hostel, located just two blocks from the sea and one from the main strip of bars and restaurants. The hostel itself and double room were lovely, even if the seemingly bored and irritated receptionist wasn’t entirely welcoming. Cass however soon got over this with her introduction to Dulce de Leche at breakfast. The caramelised condensed milk spread, that I have previously tried on a trip to Argentina, was like Nectar to Cass and made any dry roast into a veritable feast.

“Punta” as it colloquially known, is joked (though not by the Uruguayans) to be a ” barrio” or suburb of Buenos Aires because of the Porteños (BA residents) who come over to weekend or holiday. With them they bring their habit of eating late and partying until even later. Cass and I followed the crowd hitting La Marena for some delicious seafood and our first glass of Uruguayan white wine before work our way down the strip of bars. The crowd was a young and good looking, but not as glitzy as we had imagined, however Cass and I were glad we’d scrubbed up after the very relaxed vibe in Punta del Diablo. Sipping a few Fernet y Cocas, it’s bitter sweet taste charging the party atmosphere, we hardly noticed it had reached 5am - just the time for a final nightcap ice cream before hitting the hay.

- By Ian

-Day 14-

The powers above must be having a laugh, as we opened our eyes to a second day of grey skies and drizzle. Perhaps this was a cursory little reminder of home (or why we left in the first place!) Or, perhaps this is why they call it Punta del DIABLO? Though that could be more to do with the fact dead turtles, fish and chickens continually wash up on shore? Very odd, either way.

So when it rains, I say what better to do than eat empanadas on the beach!

After a couple of hours ‘admin’ to sort out our movements for the next few days, we trundled to the village center, the sandy streets now easier to navigate over wet sand. After having had our fill of seafood the day before, we devoured a couple of ‘carne’ meat empanadas under a rickety beach hut and admired the way the rain looked, when we weren’t under it.

We also witnessed the way fisherman here run their boats ashore at top speed. Literally it’s a mental crash landing into the beach, close to mowing down swimmers and surfers! We were left wondering how these boats remain sea worthy at all after a daily battering like that?

We later found out the hard way that this was (yet another) town with limited ATM access. We did eventually find the only cash point. It was guarded by a crazy old American lady who told us how she left the US after Obama poisoned her & she was coughing up blood so had to escape Texas to live in Uruguay because everyone’s a terrorist in America now… Ohhhh-kaaaay. And there was no cash in the machine.

As we stood waiting at the corner of two dusty roads in the middle of nowhere, we were thankful when the rain lessened to a light mist. Sundown was what we were really waiting for - we were going horse riding, gaucho style!

Before my dejected bottom lip could stick out any further, ‘better 30 minutes late than never’ Fabian arrived with a herd of galloping horses in his wake. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this scene in a movie before! He matched each of us to our mare, and we hoiked ourselves up onto the makeshift sheepskin saddle, complete with horse-leather bridle. After riding for ten years as a kid, I felt a little more natural up there than Ian, but to Fabian it didn’t matter who had experience or not, we were all going on the same ride. I love Uruguay. Health & safety PAH, who needs helmets and disclaimer forms, let’s do it! We picked up two more guys and a girl and clip clopped our way up the sand dunes into the leafy Santa Teresa national park.

After an hour or so, just when we were getting comfortable in the saddle, and used to the whip lashings from squeezing past bushes & ducking under low-hanging tree branches, we came to a clearing in the woods. We jumped off the horses and they wandered off, while we wondered what the hell was happening? A lone stone table and bench looking somewhat like a sacrifice platform was tucked away at the side of the clearing, but all became clear when Fabian whipped out two bottles of vino tinto and a packet of fresh baked local biscuits! We got into the Latino vibe of sharing as we swigged from the bottles and passed them around. Really, could this get any better?

Three out of six in our group had never ridden before today, but as we re-mounted we realised there’s nothing like a bit of wine time for new-found confidence! And it was like the horses knew. Fabian said it was because we were now heading in the direction of home, but there was a tangible loaded spring in their step. Then, as we emerged into a grass clearing, our horses bolted one after the other. Full on galloping through a meadow, yee-haaaa, it was incredible! I turned back to see if Ian was managing to stay on, I was pleased to see that he was not being dragged along the floor by his horse, but rather white knuckling it and going full pelt on top! We continued to a deserted beach that stretched as far as they eye could see, and as the sun set, we galloped along the waters edge, the silver waves glistening in the moonlight.

This has to be one of the most breathtaking memories of my life… As dark set in we blindly headed back to the town, but the horses knew their way. After we dismounted and waved goodbye, we waddled away like John Wayne ready to plunge into the ice cold beers.

-By Cass

- Day 13 -

After criss-crossing the avenue that marks the border of Chui/Chuy between Brazil and Uruguay in order to withdraw Reals and then exchange them for Pesoes, we jumped out of one frying pan into another’s eponymous fire – Punta Del Diablo. The sleepy Uruguayan fishing town had been recommended for it’s surf, and so after another hour bus ride through completely flat grass land, tended by mounted Gauchos herding their cattle, we arrived to its outskirt bus “station” – read converted cow shed. By now the sun was high in a cloudless blue sky and the dirt road towards the main town and sea 2 Km away shimmered in the heat. The friendly shuttle bus woman was therefore a welcome sight, until Cass, who had mistaken her for a taxi, and I were dropped at the end of another dusky road and pointed in the direction of our accommodation, the Hostel de los Hadas.

As an aside here, it seems Punta del Diablo is undergoing a bit of a property boom, with an array of “interesting” architectural styles being employed by the local developers who don’t seem to be encumbered with such trifles as town planning. Condos in Art Deco, Modernist, Greek Villa and even faux Ocean Liner designs have popped amongst the dunes, out numbering the inhabitants, but apparently catering for the swell of Montivideans and Porteaños from down the coast. Thankfully we were pleased to see our hostel had therefore been constructed in a fairly rustic style in keeping with the area, featuring thatched rooftops but with giant modern glass windows to take in the coastal panorama.

After a quick breakfast and play with the owner’s very cute baby twins, we headed out to the beach. Now it’s fare to say that in Brazil we had been spoiled with the tropical beauty of azure skies, emerald waters and talc white sand. The mid morning cloud cover therefore did not make the grey/brown turbulent ocean particularly inviting, although the surfers ripping up the point break didn’t seem to mind. However, in a scene reminiscent of a Martin Parr photograph of a British seaside, when it started to rain, we took shelter under our parasol, taking comfort that it was still a balmy 25 degrees.

With our rustic hostel and undeveloped first beach, Cass began to wonder, is this it? Thankfully after a shirt walk round the point though, we found the main “town”; an eclectic mix of cafés, book and surf shops and restaurants leading down to the fishing port and populated by an equally mixed bunch of surfers, hippies, backpackers and families. An English girl on the beach, who “chills here 6 months of the year” had recommended the fish and cheese empanadas just inside the market, and so on this advice overcoming Cass’ street food phobia, we enjoyed the delicious paper-thin deep friend pastry washed down with an icy cold Patricia cerveza. Casting our eye over the families playing in the swell, it was then we noticed the giant dead turtle washed up on the beach; the children seemed unperturbed by its empty socketed head and even gave it an investigative jab with their toes, wobbling it’s gelatinous body.

I had by now begun to feel a little stiff and lethargic after hours on a bus and minimal exercise. Not feeling quite up to tackling the waves for a surf, we ventured out to the monument to find a crazy bunch of lads diving off the rocks into crashing sea pools. On their provocation and Cass’ egging on, I leapt feet first into the deep, before a surge pushed me round and I was heaved out by one of the lads, avoiding the sharp mussel beds encrusted to the rocks. Nothing like a bit of coastering to liven you up and wake the senses!

Although the evening’s seafood paella disappointed, the quartet of Neapolitan jacketed gents who invaded the restaurant and busked kept things lively. However, I think Cass’ real highlight was the discovery of the Heladeria – creamy rich gelato style ice cream in pistachio, chocolate and almond and dulce de leche flavours – more than a little devilish!

- By Ian

-Day 12-

After a decidedly well prepared first week, travel pre-arranged and hotel stays generously given to us for Christmas by our parents (thank you!) there still seem to be Brazil shaped holes appearing in our pockets?

While we’re not being lavish (we are after all continually pilfering ham & cheese sarnies), there are ‘standards’ to which ‘one’ has become accustomed & hence we’ve not exactly been pinching the purse-strings either. And hell, we are on holiday! So, we’ve been haemorrhaging Reals like they’re going out of fashion.

Plan of action - next stop - Uruguay! The bikini bottoms there might not be smaller than Brazil, but hopefully the prices might be.

Now connoisseurs of the local buses (which ones NOT to take at least), we hopped on the yellow bus to Florianopolis, negotiated our bus tickets to the Brazil - Uruguay border Chuy/Chui (same place different name, look & feel on either side of one road which marks the border). From there we would wait a couple of hours to take the first local bus out to a cute fishing village called ‘Punta del Diablo’.

The coach trip was 14 hours of lots of legroom, podcasts and scrabble (score update, Ian 2 games - Cass 1. Re-match soon I think!) But despite earplugs, the old lady snoring behind us made it a little difficult to sleep! It was incredible to see the lush mountainous terrain change so drastically as we headed further south. As the land flattened above a floating sunset, the horizon seemed infinite. The scenery was briefly spoilt by industrial estates outside Porto Allegre, where we experienced the more heart wrenching contrast of favella shacks & dire living conditions backing straight up against Mercedes and Chevrolet car plants.

I’d like to quickly mention how awesome the service stations here are in comparison with the UK. As you walk in, they hand you a plastic plaque with a barcode on it. Once inside there is no fast food in sight. There are buffets with an impressive array of home style cooked dishes, fresh salad bars & shops. You load whatever you want on your ‘card’ and just pay on your way out. Really simple, but so much more of a pleasant experience than a Little Chef or McDonald’s!

But then we arrived at Chui.

Now I don’t know much about towns that sit on borders of countries, but I’m learning, and this was a steep curve. The only thing we’d read was that if you’re not a dab hand at blackjack or poker, to pass through as quickly as possible.

We arrived at 4am and wanted to be deposited at the bus station to wait for our continuing bus 3 hours later. But the ‘station’ transpired to be nothing more than a tin shack and a bench, so they dropped us in the center of town which was said to be ‘safer’. There wasn’t a soul in sight other than a couple of shady guys sitting outside a (closed) cafe. A seriously desolate and creepy place that gave us the heebie jeebies I WAS BRICKING IT!! The rest of the coach was continuing onwards to Montevideo, so only us and one other guy got off. We were incredibly lucky that he spoke english and offered that we join him taking a taxi to a hostel a few blocks away to sleep until morning broke & we’d then be safe to walk around the town.

And so it was that I experienced my second ever hostel! Etnico Hostel were extremely lovely & let us kip in their lounge room (for free!) for the next four hours until we awoke to explore the saloon town of Chui, and plan our escape…

- By Cass

-Day 11-

The biggest learning curve of this trip so far for me, has been adapting to playing things by ear. Or at least, attempting to do so a little more graciously.

As those of you who know me well will agree, if I had a fifth middle name, it would probably be “The Organiser”. I just can’t help myself (although I won’t take all the credit, it is a quality mirrored in Mr Kelsall which I adore!)

So… the not knowing what time we will leave here, where we will go tomorrow or how we’ll get there, and who knows what bed we’ll be sleeping in… it’s feeling very much as Ian once described this trip as ‘the great escape’. Or for me, a bit like I’ve got a spaz attack coming on at all times.

Anyway, taxi’s are extortionately priced here on Santa Catarina, and our Portuguese is so laughable, it’s occasionally the only response we get, so it’s a good thing we had Chester (the Brazillian Gok Wan, darling) on hotel reception to help us navigate bus schedules for the day. We chugged our way South with the locals to Barra Lagoa beach.

Though the crowd at this beach was a little bit ‘trashier’ than at Praia Mole, we had an unusual experience as a crowd formed just a stone’s throw away - we has a nosey to see what was happening and were lucky enough to see a turtle being released into the wild by the local turtle sanctuary!

Another long traffic fuelled bus ride to what may have been the only ATM on the island, and we found ourselves in Lagoa. A pleasant little stumble upon, as we found ourselves weaving in and out of a craft street market, live music, and had a taste of Brazil’s famous Acai - like a berry sorbet topped with granola & sliced banana. DELICIOUS!

At sunset we strolled back across the bridge and watched a man cast his net into the shallow lagoon scooping up blue ‘Siri’ (crab). What better place to stop for dinner, we thought, and walked a little further until we came across a lively waterfront bar-restaurant called ‘Peixe + Frito’. Other than the feather boa wearing cover-band, all was looking good, until they served our ‘sequencia de camarao’. This I can only describe as ‘a sequence of prawn surprises’. Though this meal ranked as the most affordable we’ve had so far in Brazil, it certainly did not place as the tastiest!

We headed to a bus stop with the niggling feeling we might suffer the ‘surprise’ portion of our meal the next day. After a while on the bus, things began to look familiar which was a good sign! Until we realised we were in fact doing a loop. It was dark. We were lost. Bus drivers were defiantly unhelpful. Cue Cass flip out + unnecessarily expensive taxi back to the hotel, cancelling out our chirpy smugness about our affordable supper!

(Only because i’m writing this with a days hindsight & no prawn surprise am I able to write this next sentence…)

This holiday is becoming a perpetual great unknown, but the unknown is becoming an aspect I’m starting to enjoy :)

- by Cass

-Day 10-

Florianopolis (or Floripa to the locals) and the attached island of Santa Catarina delivered another wealth of experiences. Famed for its stretches of untouched beaches and consistent surf breaks, Cass and I were a little surprised at how built up the island is. As we sped along the main highway in a taxi close to midnight after a killer 14 hour bus ride, we navigated the driver to our somewhat remote Pousada Oceanomare, set back in the hills on the north east coast. The manicured grounds and modern stilted glass and wooden apartamentos were a welcome sight to recover in, although the vertiginous narrow staircase to the upper deck may challenge some of Brazil’s more bootlicious - the cake breakfasts have not yet taken their tole.

With parapenters parachuting to earth at our feet and glassy green waves curling for surfers as we reached Praiha Mole, we were set for another perfect beach day. Grabbing a board and hopping over the burning white sand, I battled through the white water to reach the lineup while Cass perfected her bikini tan line. It’s been a while since I hit the waves and my fitness has fallen so a majority of the two hours was paddle practise, regaining my strength, with a few surfs in between. It’s always a pleasure though being in the channel and watching masters at work, gracefully harnessing the waves.

What we had really come to Floripa for though was the Summer Soul Festival , thanks to our amazing friend Sharon who had organised tickets for us. Unfeasibly for the apparent short distance across the island, it took us 3 buses to reach the Music Park stage, but we needn’t have worried about missing the 9pm scheduled start, as the organisers were on “island time”. On finally collecting the tickets (our Portuguese is still poor) we realised that we had golden “Camarote” VIP access, giving us free booze but more importantly arms reach distance to the stage. First up and an unexpected surprise was Rox, a Londoner with a sultry Billie Holiday look and cheeky sexy stage strut, pumping up the young 10,000 strong crowd who whooped behind us. The main act for us and a host of super fans who held up “Flawless” signs was Florence and the Machine. Her incredible voice, like a choral shockwave electrifying the crowd and luminous smile radiated down as she skipped up and down the stage barefoot in a diaphanous olive and petrol silk dress. Rounding off the set with “Never let me go” we wish she hadn’t as the distinctly average Bruno Mars followed, to which we took our leave. We managed to grab a taxi who luckily took MasterCard to bring us home, just before the start of another cloudless day…

Apparently there are 4 types of Facebookers: Braggers, Moaners. Inviters, and the Self-Righteous. After 2 weeks of of sun soaked beach updates to my wintry London brethren I should apologise, but I suspect Cass and I are going to remain firmly in category 1.

Sorry guys, the dog days are over :-)

- By Ian

-Day 9-

I spent some time absorbing and admiring sharp design and clever billboard advertising in both Rio and Sao Paulo, including a particularly good billboard on Ipanema beach that sprayed sunscreen when you walked by. It just goes to show that exceptional creative ideas really shine through when they’re able to communicate to just about anyone (though any copywriting prowess was totally lost on me!)

If anything, what I then saw only amplified the contrast in design, signage and advertising anywhere outside the cities. Ok, ten years of graphic design in one of the greatest cities in the world may have left me a little saturated, if not spoilt. However, I can now say I’ve seen crime in Brazil. Crime against my eyes.

Now I’m not saying I’ve never seen design monstrosities in London or New York,there have been plenty, but I’ve just never seen so many consistent offences in a row on one 12 hour bus journey!* And beyond the common crimes committed in Comic Sans around the world. I also have some queries over the ‘no smoking’ symbol over here. But I subsequently read a great article by a Chilean typographer called Daniel Hernández who has restored my faith, though it seems it might be some time, if not forever, before this typo love spreads to the provinces.

Anyway, our day actually started by opening our eyes to some offensive lime green curtains in our hostel. With a heavy backpack and a Brahma hangover, we trudged through the Sao Paulo drizzle to the bus terminal. It felt a bit like home. Drizzle quickly developed into a torrential downpour as we set off.

Top deck of bus, big reclining seats, free ‘goodie box’ of treats as we stepped on board - good start. But what do you do for 12 hours on a bus? As with most things, Ian and I came prepared. Eat. Read a bit of Lonely planet guide. Eat. Game of travel scrabble, Ian wins by 18 points, he is smug. Drink. Wee in gross bus toilet. Listen to travel podcast about traveling by bus in South America. Eat. Speculate about boy in front, is he albino or just ridiculously blonde? Drink. Stare out of window at bad advertising spoiling view of luscious mountains & banana plantations for 3 hours. Write blog, can’t read because it makes me feel sick. Wolf down new discovery of double chocolate wafer biscuits. Feel better. Get excited about VIP tickets to Summer Soul Festival tomorrow! Still hours to go hmmmm. And we have no idea what to do or where to go when we arrive in Florianopolis at midnight. Brilliant.

- By Cass

* Apologies for lack of photographic proof and examples - the bus was moving too fast & camera wasn’t accessible!

-Day 8-

The grey overcast morning light and torrential rain was an unwelcome eye opener in South America’s largest metropolis; at 4:30 am, few bus terminals in the world would claim to entreat you to explore their city. However, after soaking up the tropical heat and lush natural surroundings of Ilha Grande and Paraty, Sao Paulo’s urban sprawl, combined with a groggy head, felt like a Monday morning in the office following a week in the sun. As with London, there are infinite reasons why over 20 million Paulistenos call the city their home and divert their attention from the inclement weather. As Brazil’s work horse it has shopping malls to rival New York and apparently a strong art, design and cultural scene. U fortunately though, on Cass and my 1 day pitstop here enroute to Florianopolis, we had a tight schedule.

We were very thankful to escape the rain, buzz through the somewhat shady entrance gate and catch a few extra hours sleep in the excellent LuneTime hostel. Clean,modern and using its namesake as a keynote for its furnishings - though perhaps lime curtains was a mistake. After migrating from sofa to dorm room and finally private double, we hit the now drizzly lunchtime streets.

On initial inspection, Sampa (the colloquial name) feels a fairly functional city with limited charm downtown, but strolling through the Jardin district we spotted orchids growing natively on the pavement trees, softening the shuttered fortresses of the surrounding apartments. Our mission was to find the Havaianas concept store. After navigating the Rodeo Drive-esque boutiques, complete with valet parking for even coffee shops, we arrived to a spectrum of flipflops in every shade, but sadly not every size. My size 11 is popular, so instead I took advantage of the custom service and made my own in “baby blue” and “chocolate brown” - for roughly £8, our first Brazilian bargain. Cass opted for a slim strapped bronze pair, which we’re bizarrely more expensive, but as the originals are practically indestructible, I suppose they have to differentiate somehow.

Following a delicious coffee and eclair, and after making use of the excellent tube system with its wide carriages and air conditioning (TFL take note) we did a quick turnaround from the hostel and headed out to meet Cass’ ex House of Lords colleagues for dinner at Esquisito. Eliana and Alessandra had told us to catch-up with them if we hit Sampa, as well as stressed how guarded we should be against crime; although after surviving Rio unscathed we felt relatively safe. With a hearty steak and a side of Bolhino Carne Seca ( dried beef steak balls - tastier than it sounds) and washed down with the obligatory Caipaharina, Alessandra’s boyfriend whisked us on a driving tour of the city in search of a busy bar to enjoy a few late cervezas. The guys were incredibly hospitable and treated us all night, rounding up a generous introduction to a long day in Sampa.

- By Ian

-Day 7-

Through it’s cobble stones and cobalt walls, Paraty is a beautiful village to meander through - but during the soaring day time temperatures it feels like a ghost town. So luckily by morning my tummy had put itself back together enough for us to go out on a Schooner boat trip for the day to explore a few of the 55 islands and 100 beaches skirting the coastline, reachable only by boat.

A rugged defender jeep arrived to pick us up (Ian’s dream car- not mine) and we wedged ourselves into the back between several ample sized tourists. After 10 minutes Ian pointed out that it was odd that we seemed to be heading inland… could we be picking some more people up? Where were they going to sit - on our laps!? It then occurred to us that we were not stopping at all. So, we flapped and began squawking the word ‘schooner’ to everybody, to which the response was ‘nao, cascadas’- translation- ‘no, waterfalls’! We realised that we’d actually jumped into a random jeep, no one had checked us and we were too excited to bother to ask! The short but sweet driver ushered us out and asked a random bloke across the road with a minibus to run us back to where we came. They must be familiar with stupid tourists.

You know, so far in Brazil, timeliness has not been a characteristic that’s struck us as being particularly prevalent. But by the time somebody came to collect us (for the second time, oops!) we were pretty late and the last to get on the boat. As they pulled in the gangway after us, I thought we were literally going to get a standing ovation, complete with accompaniment on guitar!

Minutes later we were sailing across emerald waters with Brazil’s answer to Jack Johnson serenading away. We made several stops at deserted white sand beaches and deep water bays, and were lucky enough to see a stingray jump up out of the water and swim with shoals of fish including flute fish. Ian took the opportunity to challenge me to jump off the highest part of the boat. Despite the fact I hate it when my feet can’t touch the bottom, it was exhilarating not to mention refreshing so I did it again and again! So, the next five hours were spent jumping in, climbing out and re-applying sunscreen, and of course the obligatory ham & cheese roll at lunch.

We met two lovely couples on the boat, Canadians and Finns and decided we’d hook up in the evening for some dinner. First we went for drinks at a swanky place in the old town called Margarida Cafe. It came highly recommended by our good friends Hannah and James who’d done a similar trip just months earlier! Then we chowed down some traditional frango (chicken) rice and beans at a charming rustic place nearby and had a final few beers before Ian and I tipsily shuffled our way to the bus station to make our overnight journey to Sao Paulo.

The bus station however was a bit dodgy & on the outskirts of town, and to be honest, we didn’t have a clue what we were doing as this was to be our first ‘big bus’ trip. With difficulty, we collected our tickets and checked in our baggage. I was pleasantly surprised however when we got inside and saw the seats almost fully reclined with legrests & about double the legroom you get on a plane! It was hard to contain my excitement… until my enthusiasm had dwindled about 6 hours later when my bum was numb and the bumpy roads were keeping me wide awake! Meanwhile, after years of practice sleeping with noise on Kingsland Road & Clapham High Street, Ian slept like a baby.

- By Cass

-Day 6-

Our 3 days in the lush and relaxing paradise of Ilha Grande have flown by and it feels a real shame to leave our island home at the at the Portal dos Bolbas. We are promised great things though of Paraty, our next destination. The tramp back to the jetty loaded up like Ninja Turtles with our backpacks is eased by seeing other holidayers dragging hefty roller cases over the undulating sand - did they not realise the main road was the beach?

Aboard the schooner back to the mainland, I make a new best friend. An “adorable” Rottweiler cross - I’m sure that’s what owners usually say before their child becomes a chew toy - who nuzzles my legs for a stroke before collapsing in the heat at my feet, almost cutting the circulation off with his hulk. It seems I have a way with man’s best friend, Cass notes, as the previous day during lunch, a spaniel tried to piss on my chair while I enjoyed a cerveza.

The drive to Paraty tracks the coastline and we note the other outlying islands, no doubt concealing untouched beaches to rival Lopez Mendes. The land and vegetation maintain the vivid greenness, with Palm and Banana plantations lining the road and sweeping mountain views carving out the horizon. We are not disappointed on our arrival. Paraty (pronounced Para-chee) is a well manicured colonial town divided by a perfectly straight canal-like river which our Pousada Provence overlooks and separates us from the old town. The guest house is a little oasis, complete with dipping pool, a somewhat unnecessary sauna ( I can just stand in the sun to sweat) and backing onto the forested hills behind. Cass rests with an upset stomach and I trade Portuguese and English words with Gustav at reception. He reminds me of the guy from CSI Las Vegas and typifies Brazil’s melting pot of nationalities with emerald green eyes, European features and caramel skin.

The almost artisan cobbled streets give Paraty its character and enforce you to flaneur; attempting to walk any faster only results in stubbed toes in flip-flopped feet. The balmy evening with a soundtrack of pulsing drums from festivities in the main square and a bustle of tourists exploring the many exceptional craft and Cachaça shops, reminds me of childhood holidays with my parents; a chance to enjoy the pleasures of eating late and watch the world go by.

- By Ian

-Day 5-

After yesterdays ‘excursion’ (or exertion!) our third day on Ilha Grande felt like it ought to be a day of rest! And so we rested. We flip flopped our way to a cute little beach called Praia Preta just East of the village. As usual we were the palest people on the sand… surely my tan should be developing by day 5, but alas, my factor 50 seems to be taking care of that one! Ian on the other hand is already sporting white bits where the sun don’t shine, and is very smug about it too. Losing myself in a good book is one of holiday’s most guilty pleasures, because I often don’t have the time back home. Ian and I are both keen readers & easily polish off a novel in a week (currently I’m reading The Help, Ian: The Kite Runner). However until today, we have not seen a single soul reading a book ANYWHERE?! I’m thinking they must be concentrating on their tan instead! In the midday heat we went for a stroll in the shade to see some of the island’s history.

Though there’s little trace of it now, Ilha Grande used to be a leper colony, then a prison for Brazil’s most dangerous criminals, and at one point in time was even a quarantine stopover for diseased European immigrants. Luckily things have changed since those days! The food here is delicious, fresh fish is plentiful… but other food does seem to get a bit samey after a bit. A chicken & cheese sandwich for lunch today was a welcome treat after five days of ham & cheese baguettes ‘stealthily acquired’ from our inclusive breakfast spread ;P

This evening we watched the fish being brought in by the fishermen & then ate them fresh from a beach BBQ at ‘Cafe do Mar’. Washed down with Caipahrinias under a twinkling starry sky… this is such a magical place- I don’t want to leave tomorrow!

- By Cass

-Day 4-

“Without darkness, there is no light” read the exquisite calligraphy tattooed across the tanned chest of the Finnish guy on our boat, as we departed the island paradise of Ilha Grande. This reminded me of my own pleasure/pain theory – admittedly not an original one, but which again rang true for the highlight of the trip so far; our trek to Lopez Mendes beach.

Mark and Sebastian, Cass’ dad and brother had teased her that on our travels I’d subject us to perilous trails and enquired if she was prepared with heavy walking boots.  I had reassured her that this was a coastal discovery trip with a few vineyard excursions thrown in. On arrival in Arbraõ on Ilha Grande however, we soon learned that one of Brazil’s most celebrated beaches lay on the other side of the island. Although accessible by boat from the many operators in the tiny village, a 6Km trail was also marked through the verdant Atlantic forest that carpets the interior.

With blue plimsolls and box fresh white Converse on our feet, a supply of purloined ham and cheese rolls from the breakfast buffet and a bladder of water in Cass’ new camelback, we hit the trail.

Beads of sweat rolled down our foreheads as the shady but humid forest and steep climb pushed our rested muscles. We were treated though to captivating views of the coast as we reached the upper canopy as well as screeching cicadas, booming monkeys (we hoped…), giant fluttering sapphire butterflies and the odd flying squirrel.

Avoiding the temptation to stop at the three beautiful small hamlet beaches and entreating emerald sea along the way, we pushed on and in just under 3 hours emerged from the leafy shadows on to the blistering white sand of Lopes Mendes. With grains so fine it squeaked as we took turns running down to the refreshing gentle waves, this was our well-earned reward. Even after swimming in Rio, the unspoilt natural beauty of this lime tree fronted beach and turquoise water felt truly invigorating. Sadly there were no waves to surf, which would have made it perfect, but then that may have curtailed our mission or the trip far to early.

Deciding against trekking our return, we opted for a schooner in the previous bay to take us back to Arbraõ. Now I having nothings against a pair of speedos for swimming in, but off the beach they really don’t do any man any favours, especially the “Cuban Brothers”, or so I coined them. Sporting matching white fedoras, feminine gold neck chains, and as a slight departure from the uniform, respective red and white mini  swimming briefs. Stranger though, despite being completely waxed, one had a hairy shoulder patch reminiscent of a gun holster slung under his arm. God knows why, but his attentive girlfriend didn’t seem to mind.

After a decadent few days of evening Epicureanism, we decided to share a pizza in the main church square. Thinking the Saint Sebastian festivities were over after last night’s celebrations, we were surprised by a full Sunday service to accompany our meals, complete with a procession and communion. I guess more than most, Christian’s believe in the pleasure/pain theory.

 - By Ian

-Day 3-

You see, there’s a small part of me that feels like I may have missed the rite of passage portion of my angsty, chain toting gothic teen years - all because I didn’t take a gap year to go traveling.

This afternoon, on a rustic white wooden sail boat bound for Ilha Grande from Agra, we lounged around with about twenty other optimistic (& slightly sunburned) travelers. As Ian and I park our pasty white derrieres in the shade at the nose of the boat, we gaze ahead in utter awe as we set sail into what feels like an endless ocean of islands, and then I observe how interesting it can be see the ways in which other people pass time.

The ‘Young Set’ (let’s call them that, because I saw it in a 70’s fondue recipe book while I was packing & it’s stuck in my head ever since!) So, other than us and another couple around our age, the boat is pretty much made up of ‘The Young Set’ on their gap years. A group of 18 year old girls coalesce in the centre of the boat and proceed to preen each other like monkeys for the next hour completely oblivious with headphones jammed in their ears, so irreverent about being in the midst of the most beautiful surroundings I have seen in all my life.

Then it suddenly occurs to me - I am so pleased I am not on a gap year.

Like good wine, there are some things best saved for a more mature palette and I feel that this might just be one of them. As we sail out to an island untouched by motor vehicles or ATM’s, I am basking in the shade, and the dawning realisation that only after ten years of studying and working in London is this experience so incredibly blissful and inspiring. Freedom from the constraints of the modern times we live, which until just three days ago appeared so integral to our existence (err she says while typing into her MacBook pro lol, hey, I can’t go complete cold turkey!)

But tonight as the teen gap yar girls tuck into their hostel bunks after cheap cachaça and a snog with José, I’ll be settling into our ‘Pousada’ filled with grilled calamari and king prawns, thinking thank god I had the chance to experience this now, for what was always a regret has now revealed itself as something that the ‘me’ from ten years ago would not have been capable of appreciating.

- By Cass

-Day 2-

Those of you who know Cass and I will understand we like a plan. Being the ‘reliable couple’, as we have been referred, you’ll probably be surprised to hear we only booked accommodation for Rio, and left our other destination hotel beds “flexible”. What we hadn’t accounted for was the festival of Saint Sebastian. Like a great British bank holiday weekend, this Rio de Janeiro state only break leads Cariocas (Rio’s residents) to head to the islands, and importantly for us, Ilha Grande.

Admittedly, I should have studied my Brazilian Portuguese more thoroughly in London. Though ordering a beer and getting away with pointing at the menu carried us yesterday, deciphering the accent over the phone is a completely different matter. As with learning all new languages, picking your question in your phrase book, complete with phonetic guide, is simple enough. The machine gun response however leaves you stumped. The overriding repeated phrase though from the twenty posadas (guest houses) on Ilha Grande was ‘Não há vagas’ - no room at the inn! With the mounting irritation Mary must face felt with Josef for not booking ahead, Cass and I persisted until finally Hélio and Norma at the ‘Portal dos Borbas’ said they had an available, if somewhat pricey room - we just hoped it wasn’t the stable…

Feeling relieved but intent not to repeat this mistake and spend more hours locked in a hotel room while the sun blazed outside, we quickly organised our buses for the next nine days and shot emails to hotels in Paraty, our next destination in 4 days. To say Ipanema was packed is an understatement. Almost every square inch up to the crashing water’s edge was occupied with a family celebrating/sheltering under a red parasol. The holiday had brought everyone who couldn’t escape the heat of the city to the beach. With seconds to spare, Cass spotted a prime clear patch by the sea and swooped in with our sarongs. Brazilian’s are not worried by personal space and despite our close proximity, others soon clustered around us to enjoy the lapping waves and cloudless sky. From here, we had a perfect view for more people watching of every shake and size; bootlicious thongs to ‘back burrito’ bulges.

Though I’m not religious, I’m always astounded by the incredible fears of design and engineering it inspires. And so we headed to ‘Cristo Redentor’ (Christ the redeemer) who towers with open arms, surveying the staggeringly beautiful Rio landscape atop the 710m Corcavado peak. Via a relay of public bus, shared taxi and tourist bus we reached the summit in the mid afternoon. Although pleasingly cool, the overcast sky made for dull photographs, save for the spectacle of tourists lying on their backs to frame their standing partners echoing the Christ’s outstretched arms looming above. What we did realise though, was that the twin peaks at the end of Ipanema we had taken for the famous sugar loaf mountain, we’re infant another range, and the loaf itself stood prominently to the north closer to Copacabana.

With some recommendations in hand from Brazilian friends, in the evening we headed for the trendy area if Leblon. Cass put on her heels and so was a little self conscious when we arrived at ‘Bracarense’. What we had took to be a cool cocktail bar was actually closer to a New York style alfresco diner. However we soon settled in at the bar stools and sank some ice cold tumblers of choppee, delivered in rapid succession by our eager barman who served up a range of delicious appetisers : prawn balls with cream cheese, squid and crab patties, followed by a hearty pork sandwich carved from the bone in front of us. Again in fragmented Portuguese, we chatted with a Brazilian family who took to us enjoying their local before we headed to the ‘Academia Cachaça’. For those unacquainted, Cachaça is Brazil’s national spirit, a ‘put Hayes on your chest’ sugar cane liqueur usually unadulterated with any mixer except sugar and fresh lime. Thinking I was choosing a “healthy” option, I opted for a combination with Coconut juice but on arrival bore a strong resemblance to a lethal ‘Bushwhacker’ Cass’ brother Sebastian bought me in Nashville. Cass meanwhile was served an innocuous looking fruity number but on tasting could strip point and killed a small part of her liver. When asked to suggest a mixer to soften it, the sheepish waiter suggested more ice! After a boozy season extending since early December, we’re astounded we need more drinking practice.

- By Ian

-Day 1-

Our first day began with cake. For breakfast.

There was chocolate bundt cake, coconut cake (very moist!), syrupy caramel flan, ectoplasmic custard cake… any cake you can think of, I think we’ve seen it here, and probably tasted it too (I keep trying to convince Ian it’s one of the many ways we can ‘immerse ourselves’ in the Brazillian culture, but he’s not biting.)

I’m beginning to understand the reason why Rio has some serious booty!

We had our work cut out for us as we offset the ‘o bolo’ breakfast with a long morning stroll up and down iPanema and Leblon beaches. SPF50 and fresh coconut in hand, we absorbed the most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen in my life. Through the morning mist, clusters of high rise city buildings & hillside favelas emerged, sandwiched in-between epic rainforest covered mountains in the background, & white sand beaches and shore breaking waves in the foreground.

Our lighter shade of pale forced us to take shade under an umbrella for most of the day on the beach, and I couldn’t help but notice the women (Ian enjoyed an eyeful too ;P ) Well, two things about them, the first less obvious- in Rio, they don’t seem to carry handbags? Where do they put their purse, lipgloss, keys…? I’m not sure whether this is a safety thing, but I took note and did as the locals did… and Ian had to carry all my stuff in his pockets!

Next, I have never seen so many thong bikinis in my life! Size 8 or 18, age 8 or 88, EVERYONE is in a thong! The confidence of women here is inspiring; we prudish Brits could learn a thing or two about embracing the love handles and treating them as voluptuous, after all it’s not your size, it’s about how you carry it.
My white bottom however, sticks out like a sore thumb and is definitely singing “mug me” rather than “the thong song”!

As the end of the day drew, we climbed the Arproador rocks to photograph what ended up being not-quite a sunset. As we tried to look inconspicuous with a tripod and Ian’s brand new £1500 camera kit, Ian captured the fishermen perching in perilous positions and pulling in fresh squid by the bucket load.

We braved an electrical storm and went out for supper at an upscale place in iPanema called Market. Whenever I see fillet steak cost the same as penne pasta, I’ll be having the steak. And whenever a can of beer is less than a coke, it’s pretty obvious that I’ll also be having the beer…. Looking back at the ‘photo’ I made for our leaving drinks invitation, I can’t help but wonder, am I about to fulfill my own prophecy?

But then again, it would be rude not to try the freshly baked banana cake at breakfast tomorrow…

- By Cass

We were lucky. London’s shift into winter only hit us in the final week, making an escape into Brazil’s glorious golden sunshine even sweeter. Crisp blue skies and dry frosty air saved us from the capital’s usual grey dankness, which seeps into your bones and reddens a dripping nose.

Having packed everything we own including our winter clothes - with our combined OCD exactitude - and moved them to Manchester, we were left with: assorted summer layers, a rain mac for me, a borrowed ‘Arthur Daily’ jacket for Cass, plus a pair of Uggs. I succumbed to buying a new beanie after shaving my hair in readiness for the tropics, only to feel my ears turn blue!

Leaving friends and family for me has only become easier with the years and my repeated exits from ‘normal’ life. Cass though is trusting in my belief in her; that she can succeed anywhere and spread her wings from London’s sometimes insular metropolis. Her friend’s concern and joy at our adventure is testament to her character and their close bond - I am under strict instruction not to hurt her, which I am happy to obey.

There is something particularly delicious about sitting in Terminal 5, looking out at British drizzle and knowing you are soon to soar above it and be evacuated to soul enhancing climes. BA flight 289 passed it’s 10 hours uneventfully from London to Rio over the mighty Atlantic, save Cass, who, a little smugly, pipped me at Scrabble.

Those familiar with the opening sequence of the film ‘Collateral’, where Jamie Fox drives his taxi through LA’s nighttime urban sprawl whilst Motown plays, will get a feel for our ride into Rio. Only replace the Ray Charles with Bosa Nova and make the driving slightly more erratic; the driver seeking out impossible gaps between speeding trucks accompanied by the ‘Girl from Ipanema’.

Softly lapping waves and the floodlit view of daring night surfers at the Arpoador rocks is how we were greeted on our arrival. The last hotel bar on the point between Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, with a ‘choppee’ (Brazilian beer) in hand, we toasted the start of a journey to find the most beautiful beaches from Brazil to Buenos Aires and Beyond…

Skirting the Brazilian and Uruguayan Atlantic coast from Rio de Janeiro to Buenos Aires, before crossing the Pampas to Chile’s Pacific. We then skip over to explore New Zealand’s northern reaches, before making Sydney, the epitome of beach life, our new home. We can’t wait to share our passion for simple pleasures in beautiful locations.