Fresh from the moving experience of 'Welsh afternoon tea' in Bariloche, we were keen to repeat the experience in Gaiman, known as the Welsh capital of Patagonia. The idea of a “little Wales beyond Wales” had been mooted since 1862 by Professor Michael D. Jones, a Welsh nationalist preacher from Bala. He wanted to create a Welsh-speaking colony free from the corrupting influences of the English. In 1865 his vision was realised, as some 153 Welshmen travelled on the good ship Mimosa from Liverpool to the river Chubut in Patagonia. From there the new arrivals moved up the valley, settling in Gaiman, Dolovan and Rawson.

Mr Jones couldn't really have picked a better spot to achieve his ambitions – this area of Patagonia was at the time completely desolate, inhabited only by the local Teluelche tribe. Unfortunately, it was also pretty inhospitable, with awful weather and difficult crop-growing conditions. However, with the help of the natives the community eventually started to thrive, along with those Welsh traditions they were so keen to preserve, including the annual Eisteddfod singing and dancing competition, which continues to this day. In fact, it's probably more Welsh than parts of Wales are!

Today, Gaiman is a pretty sleepy town, with a sunlit main square and lots of rose bushes everywhere. For us, it was pretty bizarre – it felt like we'd somehow teleported back to Wales overnight. Also a lot of the people looked vaguely familiar. We expected them to be speaking English, or Welsh at the very least, so it was quite a shock when they began talking in Spanish. This mix of Welsh and Argentinian was obvious in the street and business names we passed on our walk around town – the bookshop was run by a Ricardo Jones Berwyn, and the main street was called Avenue Jones. Like parts of Wales, it seemed that nothing opened until after lunch, and so, tired after an overnight bus ride from Bariloche, we headed straight to our hostel. It was more like a B&B, and was again disorientating in its familiarity – with the floral bedspreads, pink lampshades and crotcheted placemats, I felt once more like I was back at my Aunty Enid's.

After a little rest, we headed back into town. We seemed to be the only people sightseeing that day, but that didn't deter us. We visited the oldest house in Gaiman, a stone building made by one David Roberts who seemed to spend his life travelling the world, never settling properly in one place – although he managed to stay in Patagonia long enough to sire several children. Again a lot of the furnishings were eerily familiar – am pretty sure my grandmother had the same sideboard. We also went to the Gaiman Welsh Museum, where the curator seemed inordinately pleased to see us (or perhaps, to see anyone in his museum at all). There were a lot of Victorian era pictures of Morgan's and Griffiths' here, along with the original 'town plan,' dividing the area into plots of land for each of the immigrants. I think I counted about 20 Davies' in total.

The town came to life a little more in the afternoon – it seems the main source of revenue is catering to tour parties, from Wales and elsewhere, keen to experience a little bit of Wales on this side of the Atlantic, mostly in cake form. We headed to Plas y Coed, the self-proclaimed oldest tea shop in town, and were delighted when our afternoon tea arrived complete with Welsh cakes, bara brith and strong Welsh tea. Yum! We also befriended our waitress by explaining we were both Welsh – she had lived in Swansea for 2 months a couple of years back, and took great delight in telling us she'd been through Bridgend (where I was born) on the train every day on her commute between Swansea and Cardiff. Small world.

Gaiman also has a mini-claim to fame in that Princess Diana stopped here for afternoon tea once in 1995 (or thereabouts). Our Lonely Planet claimed that the tea house in question, Ty Te Caerdydd, had kept her table exactly as it had been on that day, and had never washed the cup and saucer she'd drunk from. We decided to check it out. However, what the guidebook neglected to tell us was that the tea house was situated about 2km from town, in the middle of nowhere. And thus it was that we found ourselves on an inadvertent Diana pilgrimage. On arrival we were a little disappointed – although there were plenty of pictures of the People's Princess in the lobby, there was no sign of the cobwebby table, and we weren't allowed in without agreeing to consume another full afternoon tea. Big fan of cake that I am, even I couldn't stretch to another 7 pieces of cake, and so we had to return to town with our pilgrimage unfulfilled.

We woke up freezing in our cabin on the Tasman Penninsula. We were in a bunkhouse on a campsite, but as it's the off-season we were the only occupants. Sarah and I huddled together for warmth on the bottom bunk of one of the three triple-deckers in the room. Having failed to figure out the heater, we had had to pile all of the other bedding onto our one bed in order to survive the night.

Checking out of the campsite I asked the receptionist if there was anywhere good for breakfast nearby:
'Hmm.. well there's a bakery in Dullersbury (5km away) that might be open (on a Wednesday at 10am, you would hope so), or you could drive to Hobart (the capital, 1.5 hours away), or there's Mackers (MacDonalds) in Sorell (1 hour away)'. I am beginning to understand Tasmania's reputation as being somewhat more 'provincial' than the mainland.

We lucked out with the bakery, so come 1030 we were both full of pastry and coffee, speeding north up the A9 with the car stereo belting out some quality local radio.

Tasmania reminds me of New Zealand – lots of stunning scenery, and very few people. We drove all morning on empty roads through rolling fields and forested hills before arriving at Triabunna by the sea. From there we continued north up the coast, winding around the headlands. Great fun to drive. I snatched sideways glances of the amazing sea views whenever I could safely do so.

Nearing Swansea (!) and a lunchstop, Freycinet Peninsula reared up across the water to the east, enclosing Great Oyster Bay. This was our destination for the afternoon: Freycinet National Park is the home of the stunning Wineglass Bay, apparently one of the 'Top 10 Beaches in the World'. (according to whom, they didn't say). To reach the bay we hiked up through temperate rainforest to the mountainous peaks of 'The Hazards' – four pink granite summits that guard the entrance to the peninsula. From these heady heights we were afforded a fantastic view of Wineglass Bay: As the afternoon sun threw the forest around it into shadow, the beach still gleamed white, and the sea a sapphire blue. We climbed down to walk on the beach and stood listening to the booming surf until it got cold and dark enough to make our hike back a little interesting.

As the final fragments of sunlight left the sky, we drove the up to the town of St Helen's in the North East of Tasmania. On the way we very nearly annihilated a wallaby which had decided to take a breather in the middle of the highway. Blinded by the full-beams, he sat there for a good couple of seconds before hopping off into the undergrowth. It was quite a shock to see a living animal on the road, having observed such a massive amount of roadkill over the previous two days of driving.

St Helen's had a strangely American feel to it when we arrived: A one road town with a supermarket, off-license ('bottle store'), petrol station and a couple of diners; every other car a 4x4. We had booked into a 'Unit' for the night, which turned out to be a self-contained bungalow on the outskirts of town. Over-excited at being able to play house, we decided to eat-in and cooked ourselves a lovely dinner before settling down on the sofa to enjoy '20 best break-up songs' and other fantastic programming with a bottle of wine. It's amazing the things you miss when you're travelling – lazy evenings in front of crap TV are definitely one of them.