Warm and cool, running water.

Two final things to note of Santiago. We used the city's efficient metro, and the Brother was delighted to see the large rubber wheels of the trains; we had to stop and stare at them every time we went onto the platform. The other was that on our way back from the vegetarian restaurant where we enjoyed a huge plate of stir fried veggies, we strolled through one of the many gardens in the middle of the city's busy wide roads. There we stumbled across a large fountain with a mesmerising display of powerful jets and vapour puffers, giving an apparently random performance in the slowly cooling evening. The height of the jets must have been around 30 feet, and there were about 25 of them down the middle, which would come on in sequence, turning off abruptly to leave an arc of water suspended in the air. With an international flight at 7.30, we needed to leave the hotel at 5am. I was up, dressed, packed and gingerly picking my way over the creaking floorboards, trying not to disturb anyone (although some guests had laughed and shouted on their departure half an hour before) by 4.50. The night porter told me that the taxi was already waiting, so I went to let the Brother know, and chatted with the driver in Santiago's pre-dawn warmth, while cars whizzed past and, further down the pavement, a home bound clubber slumped slowly to her knees at the bus stop. Several minutes later, no sign of the Brother, so I went and knocked again, only to be met with a grumpy retort about the accuracy of the taxi's timepiece. This, when translated into Spanish for the night porter and taxi driver, caused some mirth. We did eventually arrive at the airport, which was very busy, and found some more delicious fruit juice (chirimoya being the new one on me) while we waited. A flight over the Andes with the now more awake Brother happily snapping pics of enticing valleys and winding mountain roads brought us to Buenos Aires, and the uber trendy district of Palermo, where our hotel is a restored Art Nouveau facade, with all mod cons inside. Apart from the dead calf on the floor, it is sleek, fresh and marvellous. On a tree-lined street, with a maximum of three rooms per floor, modern design and state of the art bathrooms, it has just stepped out of the pages of an interiors feature. My bathroom has a mini-terrace with a jacuzzi open to the sky, and level with the canopy of the plane trees, and I made full use of it. The Brother, given his rather measly room in Santiago, deserved the better room, which has a large terrace with tables, chairs, orange beanbag and a jacuzzi. He'd saved my Benjamin of cava from Ushuaia, and said he'd drink it in the jacuzzi, but didn't use the facility. He's under instruction to have one before we leave today. We had a long ramble through some of the city's less well-known sights, ending up with a stroll through the shishi designer shopping area of downtown Palermo. Our route just happened to rotate around a couple of railway lines, and we even had to cross a level crossing, the Brother having the immense good fortune to capture a suburban train on camera as it sped past. Our last evening was spent dining al fresco at a restaurant which Lonely Planet described as a carnivore's paradise, but it did a pretty good sweet corn and squash stew too. The temperature just right for sitting outside, and the fashionable streets heaving with cool young things.

New year in Puerto Montt, and onwards

A very quiet day in 24 degrees or so of delicious warmth when I trekked around the shops of Puerto Montt, and the brothers took themselves off to Puerto Varas for a leisurely luncheon. I lunched in my room on bread and tomato purchased from Bigger, the main supermarket chain. Many jokes about going to the smaller Bigger. Then a wee siesta, before packing and off to the cuñada's mother's for a celebration with the entire family. The usual groaning table with calls for empañadas which went unheeded (luckily), and then to the viewpoint with most of the rest of the neighbourhood shortly before midnight. As the year changed, horns, flares and whoops of joy, accompanied by the popping of champagne corks, much hugging and kissing and wishing one another feliz año, before the municipal firework display from a boat in the bay started. Wonderful colours, bangs and glitter for the child in all of us, and then back to the house, en route further greetings, hugs and kisses, stopping the traffic. We made a discreet exit at around 1.30. Flew into Santiago next afternoon, via Temuco and Concepcion, the latter was the town affected by the earthquake in 2010. Santiago like a ghost town, with everyone at the coast for Valparaiso's renowned fireworks. A gem of a recently opened Art Deco hotel, where a mix up with our booking led to a delay checking in, and thus the loss of our planned afternoon's sight seeing, but leading to our paying for only one of the two rooms. 27 degrees, and an earlier sunset as we move further north to Santiago's wide boulevards, tree-lined streets and fin de siècle architecture. Out for our paseo to find somewhere to eat; we were assured that there would be nothing open, and strolled through Viña del Mar, an English development from the early twentieth century with a terrace of brightly coloured houses. Headed then for Bellavista, the old artesan quarter, where Pablo Neruda housed his mistress, at the foot of the hill in a large park. Had to fight our way through hordes of people streaming from the park where they had evidently been nursing their hangovers. Masses of restaurants open, so we stopped in a patio and had a meal. The waiter managed to knock the olive oil bottle onto the paved floor, which then splashed all over our rucksacks. Then bed, the brother's room (he gallantly took the smaller one) leading off an internal courtyard with whitewashed walls, black and white tiles and bamboo. The hotel's main staircase is an Art Deco treat, blocky curves and brass rail with steps of cool white stone. This morning, some problems with accessing the main blog page, as the Movistar mobile telephone company headquarters is right next door. Apologies if this has caused any confusion. A walking tour of Santiago, which took in the main sights, including the presidential palace where Salvador Allende died, and his statue outside. Also many stunning and graceful buildings from the early twentieth century, ending at the fabulous Museo de Bellas Artes, containing many treasures which we will not see as all museums in the city are closed on Monday. Nonetheless, plenty to see in Lasterria, and some excellent watering holes, where we sucked on fresh pineapple and mango juices to refresh ourselves. Off for a small siesta now, and supper at a veg restaurant tonight before an inhumanly early flight to Buenos Aires tomorrow. So sad that our time in South America is nearly over.

Belated birthday celebrations

Off to the real Chile; la cuñada's mother's birthplace, Calimaipu, a small fishing village west of Puerto Montt, on the Pacific, very reminiscent of the part of Devon where the Siblings grew up. No souvenir shops, lots of orange and yellow fishing boats bringing home strange sea creatures shaped like stones, which are a delicacy. Once a year, the town takes on the aspect of a wild west town, complete with whisky and whores, when the fishing fleet catches abalone, much prized, and the streets are awash with cash. (Perhaps I should clarify that this in no way resembles our home town). The rest of the year, it is slightly down at heel, a few gently crumbling wooden-shingled houses lining the streets, a sleeping dog or two, and the ubiquitous pickup trucks taking the catch to market. Then a short drive to the local beach, a long, sandy strand, with the deep blue, white-crested breakers I always associate with the Pacific. The Brothers walked there from the village, and while we waited for them to arrive, we feasted on fresh strawberries, cashews and peaches, watched la cuñada's son and grandson play in the waves, and paddled. Gulls, small raptors and other sundry avians nest in the ochre cliffs, while huge gunnera plants tumble their way down to the shore. The surf was tempting, but a stiff breeze and chilly water curbed my urge to bathe, and we wandered back up the beach to the turf and red-barked pines where the car was parked. Back then to Puerto Varas for a swim in a pool overlooking the lake, from where we could see the ash cloud still fuming out of the volcano which erupted earlier in the year. Luckily for Chile, the westerly wind blows it all towards Argentina (I suspect a plot), not so lucky for the Argentine tourist industry around Bariloche where the ash is several inches thick. I was grateful that I'd changed our original travel plan to return to Buenos Aires via Bariloche. The Other Brother "invited" the Brother and me to celebrate somewhat belatedly our respective decades, in a lovely restaurant overlooking the lake, the temperatures still in the twenties at 8pm, where we were joined later by the surgeon who replaced the Other Brother's hip, and who had spent some time in the Siblings' county town. An interesting conversation with his charming wife who teaches social work in the local university. She introduced me to a Peruvian pudding suspiro de limonea (lemon sigh), and several bottles of delicious wine were imbibed, although sadly not by wrinklitourist, for whom abstinence here is utter torture. Nonetheless a wonderful day, just like all the other wonderful days we have experienced here. La Noche Vieja will be spent en famille, at what is billed as a chaotic evening, with fireworks at midnight, then off go the Brother and I again to Santiago tomorrow morning on the final leg of our wrinklie expedition. A Happy New Year to all!

All day breakfast in Puerto Montt

Staying in a hotel overlooking the bay, with excellent views of all the shipping coming and going, so the Brother is happy. The Other Brother will be moving in today, also a mechanophile, if that's the word, and fraternal happiness will be unbounded. The boat trip from Punta Arenas which I eschewed (ardent followers will recall my earlier comments on the subject) ends up here, and we saw it leaving on the return journey the evening we arrived. The restaurant where breakfast is served is on the tenth floor, and our day began yesterday with a leisurely breakfast considering a few clouds in an otherwise blue sky. Thence to la cuñada's mother's house, where a second extensive breakfast was waiting - well, it would have been rude to refuse - and then to Puerto Varas, a town about half an hour away on Llequihue Lake with stunning views of the perfectly conical Volcano Osorno, sugar frosted with snow. It had been fully 45 minutes since we last ingested, so a leisurely coffee was then taken while contemplating whether we could bring ourselves to engage in any activity. Feeling somewhat guilty at our sloth up to that point in the day, we drove to the ski station on the volcano and set off on what was billed by friends of the Other Brother (who are also of our now enlarged party) as a "gentle bimble". I am not sure what a bimble is, but gentle it was not, largely because we somehow ended up going rather dramatically off piste (literally, given the area's winter sport) and slipping our way up a steep slope of ash and other igneous material until we found what seemed to be the path again. I should point out in fairness that the friends of Other Brother took a far more strenuous path, walking from halfway down the road leading to the ski station, so we were shamed into silence by this more impressive feat. Nonetheless, we felt somewhat justified thereafter in tucking in heartily to the extensive board at which we found ourselves seated on returning to la cuñada's mother's, and a very enjoyable evening. With temperatures around 24 degrees, and full sun all day - those clouds moved on - and mercifully no wind of note, this has been a pleasant change from the more extreme conditions further south. While Puerto Montt has little to recommend, Puerto Varas has beaches, beautiful greenery, and two volcanoes dominating the skyline, plus a wealth of outdoor activities to choose from. I am very much hoping that the Other Brother and la cuñada do indeed end up buying a retirement home here...they would have no dearth of visitors, and my annual escape from UK at the end of the year would have a clear destination. I forgot to mention in my entry for Punta Arenas that we paid our now obligatory visit to the cemetery. This has wonderful mature yew or macrocarpa avenues, and is stuffed with the graves of the early colonists, thus many foreign names, and some monumental grave architecture. In the more modern section, through which we passed on entry, there are concrete blocks with small windows onto memorials for the departed, each a little shrine with photos, plastic flowers, and, this being Christmas, reindeer, Santas and electronic devices playing tinkly carols. Quite surreal. Also a touching memorial to the "disappeared" of the seventies, so many and mostly so young.

After the end of the world, Part II

Wednesday dawned bright and sunny, but with 125 km/hr winds. We had a free morning, so wandered into town to the Braun Menedez museum (see below), but fighting the wind was a real effort. Even the locals felt it was unusual for Patagonia, we saw one guy blown off his feet. You had to bend into the wind, and the grit in your eyes was most unpleasant. We bid farewell to the yogis, much hugging and kissing, and went to the airport, to catch our flight (slightly delayed) to Puerto Montt, where the Other Brother and wife (la cuñada) were waiting for us, whisked us off to our hotel and then plied the Brother with vast amounts of alcohol, while I chatted to two chaps from Santiago. And so to bed, with a pleasant three days ahead of us.

After the end of the world, Part I

After that, how did we spend Boxing Day? On a bus travelling across miles of Patagonian pampa. A very comfortable bus, but nonetheless, a journey of about 12 hours, much of which was on unpaved roads, through Chile. It was our one real experience on this trip of how real backpackers do it, and, although an experience I will not be repeating with alacrity, nonetheless valuable. Ushuaia is described locally as El Fin del Mundo, or the end of the world/earth, and getting from it to anywhere else is necessarily complicated. For a start, anyone travelling to anywhere else in Argentina has to pass through Chile, crossing the border twice; there's simply no other way. The distance from Ushuaia to our final destination, Punta Arenas, is not that far on the map, even allowing for the lack of crow flying and potentially poor roads, so we could not understand why it was billed as an 11 hour journey. That is until after we crossed the Argentine border, hit two or three miles of unpaved road before the Chilean border check, and were held there for approaching two and a half hours. I am at a loss to explain the reason for this, all that happened was that we had our passports stamped and ran our luggage through an X-ray machine to ensure that we were not attempting to bring in any fresh fruit...you're there ahead of me, because of course, the Brother had a cunning plan involving packed lunch, tea etc, with apples and bananas featuring strongly, and, of course, we had to cram these, plus his four-day-old beef sandwich, before we hit the border post. The hold-up at the border was far worse if you were not on a bus - our driver did the formalities for us - others had to queue in strong cold winds for a long time before having to pass through the Ministry of Agriculture cursory check of the car - this involves an official leaning into the car at the front, the back and the boot, lifting the odd bag and then waving them on. So all answers as to why this takes up to three hours, on a postcard, please. Arrived at Punta Arenas, and dragged our wheelies up the hill to our hotel which was a yoga and meditation centre, with profound sayings stencilled on the wall, and chappatis for breakfast. Actually, lovely, clean, spacious, peaceful and very welcoming, and a strange contrast with the slightly down at heel feel of the city. There are loads of rather crumbling Art Deco buildings, dusty streets and miles of wires. This was an important part of colonial expansion in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, with many of the leading figures from UK or Croatia. We visited a house belong to one of these families (Braun Menedez), an Art Nouveau splendour gracing the main square, sadly somewhat neglected, but still impressive. What was interesting was the faux brocade on the walls (actually cleverly printed), fake marble fireplace and painted "wood inlay", and the fact that the master bedroom was on the ground floor. All that ostentatious wealth encrusting the walls and windows was fine, but what was the most interesting was the basement with the maids' rooms, rather luxurious bathroom, and the kitchen, with lots of familiar household names on jars and tins from the UK.

So how did you spend your Christmas?

You should know that the Brother and I share a particular gene which inclines us to the "Bah! Humbug!" tendency and one of the many reasons for making this trip was to escape the madness (and, to us, the hell) that is Christmas in the UK. In Argentina the celebration takes place on the evening of the 24th, when the family gathers to have a big meal. Also, apparently, at least in Ushuaia, on the dot of 12, everyone lets off fireworks. I mentioned before that the Brother was entranced by the idea of supper from tins, bits of cheese, smelly sausage, some bread and a banana. Really, I believe that when he rings down the curtain and goes to join the choir invisible, on his puffy cloud there will be a tin of sardines, a half-eaten banana, and a bar of chocolate he's been saving at the bottom of his rucksack since his last holiday. Christmas Eve was no exception. A tin of lentils, one of peas and a packet of spaghetti sauce mixed together and heated in the microwave constituted our supper, and "jolly good" it was too. If it hadn't been for the hotel owner's children taking pity on us and bringing a benjamin of bubbly and some special biscuits to our rooms, we might have managed to get away with ignoring the festivities altogether, but we did, at least, have to offer them the customary seasonal greetings, but as it was in Spanish, perhaps it didn't count. At midnight, as I said, after we were both safely tucked up in bed, the Brother for once not audible through the adjoining wall, the whole town became a giant firework display. Which both of us missed entirely. Our breakfast table was graced with further gifts from the hotel, and we leapt into a landrover Defender at 10, and were taken to lakes Escondido (or Hidden Lake, although it seemed pretty obvious to me) and Fagnano. It was a little bit more than just a bus ride, however, as our drivers veered off into the lenga forest and took us the scenic route, over deeply rutted paths and around the edge of the lake. It was not for the faint hearted, but certainly was exhilarating. Perhaps the most endearing act of our driver was the moment when he opened his door and got out of the vehicle, leaving us in a slowly moving Land Rover which appeared to be out of control. My, how we laughed. Of course it was all part of the act, and the rest of the journey was peppered with other witticisms, such as "the only rule is, if we need a push, the women do it", "I don't know if this is the right road, I'm just following him" and "has anyone got a satnav?". It was expertly done, and we arrived after fording a river and a short hike at a lovely shack on the edge of the lake, where our asado was awaiting. The setting was wonderful, blue sky, sparkly water, enough wind for breakers, a pebble beach, lenga forest at our backs, and, of course, the inevitable mountains dominating the scene. Nibbles with wine were followed by a "choripan" or sausage sandwich, then barbecued beef and salad, and finally, banana cake with dulce de leche. Wrinklitourist's alternative was a soya something with potatoes, sensitively grilled in foil. While we were sitting in the rustic shack, we spotted out the back amidst the grey and russet tones of the forest, two little grey foxes, so perfectly camouflaged, and obviously drawn by the smell of the meat. They were wary but we could get close enough to take photos. It was a pretty good way to spend the day, and has to rank amongst the top five most untraditional ways to spend Christmas. Thoroughly satisfactory all round. How was yours? No, really I don't want to know...