San Pedro de Atacama

23 December 

A day of travelling, and hanging around in airports. At Santiago airport, in the middle of the departures hall, a group of children are drilled through Spanish traditional, and Chilean festive music, accompanied by a small band. Most take a turn at singing solo, giving their all under the exuberant encouragement of their conductor. One chubby 12-year-old was fit to burst as she tried to do the right thing, then visibly relieved when her turn was over. My heart went out to her, memories of how I saw myself at that age flooding in. I'm glad to feel just an inkling Christmassy.

Flying over dry brown mountains and salt lakes we arrive late pm at Calama airport, 1000 or so km north of Santiago and the "portal" for the Atacama desert. The rental vehicle is familiar: a red Mitsubishi pick-up, its wheels securely padlocked, even in the airport carpark. According to the Hertz rep there is a very high theft rate: vehicles are stolen and then driven across the Bolivian border for resale, with the connivance of the frontier guards. We drive past Calama (annual precipitation 5 mm), a copper-mining settlement where every house hides behind locked railings, petrol station shops protected in a similar way. Distant hills - the altiplano - gradually come into focus. Just before San Pedro we pass through the edge of the Valle de la Luna reserve. Its contorted crags, and ridges of tilted sedimentary rock, are spectacular in the evening sun.

Entering San Pedro, a small, laid-back oasis village sitting at 2400 m, between the altiplano and desert, we go a few loops on the narrow dirt roads before finding our accommodation, Casa Don Tomas. It's a middle-to-up-market place, half a km from the village centre, and slightly controversial booking - a far cry from the backpacking places I prefer. Don Tomas caters for those who speak no Spanish, prefer guided tours to autonomy, value pool relaxation over running around the altiplano landscapes, and are not inhibited by budget. On the plus side we are very comfortable, a short walk from the centre, have access to a computer (great for marital harmony) and - important for Juan - a clean, dust-free environment. (I admit I also like being able to get and stay clean after returning from our daily sorties with dust up my nose, throat dry and hair stiff with wind and sun.)

San Pedro has been an important settlement since pre-Hispanic times, a major stop on the trading route connecting the llama herders with the coastal fishing communities. It was first settled by Pedro de Valdivia in 1540, and his house still stands in the atmospheric village square. A decorated (artificial, of course) Christmas tree is positioned next to a large crib scene, the only indication in the village that we are in the festive period. The dusty streets are lined with single-storey adobe "artisanal" shops selling an identical range of (perhaps) alpaca wool scarves, colourful throws (probably from Bolivia or Peru), and lapiz/copper jewelry. In the evening the streets and numerous restaurants and bars fill with throngs of the young-ish; Andine flute music floats from cafés - or live music from restaurant terraces.

The village is now a tourist hotspot, a base for day or longer trips to the geological marvels in the surrounding Atacama and altiplano. This first evening we just have time for a brief stroll before having supper.

24 December 

We take our cue from the many agents advertising itineraries and visit the Salar de Atacama, a huge salt lake where three species of flamingo feed, their "S"-shaped necks making extraordinary reflections. Plovers and sandpipers are busy in the foreground. It is a wonderful moment, even if the restrictive walkway prevents us from getting as close as we would like.

We drive on up to the altiplano via the hamlet of Socaire. We are on a very well-established route, jumping out and snapping the scene alongside dozens of other tourists. Around the village are pockets of green - small fields, the occasional tree. It's hard to imagine how run-off from the surrounding volcanic hills would create enough water to sustain the precarious agriculture through the summer drought. But, right next to the church, is a small plot of healthy-looking broad beans. We drive on, picking up a peasant woman walking in the midday heat on crutches, apparently on her way to water her crops. At the point where we drop her the desert looks relentlessly barren. How can she scratch a living from this brutal landscape?

With little experience of what a pick-up can cope with, and scanty maps, deciding where to drive is not straightforward. But Juan is getting skilled at riding the corrugations, and I am getting better at staying calm as we skid around. As we climb, the tussocks of grass - classic pampa - are golden, the sky blue blue blue. We enter the Reserva Nacional Los Flamencos and, from the registration car park, have our first glimpses of vicuña, their golden fur almost camouflaging them.  

Descending the track, Laguna Miscanti appears indigo blue; the surrounding volcanic hills shades of rust; the sky intense blue. We are at around 4200 m and there's a strong wind Although it's summer, we are wearing windbreaks. As at the Salar, access is strictly controlled: we have to stay on a short track that avoids going to the shore of the lake so as to leave the nesting giant coots in peace. Physical exertion is to be avoided: the high altitude is giving me a dull headache, and I notice a pain in my chest when I walk at "normal" speed up the path.

We continue in our vehicle to Laguna Miñiques and watch a group of vicuñas feeding by the lake. A park ranger - presumably on the payroll to ensure drivers adhere to the official road - dozes in the sun. Juan manages to sneak off piste for a photo of a "new" mat-forming plant.

Back at San Pedro it's Christmas Eve. We return to our restaurant from the previous evening for their "Christmas meal" - no different in essence from the usual 3-course but an opportunity to double the price! Beetroot soup, steak, cake; and the ubiquitous Concha y Toro Casillero del Diablo cab sauv. 

25 December 

We are up at an unholy hour on the holy day, 3.45am, in order to link up with a group tour going out to the geyser, El Tatio. This because I have convinced Juan that the 200 km return drive on dirt roads would be very tiring to do on our own, especially on a road we didn't know, at night; our agent having recommended avoiding this stretch of road; and Lonely Planet describing the journey as an "ordeal". In fact the road is no problem. And we both find the constraints of the tour difficult - unable to stop and take photos.

We arrive at the 4300 m volcano crater at 6.30 am, along with a couple of dozen other vehicles. Across an area of a couple of square km 80 geysers (8% of the world's total) perform in the sub-zero dawn. Some spout upward in the classic geyser way; others appear as clouds of steam, or "fumaroles". Nearby is pool of hot water where we are invited to soak. Much as I like the idea, stripping off in the chilly temperature, and immersing myself in water that is only between 15 and 25 degrees, is resistible - especially as our guide warns us not to exceed 20 minutes in the (sulphurically) toxic water.

On our way back to San Pedro we stop at Machuca, originally a llama-herder settlement, lost in a fold of the altiplano hills, now the obligatory stop-off point for the tour buses. The population has declined to just four permanent villagers - there's no school or shop. Just after having oohed and ahed on seeing our first llamas (domestic, as all llamas are) we are confronted by an Indian villager selling them as kebabs. One of our group goes for it - but it's still too early in the day for me.

Surprisingly - it's Christmas Day - the little blue and white church is padlocked. Passing an adobe thatched cottage I hear excitement as presents are unwrapped and listen for a moment, celebrating Christmas vicariously.

Back at San Pedro Juan pays a price for the heat, altitude and frustrating ride: a humongous migraine. So, late afternoon I drive to Valle de la Luna on my own. The sand, salt and rock formations shaped by the wind have given it the lunar quality of its name. Along with hundreds of others I digitally gobble the views. On this memorable day I see the sun rise and set. 

26 December 

We make up our own tour, taking a road towards Bolivia and the Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaron. At the border the barrier is down and as we walk in the chill air to the adjacent hut we assume that we'll need to show our passports. But we aren't expecting to be turned back because of not having obtained the necessary exit and re-entry paperwork. In the office a photo of Bolivia's Evo Morales stares down at us; two little girls, wrapped in blankets, watch us dully. What could be their story?

After keeping us in suspense the immigration officer says that, "exceptionally", he can give us a permit to visit our destination, Laguna Verde. Juan is anxious that we'll have difficulty re-entering Chile if he is in fact breaking a rule, and someone else on duty when we return. The complications that would cause us don't bear thinking about. But three round-faced Indian officials reassure us and we drive on.

The landscape is starkly beautiful: reddish volcanic hills, pale blue-white Laguna Blanco followed by Laguna Verde, Volcán Licancabur dramatically reflected. No vegetation. At the edge of Laguna Verde we walk on crunchy white - and have to touch it to discover that it's ice, on top of salt. Alone for a moment there is total silence. Surrounded by peaks and lakes, with distant views of flamingos, it's a magical moment. We gaze at the endless wilderness. "I feel sorry for the conquistadors", Juan observes.

Bolivia's poor economic status is seen in the absence of park-rule enforcement: 4WDs have carved out myriad paths around the lakes. Within an hour of our arrival dozens of jeeps arrive from San Pedro taking tourists on multi-day trips. 

We drive back into Chile and then on the road to Argentina, to stop at an un-named lagoon that appears as a smudge of green on our map. We strike gold: no one is there, we can walk up close to vicuña and flamingos, and the light is perfect. We pass a blissful hour there before returning to San Pedro, and revisiting Valle de la Luna.

27 December 

A day of catching up with email, a quick trip out of the village to snap some shots of the cacti we hadn't been able to photograph during the group tour, and a flight back to Santiago. There's a lot of hanging around before we arrive at our hotel. Then a late meal in the hotel where we taste our first truly Chilean dish: pastel de choclo, a kind of shepherd's pie made with puréed sweet corn and a mixture of chicken, beef and hard-boiled egg, with crunch sugar over the top. We are almost at the end of our holiday but have a couple more places on our itinerary before the trip is over: Santa Cruz and the Colchagua valley, centre of the wine industry, and Valparaiso.

Región de Los Lagos

18 December 

Puerto Varas is situated at the southern end of the Lake District, which extends over 300 km north to Temuco. It's a region of lush farmland, dense forest, lakes and snow-capped volcanoes. Settlement - largely German, Swiss and Austrian - began in the 1880s. We see numerous "parcelas" for sale, suggesting that clearing and building are still in progress. Signs indicate Nestlé's dominance in the dairy business.

We have two days to sample this area before heading north to a national park high on Juan's wish list because of the extensive araucaria (monkey-puzzle) forests endemic to Chile (and, to a lesser extent, Argentina). 

Picking Parque Nacional Vicente Pérez Rosales, by virtue of its proximity to Puerto Varas, we drive to the hamlet of Petrohué, on Lago Todos Los Santos. (From here it would be possible to take a boat across to the Argentine border. How romantic a way of entering the country would that be.) The lake is beautiful. But within minutes of strolling along the shore we are pursued by swarms of giant horse flies. The stress kills the enjoyment. At the parks office, where we pick up a trail map, vinegar is recommended. Not part of our regular walking gear, so we decide to try an inland route, walking towards Volcán Osorno. The path passes through dense scrub, the black volcanic sand mega tiring with little reward. Picky walkers that we are, we decide to head back, and then drive up the volcano road. From the cafeteria below the summit we get good views over Lago Llanquihué ("Yankee Way").

From here we try to plan a route that will allow us to see something of the many other lakes before our next stop, Pucón. But to do justice to the area would involve detouring to the lakeside villages on dirt roads. Lack of time, and adequate maps, demands expediency and we head more or less directly to Pucón, "capital of adventure tourism", and Chile's 4th tourist attraction. If you're looking for thrills and spills in a raft or kayak, this is the place for you. Or if horse riding with a Mapuche Indian to his home, having lunch with him and his wife, and learning about Mapuche culture, every tour agent lining the main drag will be happy to do business. I am tempted - until we are shown photos of tourists posing in Mapuche clothes. The friendly Brazilian sales girl has no idea what an anti-sell this is!

19 December 

Juan visits the CONAF office and gets a tip for the best monkey-puzzle forest: an area of small lagoons on the Argentine border a 60 km drive from Pucón. The dirt road is in the process of being surfaced, drillers and diggers hard at work, creating huge volumes of dust and noise. There is continuous traffic as trucks transport soil away from the site. How will remote Laguna Quilleihue fair, once access is improved? Could the reduction in dust, when the road is surfaced, actually improve the environment?

At the lake a group of monkey puzzles stand majestically. The main forest is a few km away, via a track that loops around a series of lagoons. The correlation between our map and the ground is not good. But we manage to locate two of the three lagoons we hope to see. The forest - where not congested by the destructively invasive cane - is delightfully open. We see some of the orchids first viewed in Patagonia, and cross just  walkers during the day.

To satisfy my curiosity we drive a handful of km to the Argentine border and have gorgeous views of xxx volcano.

20 December 

As cloud thickens to rain we abandon the plan to visit Huerquehue national park. But, for me, this cloud has a silver lining. The presence of so much volcanic activity means that the second big attraction at Pucón is thermal spas. On a rainy day Juan only protests a little at spending time that way. We follow a recommendation from our hotel and drive out to a spa near Curarrehue, the road we'd used the previous day. It's a simple complex: one indoor and one outdoor pool. But we don't need more. From the outdoor pool we can even contemplate a monkey puzzle! With a short add-on massage, it's a very agreeable morning. In fact Juan is so taken with the massage that he later asks me if I'd ever considered using oil in a shiatsu session!

Pucón, with its bland architecture, wide, American-style boulevards, and noisy restaurants with identical menus (fried fish, empanadas, steak) hasn't won our hearts. So in the afternoon we hit the road, pausing only for the first good coffee we've had on the trip. The weather deteriorates further, lashings of rain and wind as we drive into Melipeuco late afternoon. We dart out of the car to grab a few victuals, remembering at the last minute that we will be self catering for 3 nights. Melipeuco is a one-horse town, but every other building seems to be supermercado selling "pan" (white rolls that seem stale, even on purchase), and a tired selection of fruit and veg. Food shopping is very hit and miss: we find a butcher's counter and ask for a chicken breast - and find we are buying just that: the best part of a kg, in one piece; what kind of oil is that, behind the counter? "Belmont" (the brand). We are none the wiser (it turns out to be soya).

We realize that we don't have clear directions to the "Vista Hermosa" cabañas other than that they are on the road to Parque Nacional Conguillío. The last 10 km, as we drive into the park and follow sporadic signs along ever hairier 4WD tracks, are not easy. But on arrival we have a warm welcome from owner Miguel, and the log-burning stove (which we will run day and night) is well stoked. The solar panels will provide electricity from 9pm to 11pm - but no internet, yippee (I get to use the iPad for writing)! We will be here for 3 nights, a welcome slow-down in our non-stop itinerary.

So far, all we can see of the "vista" is the black lava field generated by the 1956 eruption and still not revegetated beyond lichen and isolated shrubs. Beyond, stand "islands" of forest; the survivors. There are rumours of a volcano behind the clouds - if the (dire) weather forecast is wrong.

21 December 

And it is. When we wake we can see the twin craters of Volcan Llaina as clouds come and go, passing showers leaving fresh deposits of snow at higher altitudes. Our cabin is at 1100 m and outside it feels like an alpine April day. Average temperatures are well below the 15 degree norm, down to minus 2 at night. Our Patagonia gear is retrieved from the bottom of our packs.

Juan is impatient to drive to the araucaria forest the other side of the park, untouched by the 1956 or, more recently, 2008 and 2009 eruptions. We drive through temporate rainforest and then into lower forest where monkey puzzles grow up to the tops of the hills, their silhouettes distinctive against the skyline. Our leaflet tells us that Coigües, Lengas and Ñirres are also represented. But we can't readily identify them.

While Juan spends the day chasing trees I catch up with blog-writing, parking the jeep so as to enjoy views of the snowy peaks beyond Lake Conguillío.

22 December 

At breakfast - which we have each day at Miguel's house - I ask him where one can go horse riding in the park. When he says that his is the only place, and that he can take us out for a couple of hours - with a minimum of two people - the decision seems made. I gently twist Juan's arm and we book for 2pm. 

What a treat: Gaspar (my horse) and Melanie (Juan's) are sensitive mounts; Miguel gives us leeway to ride ahead as it suits us; the landscapes are sumptuous; and Juan, at least, can learn about Miguel and the area: how he bought his land from a bank that had requisitioned it from a Spanish landowner who had felled all the big trees as fodder for Coca Cola pallets, run into debt and then done a runner to Argentina; that accommodation in Milepeuco is largely taken up by electricity dam workers (40% of all dam constructions are happening in the area around Melipeuco), hence the myriad food shops; that pumas captured in neighboring national parks are released in Conguillío, as it borders so many other wild spaces (not great for farmers - Miguel lost 12 sheep to a puma the winter before last); how Miguel is a Santiago man who set up a riding stable in the Atacama (just behind the hotel we'll be staying in - I see trouble ahead!) and worked for 10 years with horses in Patagonia before settling in Conguillío.

After initial malaise I relax into the experience and it's a wonderful two hours. Topped when Miguel asked me, towards the end, "Did you do show jumping or dressage when you rode as a child?" Who is he kidding, national show-jumping champion that he was. But I'm flattered.

As we dismount, the "blue-eyed" baby we've seen in plenty of photos hanging on the walls of the house (now aged five), wants to ride Melanie back to the stable. Juan tells me there was a tricky moment this morning, when he asked, "Your grand daughter?", and Miguel (in his 60s), replied "My daughter". Oops. 

23 December 

Our last day in the park is a stunner, against all prediction. And I now understand why the park is so popular. We rewalk the Sierra Nevada trail Juan took two days previously, this time in sun. Along the forest path lookouts give picture-postcard views down onto Lake Conguillío, snow-capped Llaina volcano in the background. Huge millenarian trees reach to the skies, before araucaria take over, thinning as we get to around 2000 m, the end of our walk (and the beginning of a long traverse across the Sierra Nevada glacier for those keen on camping on snow and ice).

The views of monkey puzzles, isolated and in groups, with snow behind and the lake below, forests stretching as far as the eye can see, is beyond words wonderful. And the icing on the cake, for Juan, is the sudden appearance of a mauve and white violet nestling in a sedum-like rosette, a jewel against the black volcanic gravel. For the rest of the afternoon he is in heaven.

We leave Conguillío reluctantly, but grateful for all we have seen, and that we have visited before the holiday period (January to February) makes the wilderness a little less wild.

On paper the 100 km drive to Temuco, from where we will fly to the Atacama desert, should be 1.5 hours. We roller-coaster up and down along dead-straight roads, through farmland with signs, "Vendo cerdos". Nice to think of farmers opportunistically scooping up half a dozen pigs as they ball through. Entering Temuco during the rush hour we encounter total gridlock, amid anarchic bus drivers who haven't discovered their indicators, and a one-way system that forces us to see and then drive away from the hotel. This adds an hour to the journey. I'm sorry, Temuco, but you are a hellhole of a place: chaotic and ugly. Our hotel is supposedly in the city centre but it's hard to believe it, with no sign of any shops - just a couple of university buildings and some very basic bars. 

Strolling a couple of hundred metres from the hotel we hit a Christmas toy market. Amid stalls specializing in the tackiest plastic rubbish imaginable one catches my eye: a guy selling the opportunity to sit with your feet in a large fish tank where dozens of tiny fish (presumably) give you a deliciously relaxing nibble. Juan says,"No thanks" - the piranhas might peel off a bit more than he wants.

Supper in the basement cafeteria at the hotel is forgettable. This is no doubt the best lodging Temuco can offer, but very shabby. At breakfast we have a view of car tyres from the basement window, our table covered with a cheery Father Christmas cloth; the "cafe de grano" is worse than the worst Nescafé. We serve ourselves mini butter "balls" from a bowl of chilled water and watch news reports of forest fires in the Valparaiso area, where we'll be for New Year.

We need to drop off the jeep at Temuco airport, a straightforward 4 km drive on the main road south, according to our agency directions. As we exit the city there's suddenly a sign to an aerodrome, the only air field shown on our map. Juan honks us across two lanes of rush-hour traffic, and we pull off right. After 4 km we arrive at a dead end: a military aerodrome. Shit. Retracing our steps we pick up the motorway again, the kilometres clocking up. No other airport is shown on the map; and the toll post indicated by our hotel receptionist doesn't appear. There are no airport signs for 20 km and then a very ambiguous sign onto a brand new road. Dry mouthed we continue, at last reaching a passenger terminal. A plaque commentating the inauguration of the airport in February this year explains its absence on our map. Phew.

Torres to Puerto Varas

16 December

From Torres we arrive back at Puerto Natales. Juan finds time for a hair cut and gets the lowdown from his Santiago émigré barber: nail tyres in winter, salmon-fishing weekends...

A ferry is poised for the cruise up the coast to Puerto Montt. Puerto Montt, midway between Punta Arenas and Santiago, the springboard for the Región de Los Lagos, happens to be our next destination and I can't think of a more romantic way to travel there. But we can't afford the time needed, this trip. Instead, we take the bus direct to Punta Arenas airport the following morning, and take a flight.

On arrival we have a surprise: the vehicle we have hired is a bright red, gas-guzzling jeep. Needed, because of the dirt roads in one of the national parks we will be visiting. As we drive on the motorway, one in three vehicles seem to be similar, no doubt because so much of Chile's road network is unsurfaced.

We overnight at Puerto Varas, a few km north, sleeping in the "junior suite" of a 3 star hotel. It's a suitable resting spot for our fat car; a place where doors are opened for us and beds turned down. (Embarrassing though, as, prior to going out for supper, I'd exploded the contents of my rucksack around the room.) Full marks for the breakfast: cherries, apricots, guacamole, egg, sausages, and a range of cakes - but Nescafé, even in this upmarket place!

The town has many historic buildings, with Germanic-style wooden "shingle" tiles and hotels with names like "The Innsbruck", but not the consistent charm of Puerto Natales and Punta Arenas. Too many architectural mistakes, and a carelessness in the way the lakeside has been developed. The German  colonial roots are evident in the names, and abundant German kuchen shops.

At random we choose a restaurant offering an international menu. A well built local makes a pantomime of opening our wine, wrestling with the cork and pressing it hard against her ample bosom as she grunts and grimaces. Having established our nationalities she comments, "opposite poles" and tells us candidly that she wouldn't want to be married to a Spaniard. 

Punta Arenas to Paine Grande to Torres

9 December

From Punta Arenas we take a bus 250 km north across the Patagonian pampa. On our right, across the Strait (at 30 km wide it looks the sea), Tierra del Fuego; on our left, vast fincas; showers coming and coming. Excitement as we have our first views of guanacos (Patagonian "camel") and ñandú (huge birds a bit like bustards); and condors.

Three hours later we enter Puerto Natales, a small, sprawling town that looks largely unchanged since its meat- and wool-processing days a century ago. Colourful lines of brightly painted wooden houses run down to a shore surrounded by peaks. The centre, dominated by outdoor gear shops and restaurants, is set back several blocks; perhaps protection from the incessant wind. In the side streets delightfully old fashioned stores - food, toys, ironmongery - cater to locals' needs. Stray dogs hang out at every corner.

We potter around, intending to stroll around the shore but quickly defeated by the wind. Our hotel is an odd place: it has the feel of a cheap hostal: at breakfast the idea of coffee is to add a Nescafé sachet to a cup of hot water; but it has the tarif of a 3-star hotel.

10 December 

In the morning the bus station is organized chaos as several hundred backpackers climb into buses run by four different companies to travel the two hours to Torres del Paine National Park. I'm starting to feel uneasy as I look at everyone's state-of-the-art gear; am I adequately equipped? (No, but I get away with it because we have incredibly lucky weather.) 

Twenty kilometres before the park entrance we suddenly look to our left and see the whole range looming ahead. And then the Torres peaks - the "towers" that give the park its name. (See Facebook photo.) Lit up against grey and uncertain skies they are an imposing and dramatic site. At the gateway to the park it's compulsory to listen to a video presentation of Do's and Don'ts. A zero-tolerance policy has been instigated following the calamitous forest fire in 2011 (caused by a walker burning some rubbish and the wind spreading it like... er... wildfire). Amongst the usual regulations one might expect in a national park are a couple that will cause us some stress in future days: the need to stay on paths at all times (Juan specialises in going off piste in search of botanic specimens), and encouragement to report on anyone seen breaking the rules (the paths will be very busy - the park receives over 100,000 visitors per year - and we will rarely be out of sight of fellow trekkers). Penalties for infringing the rules range from being expelled from the park to fines of many thousand dollars.

One further stretch on the bus brings us to Pudeto, from where a catamaran hurtles us across sunny, turquoise Lake Pehoé. The wind is insane. But we choose the upper deck, dodging spray as the iconic Cuernos reveal themselves, followed by Cerro Paine Grande. A thrilling approach to the starting point of our 5-day walk.

We land at Paine Grande refuge on the north-west shore, a fabulous spot with views to the surrounding peaks and lake. From there we will do the classic "W" trek, so called because it involves three valley walks (the vertical bits of the "W") connected by lakeside routes. The first section is to Refugio Grey. We walk up a glen and then contour alongside Lago Grey. The wind, in places, is spectacularly strong - virtually throwing us to the ground; the sense of wilderness intoxicating. We walk through fire-ravaged forest that looks permanently destroyed, testimony to that thoughtless moment three years ago - but at least shrubs and flowers seem to be recovering well.

Sighting three "new" orchids ensures we take 5 hours to do the 3.5 hour walk. As we descend towards the refuge we see distant views of Grey Glacier spewing around La Isla, at the head of the lake. The forest in this later part of the walk is untouched by fire; charred skeletons give way to healthy green. A relief to see this.

The original plan had been to stay inside the refuge but there was no availability when we tried to book 4 months previously, so we are camping, with all equipment rented from the refuge. (We quickly get used to a different smell with each sleeping bag we use!) Arriving in drizzle, the wind driving hard, and with tents squished so close the guy ropes are overlapping, the refuge looks alluringly luxurious: a bar, sofas, chilled background music. But the camping spot is well sheltered. During the night we can hear the wind battling high in the trees above but all is calm in our tent.

Although camping, we eat breakfast and supper in the refuge. The standard start to the day in all the refuges will be orange squash (!), cereal, scrambled egg, bread and jam, with tea or Nescafé. On a couple of occasions we time our walks to have lunch at the refuge, also. At Refugio Grey we have the strangest meal of the holiday: mussel and "meat" soup served with orange squash. Chilean refuges could learn a lot from their European counterparts in terms of hygiene, table and service organization, food. But the half bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon we buy each evening are very welcome. On our table this first evening are four French guys, for whom this is a first trek. What a baptism. I am intrigued by their lack of commitment. It sounds as though the trek is an impulse affair  - they say they'll see how it goes tonight before making a decision about continuing.

11 December 

The reason for coming to this part of the Park is Grey Glacier. The first indications of ice ahead are chunks of blue icebergs floating in Lago Grey. From the refuge we walk half a kilometre to the edge of the forest and suddenly see the glacier tongue ahead, the lake at its base. It's a magnificent sight, and so strange for us - familiar with high-level Alpine contexts - to be virtually at sea level, and approaching via temperate forest. We spend several hours exploring the lookout points. We don't get the close-up views you gain with a boat trip. But our semi-aerial perspective, showing the glacier in the context of the much larger ice field of which it is a part, together with the solitude, count for more. Not restricted to a viewing platform or tour-guide schedule we drink it in, the desolation feeding our psyches in some strange way.

Retracing our steps we arrive back at Paine Grande where a couple of dozen red and orange tents are huddled like sheep against the flank of the hill adjacent to the refuge. We follow our evening routine: hot shower (yes!), diary/note-writing, supper, early bed. As we approach the mid-summer solstice the evenings are deliciously long, and this one particularly entrancing as the last rays of sun like up Cerro Paine Grande and the hills to the north of Lake Pehoe. The refuge's huge windows allow us to watch in comfort - the wind chill is way too much to do so outside. As we retreat to our tent there are no arguments about when to switch off the light - Mother Nature decides.

12 December

The next section, from Paine Grande to Refugio Los Cuernos, is stunning - perhaps my favourite day of the walk. The track skirts the base of Cerro Paine Grande, passing along Lago Skottsberg - and through a massive area of fire-blasted forest. Continuing anti-clockwise around the mountain, Glaciar Francés comes into view high above the Rio del Francés. There's an option to walk up and down the Francés valley but we decide in favour of a slower walking pace to enjoy the many views over Lago Nordenskjöld. In full sun we relish the novel sensation of feeling hot.

Refugio del Cuernos lies at the foot of the "Cuernos", the distinctive jagged horns on the north shore of Lago Nordenskjöld. Run by the company Fantastico Sur, house rules are a little different from Grey and Paine: we have to leave our boots at the door (normal practice in a refuge) and walk inside in socks (not normal - in Europe slippers or Crocs are provided). A trip to the loo wearing socks, with water from hand basins spilling liberally onto the floor, not to mention the situation adjacent to the loo, is an ordeal for the next three refuges!

In hilly, forested terrain not well suited to camping the ingenious solution is to build wooden platforms. Tents are then pitched directly onto these, anchored by hooks rather than pegs. Wood being no harder than the ground we stand an even chance of sleeping, subject to the bed time of our ever-close neighbours, how well we tolerate the thin sleeping mats - and ourselves! There is the bonus, here, of fantastic bird life. Strange that we haven't seen a single pair of binocs so far. Perhaps, as for us, they didn't survive the final re-pack. In my case I also threw out my inflatable pillow (mistake), suntan lotion (big mistake), gaiters (good decision), change of trousers (I was lucky - no rain).

At supper many faces are familiar. Walkers travel virtually in convoy from one hut to the next, either west to east (as we are doing) or the reverse. Conversations revolve around itineraries past and future. Before coming to Patagonia I had never met anyone who'd been to Antarctica; here, every other trekker has been. Everyone may look the same but backpackers come in all shades, from the 20-somethings on extended travels, striking up friendships and hiking mates, talking about places they've "still gotta do", to hedge-fund managers on one week's annual leave. Juan quickly tires of eavesdropping and disappears off piste up a hill; I bask on the refuge terrace.

13 December 

We continue east along Lago Nordenskjöld, with huge views to the south that fit our image of Norway. The vast horizons allow us to feel in the heart of the wilderness, despite continuous "hola-ing" of fellow trekkers. But the requirement to stay on the track is beginning to be irksome and we are starting to misbehave... 

By the end of the afternoon we have clear blue skies and red noses. Summer at last. At the end of the lake we swing north east around Cerro Almirante Nieto and can see our destination - the Torres complex: $500 per night hotel, refuge, campsite. Set in light woodland away from the tourist hub, with views to Cerro Almirante and the Torres themselves, the campsite is idyllic. I test my Rohan shirt's claim to dry in 3 hours; it passes. 

14 December 

The Torres complex is road accessible, so trekker traffic on paths to and from it, and the variety of walkers (equipped/in shape or not), is extreme. We walk up a seriously eroded trail towards Refugio Chileno. The view is very reminiscent of our alpine stomping ground: steeply glaciated with a snowy peak at the head of the valley.

We drop off some of our gear at the refuge, where we'll be spending the night, and plod upwards. Some people are walking with a guide - the first time we've seen this and not really necessary if you're capable of putting one foot in front of the other; there is only one path. But as I run out of puff near the top I "surf" on the energy of a passing group to get me up the final 100 m. And then the sudden view of the giant Torres, with their massive vertical walls plunging down to a ledge where melting ice created striated patterns on the rock, is jaw-dropping. A suitable climax to this exceptional walk. We spend a couple of hours investigating the sparse flora (Juan) and snoozing (Rebecca).

15 December 

After a second night in a "tent on stilts" we walk back down to Torres. Hikers are already gathering at the bus stop 2 hours before departure, tanking up on Corona beer. It's an easy wait on yet another sunny day. From the bus we see the countryside between Torres and Puerto Natales at its best: Scotland meets South Africa meets Australia meets (Spanish) León. It's clear that there is so, so much more to Patagonia than Torres del Paine, astounding though that is.

Santiago to Punta Arenas

7 December

We fly into the Chilean summer, touching down at Santiago on a dry and dusty Sunday morning. The rolling hills look parched and we learn later that a drought is affecting much of the centre of the country. Apart from municipal watering all is crispy brown.

Santiago, where nearly a half of Chile's 17 million population live, doesn't feel like a capital. The main square ("Plaza de Armas", the same name throughout the country) is lined with classical 18th century administration buildings, and the cathedral. But on two sides they are overshadowed by ugly 1970s towers. And just a block away you can quickly find yourself in no man's land where renovated and decaying are cheek by jowl; beautiful, decrepit palacios carved up by dual carriage ways.

The square hosts a couple of cafés. We sit and watch a busking fiddler, complete with accompanying puppet "pianist" (using a backing track, you understand) playing Eine Klein Nachtmusik  ad nauseum. Nearby, a noisy drum-and-dance act earns enthusiastic applause from onlookers - but ends up driving us onwards. In another corner of the square couples are tangoing on a pavilion stage. Sunday strollers in day-glo colours eat ice creams; kids splash in the fountains; hawkers dodge the police, hastily rolling up their scarves and nicknacks as the carabineros walk by.

Later in the afternoon the streets fill with girls in shiny pink and purple princess dresses, dressed up for the procession of giant inflatable cartoon characters, now in its fifth year. A young country forming its own traditions. A team of tightly bunned policewomen hand out ID bracelets to children as a security measure in the event of them losing its parents.

8 December 

From bone-dry Santiago we hop on a plane to Punta Arenas, a 3000 km ride and almost as far south as you can go in mainland South America. The views are exhilarating and we have our noses pressed to the window for the entire flight, an exhilarating geography lesson: snow-capped volcanoes "floating" above the clouds; mountain ranges extending to infinity; desolate, dry wilderness with no sign of life apart from occasional dirt tracks for who knows what purpose; vast lakes; and finally grey, flat, soggy, windswept Patagonia.

For reasons good and bad we didn't plan this holiday in detail. Having established the main areas we wanted to visit - Torres del Paine National Park, the Lakes region and the Atacama desert - we handed over to SNP, the Dutch company we've used for numerous self-guided walking holidays in the past. Through not making the reservations ourselves, we somehow "forgot" that we were booked on a trip to see the Seno Otway penguin colony, an hour northwest of Punta Arenas. So it is a surprise to be whisked by taxi to the coast, on arrival. And then see an exquisitely comic display as small groups of birds, returning from their daily fishing outing, waddle from the beach to their burrows. We miss prime time, early and late in the day - when thousands of penguins launch and return from their daily fishing trip. But, from our short boardwalk itinerary, we can enjoy close-up views virtually on our own. A total thrill.

The geography of the area is incredibly complex - a mass of islands and inlets. I am never sure if I am looking at open sea or a sound, or lake. Punta Arenas was originally named "Sandy Point" by an English sailor, in service to the Chileans, when the settlement was created in 1848. It faces Tierra del Fuego, across the Magellan Strait pioneered by Ferdinand Magellan in the sixteenth century. He sailed west from Portugal in September 1519 with a fleet of five ships and a mission to find a route through the coast of South America. It took him until October 1520 to find the elusive passage. The 36-day journey was not something anyone wanted to repeat (the ocean they found as they exited the Strait named "Pacific" because of the contrast with the stormy waters just passed). So, rather than return to Europe that way, they pressed on west. Three years after setting out from Portugal just one of the five ships made it back - without Magellan, who'd been killed by natives on Mactan Island.

Although not Portuguese or a native Spanish speaker, I find this story of exploration and subsequent colonization resonates strongly with me. The story of Punta Arenas is so recent, just a few generations. And the town still has the atmosphere of a frontier town: single-storey wood and tin-roofed houses; wide, American-style roads; a handful of bourgeois mansions; a wild and windy place at the bottom of a continent. 

We visit the cemetery and see the blend of nationalities who have contributed to the development of the city - a thriving commercial centre until the opening of the Panama Canal in 1924 negated the role of the Magellan Strait as a trade route. And now riding an oil-boom wave, with low employment and only a vague threat from Puerto Natales if and when the plan to build an airport there comes to fruition, and tourists bypass the city.

In Santiago I had felt a bit of a freak in my baggy walking trousers when all around were clad in jeggings and skimpy summer clothes. In Punta Arenas we are in good company, dressed identically to the dozens of trekkers heading for Torres del Paine, and even more remote destinations, for which the town is a launch pad.

life after Japan

After 2 months gorging on an endless smorgasbord of experiences in Japan I have a challenge: to create newsworthy posts from the raw material of my quiet, Vaulnaveys life…

I confess I’ve been putting energy into maintaining the Japanese connection: emailing and Facebooking with whoever of my Japanese friends will indulge me in cyberspace: looking at snowy photos of the Morimoto fields; learning that, sadly, Kayo’s baby boy suffered brain damage at birth; that there has been a significant, but not-internationally-newsworthy earthquake not far from Tokyo… And the stream of woofers to both the Kashimo and Hongo households continues unabated – I’m aware of how very transient indeed my presence there was.

Meanwhile, chez moi, inspired by how well I felt on the Japanese diet, I have adopted a brown-rice régime, delighted to find most Japanese ingredients readily available in Grenoble. Last weekend Juan kindly allowed me to feed him a rice/nori paste/umeboshi/sesame-oil-and-shoyu basic dish, along with miso soup (my precious supply of miso from the Tokyo market, as different from the nasty jarred item sold in Europe as you can imagine). We ate the miso soup in the lacquer bowls painted by a craftsman friend of Shigeo and Keiko’s; the Côtes du Rhône wine adding a je ne sais quoi to the meal.

I have struck up a friendship with a lovely Japanese woman from my local networking group, lunching with her in a Japanese café that I hadn’t noticed before. And, if it wasn’t the night before going away again, I could go to a concert of Japanese music organized by the Grenoble Japan Association (who also run a language class) this Friday evening. So opportunities abound.

But, in need of a bit of structure in my life, I have decided – as from this morning – to begin the day, as I had at the Morimotos: cleaning the toilet! Fervant in my desire to live in a clean and ordered house.

But this is all daft, I know that. What’s it all about… I don't know. But I will have to pick up that thread from 2015 because on Saturday I will be travelling even further than Japan - this time  westwards: Juan has carved some time for himself, from his company, Schott... and we are going to Chile for Christmas, and a holiday of landscapes and (hopefully) botanic wonders.

last day in Japan

As I set off this morning I was feeling quite jaunty, thinking that the metro now held no fear for me. But it's a more complex animal than I'd realised. The exits are myriad, sometimes clustered into "gates". Most stations need detailed maps - there's up to a kilometre of passageways between different metro lines at the same station. Many are shopping malls, and it starts to feel as though you are in a parallel subterranean universe.

I started my day in one such mall, with an egg-and-toast-and-coffee breakfast, only remembering - after ordering - my egg experience of three days ago. My attempt to mime "solid or raw?" was not a success. But luckily the egg was as solid as a HB egg should be.

Most department stores and other buildings have escalators connecting directly with the stations. So you think you're heading up for air, only to find you're on goodness knows what level of a shop or - bizarrely, this morning - the Imperial Theatre. I found myself next to a subterranean stage door where a group of smartly dressed middle-aged women, loaded with carrier bags as though at the end of a shopping trip, seemed to be waiting. For Godo, maybe? I had a surreal time trying to get out, as no one understood the word "exit". It wasn't a good day for miming - I can't imagine why my "gasping fish" didn't strike a chord.

As this was my last day I was torn between wanting to whizz around, skimming as much as time would allow, and digesting the city at a slower and more realistic pace. I think I ended up beneath the Imperial Theatre because someone misunderstood by desire to get to the Imperial Palace Gardens. I eventually did get to the park, the sense of space in this hectic city perhaps the most impressive thing (though in the 17th century the area now occupied by park would have been the emperor or shogun's living quarters). But drizzle put a dampener on my commitment - I think I was the only person in Tokyo not to have an umbrella (a stubborn gesture, to avoid picking up extra weight). So I allowed myself to be lured into the attractive-looking shelter of the Palace Hotel, a 5-star monolith overlooking the park (290 rooms, 10 restaurants, £500/night suites), thinking I might test the "bargain lunch" formula, as I'd done with the Kanos in Kyoto.

Sorry, guys, but abandoning Japanese cuisine in favour of Italian was a mistake. The pear-and-chocolate dessert was good, but the watery bean-and-bacon soup a pale shadow of what I was hoping for, and the seafood pasta no better than a UK high-street chain. Despite the service, and molycoddling me with a blanket and terrace heater, I give you 6 out of 10. But you weren't snooty, and I admit I looked terrible, wearing the same clothes I've worn for 2 months, indoors or outdoors... And it was a very cool location, overlooking the Imperial moat. So, the overall experience, 7.5.

After lunch things got a bit disjointed. Trying to avoid the lengthy walks involved when changing metro lines, I elected to walk above ground. But my map wasn't good enough (or was it my navigation skills?). Hours and many km later I found myself at Shibuya, the youth shopping Mecca. I was expecting Oxford Street but Japanese youth is far cooler and more monied. I have never seen such a dense proliferation of big-name brands - a combination of Bond Street and Notting Hill, but much more of it.

The tourist pamphlet that cheerily described Shibuya as "always crowded, day and night" wasn't wrong. At intervals there'd be a queue of dozens of people outside a shop. I had to ask What and Why. One place, Nars (anyone heard of it?) was for make-up; another was a Hawaiian pancake place that had had good reviews; a third was a popcorn joint. Popcorn? How sad is that. But I liked the slogan in one sports-gear shop: "If you have a body you are an athlete". In other words, you don't need to be sporty to buy the latest sports stuff?

Shibuya was one kind of nightmare. Even worse was Shinjuku (where "Lost in Translation" was filmed). Even after my morning metro experience I hadn't bargained for the scale of this, the biggest of Tokyo's stations. I had wanted to have a peek at "electric city". But after running in and out of the vast electronics retailer, Bic, breaking into a cold sweat, and snapping a few pics at the surrounding skyscrapers, I could take no more and headed back to the ryokan.

Luckily, the previous day, I had booked a short reflexology session when a cute little man had pushed a flyer into my hand in the local department store. It forced me to give my long-suffering feet a break, and, despite cosmic communication problems (he knew I spoke no Japanese but acted as though I did), was so good I wondered why I hadn't booked a session every evening.

I ended the day in a cheap eatery overlooking one of the main intersections, directly opposite a Berlitz office - a bit weird. I repeated the previous evening's fish-rice-pickle-miso-soup order (815 calories, good, but spoiled by having a dessert, + 411 calories, not so good). And wondered about the consumer frenzy I'd witnessed. The throw-away culture is the least attractive aspect of Japan: the 100¥ shops; chronic over-packaging; disposability (e.g. the slippers used at the ryokan are thrown away after use by each guest). And the corrosive effect of Western culture on diet and attitudes.

But even in high-paced Tokyo interactions are civilised: the woman in the Palace Hotel who went out of her way to show me a short-cut to the station; the woman in the Imperial Theatre who walked me to the lift; the friendly cleaning team at the ryokan; the reflexologist who insisted on showing me to the escalator; the Kanos' selflessness in giving me a good time. People are kind in a way that would be hard to imagine in a European capital.

So, of course, I'm very sad to be leaving Japan. On the one hand feeling so grateful for the rich experience I've had, but aware of how I've barely scratched the surface. I hope the story isn't over.

Tokyo

And so I've come to my end point. At Ikebukuro station, in NW central Tokyo, I emerged into a blast of neon. It felt like walking into Times Square, New York - though the "electric city" of Tokyo is not in fact Ikebukuro. The ryokan, booked on recommendation, is an oasis of calm and order: green tea on tap; a Japanese hot tub on request; laundry room; pleasant sitting area; and wifi. All a traveller needs. My own 6-tatami room has an agreeable wheaty smell (I think the tatami must be new). I and my luggage can sprawl happily across the floor.

In the evening, exploring the neighbourhood was tricky, at least initially, when I couldn't "read" the landscape. Ikebukuro is billed in the tourist literature as a culture and entertainment hub. So what are those hourly room rental signs about, and why are girls handing out leaflets? What is the banner over the entrance of one particularly lively street saying? People look and dress differently, too. Girls teeter on 20cm heels with shorts or skirts that barely cover their underwear (hence the, "Beware upskirting" signs in the subway - mobile phones are used for illicit views). Hair is died all colours and cut in styles straight from manga. Youth looks very scary indeed.

Not wanting to brave the packed restaurants on my own, I scuttled to the department-store food zone under the station. There's a C S Lewis transition from street hubbub to the brightly lit aisles of posh convenience food, very similar to the food halls at Kanazawa. (Is this a feature of all large stations?) My eyes are definitely bigger than my stomach as I stroll around. But, after this second experience, I'm beginning to view the adage, "The Japanese eat with their eyes" in a new way: the food can look better than it tastes. Not so posh, then.

I have three days to immerse myself in the urban jungle. On day 1 Hiroshi and Keiko Kano's daughter, Mako (who was friends with my sister, Buff, at nursery school half a century ago!), was my tour guide. Apart from the considerable pleasure of her company, it was a huge relief not having to get to grips with the subway and train networks. In the morning Mako shepherded me to Kabubiza Theatre, where we caught a short kabuki performance. I was looking forward to her explanation of the action (highly stylised, 17th century "dance" gestures with lavish kimono, accompanied by voice and instruments). But she didn't understand a word, either, because it was old Japanese. Ha ha.

From the Kabubiza Theatre we walked through (high-end brand) Ginza to (CBD) Marunouchi, and then to Ueno for the Hokusai exhibition of prints from the Boston Fine Art Gallery. The crowds were dense, but very patient - looking at every detail. Mako interpreted this as a sign that most Hokusai prints are housed outside Japan. So an exhibition like this draws people here in similar numbers to one in Europe. For me the exhibition was fortuitous as I won't get to a similar exhibition currently on in Paris. I was thrilled to see those so-well-known Views of Fuji, bridges, waves... And I felt that much closer to the Edo scenes, having lived in a house not so different, when I was with the Morimotos (and having visited others).

Afterwards, Mako was very patient with my dysfunctional shopping - I think I need something, then I don't; I'm imprecise, muddled, indecisive. But in fact she seemed more bothered by the rain than the vagaries of her companion.

In the evening she took me to an "izakaya", a kind of "Japanese tapas bar" for after-work drinking and light eating. For some reason that Mako couldn't explain we entered through a tiny door that required us to stoop low to get through (it's the same for tea houses, but surely the Japanese haven't grown that much!). The food was crude (e.g. chunky raw veg with a bowl of horseradish sauce), and Mako felt bad that she hadn't wowed me (or her). But I wasn't disappointed. It gave me a new angle on city life. And we had a good chat - amongst other things about Fukushima and where the nuclear industry is going. (I hadn't realised that, for a year after the earthquake, air con was reduced and lighting was less bright, in order to live within the power generated by oil- and coal-fired power stations only.) And about how the Japanese are currently politically inert ("obedient" was her word) - in the 1960s and 70s it was very different.

Mako also explained the hourly room rental business: it's not necessarily for paid sex but could be any couple who don't have privacy in their own home, e.g. living with parents, or the thin walls of a flat (the mind boggles - I hope the sound-proofing in the hotel is adequate!). And after I'd snapped a girly publicity poster she told me - wait for this - that the service being sold was ear cleaning!! (With the option of having your head on the girl's lap! OMG.)

On day 2 I got up at 5.30am, to be at the Tsukiji wholesale fish market, on the edge of Tokyo harbour - only to be told by a policeman, on arrival, that tourists weren't allowed entry until 9am. I was ready to change my plan. But found that, 2 hours later, I was still mooching around, inefficiently looking for miso and dried seaweed. So into the market I went. And I could then understand why tourists are kept out. Motorised skidoos have mostly replaced the hand-pulled carts of the past. They bomb around giving narrow berth. The big-business, no-messing-around cutting and band-sawing of huge tuna doesn't sit well with dozy tourists looking for holiday snaps. The fish (some still alive) and shellfish (some very weird specimens, the stuff of nightmares) is loaded into polystyrene boxes and whisked off. See FB for pics. Should I also post the video of the guy sawing the tuna? Or the one of the pile of fish all gasping? Maybe not...

I only walked around part of the market - there's a limit to how much blood and gore one can take first thing in the morning. So I've just Wiki-searched, and realise that, even though what I saw was pretty impressive, the heart of the operation is off bounds to tourists. I saw nothing.

"The market handles more than 400 different types of seafood from cheap seaweed to the most expensive caviar, and from tiny sardines to 300kg tuna and controversial whale species (didn't knowingly see whale - Ed). Overall, more than 700,000 metric tons of seafood are handled every year in Tokyo, with a total value in excess of 600 billion." Blimey o'reilly.

"The market opens at 3:00 a.m. with the arrival of the products by ship, truck and plane from all over the world. The auction houses then estimate the value and prepare the incoming products for the auctions. The buyers also inspect the fish. The auctions start around 5:20 a.m., with bidders including intermediate wholesalers who operate stalls in the marketplace, and other buyers who are agents for restaurants, food-processing companies, and large retailers."

"The auctions usually end around 7:00 a.m. Afterward, the purchased fish is either loaded onto trucks to be shipped to the next destination or on small carts and moved to the many shops inside the market (this is what I saw). There the shop owners cut and prepare the products for retail. In the case of large fish, for example tuna and swordfish, cutting and preparation is elaborate. Frozen tuna and swordfish are often cut with large band saws, and fresh tuna is carved with extremely long knives." Yes, I tried picking up one - felt like a Samurai...

After half an hour I needed to come up for air. Tsukiji is a few blocks from Hama-rikyu gardens. So I headed for the greenery. It was a complete surprise: one moment you're gazing up at skyscrapers; then suddenly you're in a park, and the skyscrapers have become the backdrop to forest, salt-water ponds and former duck-hunting grounds. Shades of NY's Central Park. A very relaxing experience, complete with GPS-triggered audio guide that gave you information according to where you wandered. How cool is that. I learned that, when the gardens were created by the 17th century shogun, the average time people spent there was 11 hours. So I probably ruined the experience by noticing that the water bus was about to leave from the other side of the gardens, and sprinting there.

The boat ride gave me a view of Tokyo from the harbour, and was the most enjoyable way of travelling to Asakusa - site of the famous Senso-ji temple. Though whoever wrote that, "Time has stopped here since the Edo era" is being more than a little fanciful.

I had plans to hit Tokyo at night. But my early start (and this long post) has caught up with me. Maybe tomorrow - which will be my last day.

an unexpected bonus: a hike in Joetsu National Park

After my rather odd time in Himi, not least the breakfast, I was impatient to leave. I abandoned the large, cold, fish on my plate and packed the egg for a later, hungry moment.

As I travelled by train around the south coast of the Japan Sea I could see that Toyama prefecture would be a good base for a coast-and-mountain holiday. At one point the views left and right were equally dramatic - sea and hills. Still cashless I couldn't buy any lunch. At this point I discovered that the egg saved from breakfast was not hard boiled - but raw. (Oh dear, what do I do now...!)

My inability to pronounce my destination, "Doai", got me blank looks and caused me to miss a connection. But, as a result of this, and 2 hours to kill at ski resort Echigo Yuzawa, I was able to take a cable-car ride up a nearby peak (see FB pics).

I'd used booking.com for a last-minute stop-over, en route for Tokyo, with no real idea where I was heading. Doai turned out to be an unstaffed, derelict station in the middle of nowhere - and the station name only in Japanese, the first time this has occurred. I was relieved to see Bo from Tencin Lodge waiting for me, with the Lodge a mere 200m up the road. By sheer fluke I had landed in the middle of Joetsu National Park.

Even before shaking off the dust of my journey I was boarding the bus to Takaragawa Onsen, on the banks of the Takaragawa Gorge, in the upper reaches of the Tone River. Well water flows into four bathing areas (curiously, measured in terms of tatami mats, = 470). The 55 short minutes I spent in the "ladies' pool" were probably the highlight of the trip. I was in heaven, surrounded by autumn foliage, the moon rising behind the trees, the tensions of the last 48 hours beginning to dissolve,

The following morning I discovered I was 300m from a "rope way" (= cable car) for Mt Tanigawadake (where, according to my host, more people have died than on Everest and K2). Most of this trip I've been ahead of the autumn colours; here I was a week too late, the trees up high "naked", lacy skeleton trees lining the ridges. In the valleys there were flashes of brilliant colour as the sun came and went.

As I climbed, the weather seemed to be deteriorating. Lacerated by wind, with zero visibility, flummoxed by Japanese waymarking, unstable in inadequate shoes... I turned tail at the 1963m summit. The sprinkling of snow gave me a taste of the area - and also of the French winter I will be returning to. Ugh!

By 2pm I was down and on the train to Tokyo, grateful to Bo and Kieren for their considerable help with logistics, without which I would have bypassed everything.