winter sun

I'm writing this in dripping Bradford on Avon. It's raining steadily and the catkins on the hazel I see from my bedroom window are blowing around in the wind. Iris, crocus, primrose, cyclamen, pulmonaria and snow drops are injecting colour into the awakening garden. As February draws to a close it feels as though we are turning a corner: spring is here.

So I do a reality check - and look at the weather in Grenoble. It's around zero and there is fresh snow in the resorts where the ski season will continue for another 2 months. Good and bad news. This year I was reluctant to embrace winter, returning from the Chilean summer in early January with no appetite for the outdoors. Most weekends have been low-key, a hibernation of eating and sleeping (and soul searching). But with two exceptions: a day walk to Lac Lauvitel, which Juan and I know well from summer walks but had never visited in winter. After a recent, but small, snowfall it was walkable in a way that might not usually have been possible in such a deep, avalanche-prone valley; the views of the lake ethereally beautiful.

A few weeks later I had a sublime day skiing at the Alpe du Grand Serre with Juan...

  

... followed a few days later by a night in an auberge near La Jarjatte, in the Haut Buëch valley with my cousin Cinda:

Again, the terrain was familiar from summer visits, when Juan and I have walked up to the surrounding cols. In winter the access roads are transformed into a cross-country skiing area; the meadows hidden beneath half a metre of snow. We were lucky - at this altitude snow can come and go.

Just for the record, I took this photo a month or so ago up at Laffrey lake, one dank Saturday when walking wasn't an option. In summer this is a favourite swimming spot:

So there have been some magical moments this winter. And maybe a few more before the snow recedes and the alpine summer arrives in all its glory.

chez les parents

Yes, there's been a long blog silence. For a mixture of reasons: a lack of inspiration after my travels; a desire for honesty - and at the same time not wanting to publicly share what is going on for me at the moment. But this morning I feel like writing.

I’ve been in the UK a week - one of my regular trips to see family, and this time coinciding with my sister Buff’s birthday and a massed celebratory gathering at her house near Shaftesbury. Phil has also been over, from Spain. And a rare, and long-anticipated musical event - the three of us playing the Beethoven Archduke trio together - takes place at Mum and Dad's, in Bradford on Avon.

It’s always a pleasure “coming home”, and seeing Mum and Dad. Their house is stuffed brimful with their, and my, history. I remember who I am. But it doesn’t come without its complications. I compare myself with my sisters, both more patient than me and, despite stringent efforts, I revert to type: the bossy, stroppy one. Mum and Dad's busy, cultured, community-led, activity-rich lives are in harsh contrast with mine. But a bit of it rubs off on me - it was indeed Mum’s inspiration for the sisters to play the Beethoven together. And the preparation for the event kickstarted me into playing my much-neglected piano. The day itself is a mixture of agony (I had deluded myself that I had any kind of grip on the piece, technically) and ecstasy (moments where I could relax and enjoy it). But we all want to play again. Maybe July…

On my own with Mum and Dad I try to be a Helpful Daughter. With Mum my great desire to reduce the piles and piles of accumulated paper detritus seems to have coincided with her own wish to declutter. For two days we wrestle the mounds of charity appeals, bank statements and mail-order catalogues (I am refraining from calling it “junk mail” as gardening items, bird food and thermal underwear are not junk, for Mum) into submission. Four large boxes are filled and taken to the tip. Along the way we wade through reams of family correspondence, funeral services, birthday cards. Obviously, none of this stuff can go - and it eats into our time. As does filing endless rogue bank statements that show up in every room of the house amid the copious charity bumph, and bagging up £19 of 1p and 2p coins that had been taking refuge in various jars and mugs.

I create an alphabetised spreadsheet of the 70 charities Mum supports, showing her which have direct debits. The idea is that she can note when she writes cheques to the others, and if they aren’t on the list they go straight into the recycling box.

The test comes the following morning when a couple of charity appeals arrive in the post.
"So, Mum, where will these go?”
She puts on her eager-to-please-little-girl face. “In the sitting room?”
Wrong answer. "Clue: it’s where they’ve always lived, Mum.”
Hopefully: “In the dining room?”
Correct.
But one of them isn’t on the spreadsheet. Quickly I chuck it onto the recycling pile, and there’s no objection. Phew.

Dad is another matter. Like Mum he wants to fight his way out of the paper jungle that is engulfing him. But he still thinks he has time to read the eight or more periodicals he subscribes to - even though many stay in their plastic wrappers from one month to the next. From “Prospect” to “Resurgence and Ecology”, “Walk”, “What the Doctors Don’t Tell You" and “Camping and Caravanning” they are all topics that interest him. How hard it must be to accept that there is simply too much information coming in. Once he can choose which magazines he really must read, and accepts that “There’s the occasional article that I’d like to look out and keep” is probably not a realistic strategy, and is blocking him from clearing out swathes of back issues, he’ll be in business.

But, again, all of this is a reflection of Dad's diverse range of interests. How wonderful to be so motivated - rather than shutting out and down, as I seem to be increasingly doing.

After two days of me churning up a storm, Mum and I are reeling. Time to go into the garden and look for trouble there. And we find it - in the greenhouse and surrounds… Back in hyper-organisation mode I round up a few hundred plastic flower pots. Impossible to throw any out, of course. But they are at least now stacked in neatly graded trays.

After lunch that day I think Mum had had enough. My, “Is there anything I can do?” is met by an invitation to play her violin, to get it back into shape. In other words: leave me in peace!

Santa Cruz and Valparaiso

28 December 

Sunday is a day of rest and recreation in Chile. In Santiago many of the streets are closed to allow cyclists and roller bladers to cruise the traffic-free city centre. Unfortunately for us the Hertz office is located in a "closed" road. We piss off the cyclists (but how else can we get out of the cycle zone?!) and have a "snakes and ladders" start to our drive to Santa Cruz, not knowing which roads are passable. But all is well and we get onto the A5 south, driving through valleys where vineyards alternate with maize and other vegetables. Although we're on a motorway, there are stands selling watermelon, cherries and strawberries from stands along the hard shoulder. At the toll booths peasants sell a variety of street food.

We reach "Casa Pando", a km outside Santa Cruz, in one of Chile's best known valleys, the Colchagua, just before lunch. It's the one hotel we booked independently and by far the best value of the holiday. Run by Chilean Mariela and Spanish José, it's set in a beautiful garden with swimming pool. Mariela supplies us with information about eateries, wineries, and places of interest. Following her recommendation we have lunch in a stunning Italian restaurant on the edge of a vineyard. During the afternoon we visit local gaucho hat makers, Juan trying on every model before deciding not to buy; an ethnographic museum at Santa Cruz vineyard: and a fascinating craft museum in Lolol.

In the evening just one of Santa Cruz's restaurants is open, La Etiqueta Negra, packed with gringos.

29 December 

We follow Mariela's recommendation and visit Lapostolle vineyard - or at least the part of it used to create the Apalta brand, dating from 2005. Lapostolle is a French company (Relais Châteaux, the same owner as Sancerre), and proud of its imported French-oak barrels. We are surprised to hear the extent to which French and Spanish expertise seems to be used to check quality, across the industry. Although wine has been made in Chile for 500 years, the wine industry in Chile is very young; early 20th century is considered deeply rooted. 

There are many differences from European wine-making: the emphasis on single-grape blends (a wine can be named as a single-grape variety but include up to 15% of whatever other varieties the winemaker wants to include) - perhaps the influence of the American market; the grapes harvested at night because the cooler temperature gives a better flavour. Ninety-five per cent of Chilean wines are exported. And, because Lapostolle doesn't have a strong presence in Chile, their wines are cheaper in the US and Europe.

The most impressive aspect of the winery is the elegant, modern buildings. They were designed by museum-specialist architect Roberto Benavente. For earthquake-security and natural-chilling reasons, part of the building is underground. It required dynamiting of the granite, and a section of rock wall has been carefully retained, "framed" and lit almost as a work of art. At another point a Foucault pendulum has been incorporated into a three-storey spiral stairwell. (Juan has to suffer our guide's erroneous explanation - it is moved by the earth's movement, not by "a special kind of magnetism"!) When the lights are dimmed in the tasting room a twinkling "starry sky" appears.

The wine-tasting itself is underwhelming: just three, very young wines: Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. It seems a bit mean. (And this vineyard gives nothing away - the four cabañas it rents out are done so at $1500 per night.) But it's a pleasant, informative experience, and the view from the terrace down the valley very lovely.

We skip lunch as Mariela's breakfast (fresh apricots and cherries, guacamole, scrambled egg, ham, cheese, warm bread and jam) has set us up for the day; and spend the afternoon in the Museo Colchagua. It is part of the same foundation that owns the Santa Cruz vineyard, and the craft museum. The range of exhibits is mind blowing. How can one man have gathered such huge numbers of pieces of pre-Columbian art, machinery, historical realia, vehicles...? He has such status that the collection of artifacts relating to the 2010 mining rescue has been entrusted to the foundation (for which The Independent voted it best museum). It is a compelling  display, including drill bits, the famous rescue capsule, letters, technical data, TV footage.

Back at Casa Pando José asks if we'd like to taste a wine, with two other couples also staying. You bet. We sit under the 85-year-old vine planted by Mariela's grandmother, and dripping with ripening grapes. José cracks open a Cab Sauv from a neighbouring valley. It is delicious - better than anything we've tasted that day. Mariela brings out pizza, cheese and jamon and I start to worry we won't have the appetite for the slap-up meal we've planned. José opens another bottle. I try to gauge whether Juan is eating as much as me. I think Yes. So I continue to nibble, and José opens yet another bottle. Now we can't go out - we've drunken far too much to drive. And still the wine flows. I am floating downstream in a fast-flowing current of Spanish and alcohol. 

Juan, meanwhile, has been able to ask the question he has been wanting to ask, about the aftermath of the Pinochet era. Mariela reveals that, because of the lack of closure, the wounds have not healed. We also learn how liberal the current government is: as a small business it is very easy to get a subsidy to expand, e.g. adding a swimming pool or hot tub, as they have done. Juan checks he has heard correctly; yes, a subsidy, not a loan. (We later hear how, in Valparaiso, small hotels have received around $12000 to commission street artists to create murals on the walls of their buildings.) But as for health or education - forget it.

José and Mariela answer our inevitable question about how they came to be there. It's a romantic story - they met on a tour during José's two-year world tour after his first wife's death. Now Mariela is the happiest she has ever been.

At near midnight we have collectively put away 7 bottles, and I admit I have consumed more than my fair share. We stumble back to our room, grateful for this precious evening and our hosts' incredible generosity.

30 December 

The last part of our Chilean odyssey is north to the coast, at Valparaiso. It's a longish drive as we have chosen the interior route over the Santiago motorway. Arriving in the city we helter skelter up and down the contorted, steeply cobbled streets in confusion. We arrive at our hotel just in time for the "welcome cocktail" (or at least those not recovering from the previous night's excesses), sitting on the top-floor terrace overlooking the downtown.

Valparaiso is like no other city. The psychedelically painted residential area sprawls across several different hills that plunge down to the sea. At their foot are the naval docklands and commercial zone. The city is so steep that half a dozen elevators dating from the early twentieth century connect the different levels. Our hotel, a stylish rebuild from two houses - 3 m doorways, airy staircases, original pieces of art on the walls - is typical of the constructions: you enter the building at one height on one side and exit two storeys lower the other side. 

We start to explore the city, quickly turned off by the chaotic, traffic-choked downtown (where we are warned by a shopkeeper to keep an eye on our valuables), retreating back up the hill to a café where we have a modest supper: packet soup and empanada. We will need to find a better place to see in the new year but are a bit freaked out to discover it would set us back more than €250 for the two of us to eat at our hotel. The search continues.

31 December 

Aside from its wild house colours, "Valpo" has achieved international status for its street art. In the morning we take a walking tour with an artist (cum sommelier, we later discover!). There are hundreds of murals in the city and he chooses a selection unaffected by the turf war" raging between factions of artists. I learn some new words: "tagging" (adding a signature), "flaring" (holding the spray can sideways to create a soft edge. Behind some images is a kind of visual rhyming Cockney slang. Other artists have established styles using e.g. pastels, or juxtaposition of realistic and figurative, or Surrealist. Art as protest seems to be a thing of the past: One Valpo boy, Inti, is now attached to a Paris art gallery. To buy his services for a full mural would cost the city $300,000. So, on his trips home, Inti just does the odd small piece. 

Inti is at the top of his game. But one story Al told us was very embarrassing: an English friend of the famous Banksy was commissioned to paint on a wall and, of all things, chose the national hero, Pablo Neruda. The result was so bad that the city council cancelled the inauguration ceremony.

Our guide, Al, works with a couple called "Un Kolor Distinto".  Under their guidance we create a mural on top of the existing one painted on a house next to the hotel.

In the afternoon Juan wanders some more, adding numerous photos to the ever-growing collection, and I do some writing. We have a quiet and enjoyable meal in a nearby hotel, adding layers as the wind picks up. Then see the new year in from our hotel terrace, watching a 40-minute firework display across the bay. Unforgettable.

1 January 

After a sleepless night while the whole of the city parties until well after we get up, we have what we think is our last breakfast in Chile. Events take an unfortunate turn, however. At Santiago airport, an accident during landing of another flight causes a 5-hour delay. We wait in our plane as the take-off time is put back and back, and then postponed until the next day. There is a long delay retrieving our luggage, and then huge confusion as 500 passengers mill around trying to get into a shambles of a minibus transfer to a downtown hotel. Having spent the best part of the day at the airport we find ourselves having supper at half past midnight. A bad start to the year but at least this blog is now up to date! Over and out for now.

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.