Puerto Madryn, another Welsh settlement an hour north of Gaiman, was our next stop. Unlike Gaiman, the city has little need of tea shops to attract tourists - it is the de facto wildlife capital of the east coast, famous for sightings of species of penguins and dolphins that exist nowhere else in the world. Being, as I often remark to James, “pretty good at nature now,” and having a particular penchant for cute little penguins, we decided to take a few days to properly explore the area.

The most famous place to spot wildlife is the Reserva Faunística Penínsular Valdés, a large and surprisingly dusty piece of land linked to the mainland by a narrow isthmus. The day after our arrival we headed off on a full-day tour to explore. Our group was a lively one: along with us and a trio of French and German friends, our bus was filled with a gregarious group of five ladies from Buenos Aires, one hen-pecked husband, and a very cute little girl. They quickly started getting to know us, rapidly firing questions our way which we did our best to respond to in Spanish. Once they were satisfied, they inducted us into one of the most famous Argentinian rituals: drinking mate with friends.

We'd already seen lots of Argentinians drinking mate during our adventures. Initially, in Salta, we thought it was some kind of ancient bong, but when a policeman took the contraption from someone in the main square, only to take a couple of sips and pass it back again, we realised we must be mistaken. In fact, mate drinking, originally the preserve of the gauchos, has taken on almost cult-status here in Argentina – rarely is someone to be seen without a wooden gourd filled with mate in hand, sipping away through a silver straw, known here as a bombilla. James and I found ourselves slightly saddened that we don't have any similar 'sharing' traditions back in the UK – none that are alcohol-free anyway.

The drink is made from yerba mate, the chopped dried leaves of a type of holly bush. The gourd is almost filled to the brim with the yerba, and then hot water is added. It tastes pretty bitter, a lot like Japanese macha, although generally a lot of sugar or sweetener is added – no real surprise considering the Argentinian sweet tooth. James was not a fan, but I took to it instantly (much to the delight of our new friends), and enjoyed taking a few hearty sips every time the gourd was passed my way throughout the day.

Anyway, back to the wildlife. Our day consisted of a few stops at various points along the coastline to simply admire and take pictures. We saw a lot of lazy elephant seals, enormous fur-covered beasts up to 5m long, who were lazing about on the beach close to the shoreline enjoying the sun's rays. Orca (killer) whales are regularly spotted beaching themselves in order to snack on seals in these parts but (un)fortunately there were none to be seen. We had to content ourselves with the very cute black and white Magellan penguins instead, that are currently ashore in order to hatch their little 'uns. We were due to visit a whole colony the next day, and this first glimpse definitely whetted our appetites for what was to come.

But the highlight of the day was the boat tour that we took in the afternoon in order to spot some southern right whales. These whales settle in to the shallow waters around the peninsular for a few months each year in order to give birth to and wean their young, before heading out to deeper waters to hunt. Having never been on a whale spotting tour I didn't really know what to expect. Whatever those expectations were, this trip definitely exceeded them. Almost as soon as we were afloat (having been driven to the shoreline by a converted tractor) someone spotted a whale's tail in the corner of the bay, and we were off, 50 or so cameras at the ready....to see a mummy whale and her calf splashing about. At one point the baby whale jumped right out of the water, glinting in the sunlight for a few seconds before creating an enormous splash as he landed. It was a proper Free Willy moment.

I thought that was pretty good, but there was more to come. As we moved further out to sea, cries went up around the boat as people kept spotting tails splashing in all directions – the experts think there are more than a hundred whales that come to rest here each spring. We attracted the curiosity of a couple of them, who came swimming over to our boat and took turns raising their ugly faces to take a closer look at us. I say ugly, because their heads are covered in a crop of whitish natural growths, known as callosites, which are made up of whale lice. Nice. We started to think we were goners, especially when one of the whales went charging across in front of the boat and the other dived underneath, creating an enormous wave. But they were only playing, thinking the boat was another potential friend. It was amazing to be so close – I think the Argentinian restrictions are a lot more lax than elsewhere, but it doesn't seem to do the animals any harm at all.

The next day was our penguin odyssey – we were heading down to Punta Tombo, the largest penguin nesting ground outside of Antarctica. But first we had another little extra thrown in for good measure: a boat ride to go dolphin-spotting. Having already seen a fair few dolphins in New Zealand I was more excited about seeing the penguins, but this ended up being my favourite part of the day. Commerson's dolphins, henceforth to be known as panda dolphins for their black and white colouring and slightly pudgy physique, are completely unique to Patagonia. They came motoring up to the boat (more of a dinghy really, with only about 30 people on board) and ran rings around us as they investigated, popping up and disappearing again before you really knew what was happening. We took a lot of photos of water as we raced to try and keep up with them. They were really inquisitive – at one point I got splashed fully in the face by the exhalation from a dolphin's blowhole, he was that close to the boat. A little gross...but pretty cool all the same.

Slightly giddy with excitement, we headed on down the coast to see the penguins. The colony is home to over one million penguins during peak season (in January / February time, when all the chicks have hatched and the young penguins come ashore to shed and re-waterproof their feathers ready for another season at sea), but even when we were there, just before the eggs were due to start hatching, there were some 200,000 pairs of penguins. Penguins mate for life and have a very 21st century approach to parenting: they each take it in turns to sit on the egg, whilst the other goes to sea and fishes for a few days at a time. So we got to see both the penguins nesting and the penguins heading off to or back from the sea. As you might expect of a colony accommodating so many penguins, it was enormous, and it was very bizarre to see the stark black and white creatures set against a desert brush-like background.

Again the regulations governing human interaction with wild animals seemed to be virtually non-existent, and whilst we were given strict instructions about not getting too close, and not petting the animals, we were able to get a lot closer than I'd anticipated. When a penguin is waddling past you, it has right of way, as if you block its path it can get disorientated and lose its way. We were enchanted as a few of these little creatures waddled across right in front of us. The nesting penguins had their own little routines too, getting up off the eggs every few hours in order to stretch, shit and have a little wander around – pretty similar to a human morning really!

Being close to the sea also had the advantage of offering a break from the unofficial national cuisine (ham and cheese) and indulge ourselves in fresh seafood. Not that this seems to be a benefit for the locals: 95% of the seafood caught here is exported, and one of our tour guides proudly told us she only eats fish once a year, at Easter: the rest of the time, it's carne, carne, carne. Her loss is our gain, and we indulged in enormous prawns, calamari, scallops, salmon and a new one for me, spider crab. It seemed there were only a few good restaurants in town, and so we found ourselves spending two consecutive evenings next to the same couple from Buenos Aires on a tour of Patagonia. They were very keen to chat to us, and the husband became my friend for life when he told James he was “muy suerte” (very lucky) to be marrying me!

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.

Bariloche is in the heart of the Lake District in Northern Patagonia, about a thousand kilometres south of Mendoza. I think Sarah was in denial about how cold it was going to be there. She stood shivering by the baggage carousel wearing shorts and sandals, surrounded a crowd of Mammut and North Faced tourists.

To be fair to her, it was a bit of a shock flying from 30ºc Mendoza to 6ºc Bariloche. Driving into town surrounded by snowy mountains made us feel like we were back in New Zealand again. This feeling was soon dispelled as we discovered that Bariloche is an almost exact copy of Geneva. Just like its Swiss twin it's a lakeside town crammed with faux-chalet buildings, and specialising in chocolate and fondue. To be honest I was surprised they hadn't gone the whole-hog and installed a flower clock and a jet d'eau.

The hostel we had booked was out of town, a 15 minute lakeside taxi ride away. The lake is bigger and meaner than Lake Geneva, a menacing bullet grey colour streaked with wind-whipped white caps. Perfect for kite-surfing, we saw several surfers tearing along the water. The hostel when we arrived was a lovely place, kind of like a timber lodge / air-raid shelter hybrid that was run by a young couple and their dog. Javi, Natti and Lolly made us very welcome during our stay and were a great help in our getting the most out of the area – Lolly especially, who made a point of saying hello to us each morning, and showing off whichever mini ski sweater she had decided to wear that day to keep out the cold.

Like the Lake District back home, outdoor pursuits like hiking, sailing and cycling are the main event here. Our first outing was a 30km cycle ride around the many lakes that lay to the west of town. Sarah competed in the 10th Annual Tour de Libourne race, but it seems that the cycling prowess she demonstrated that day was purely alcohol-inspired. She fared less well in Bariloche. She didn't want to cycle uphill as it was too hard, or downhill as she felt out of control; didn't like cycling on gravel as it was too wobbly and would only cycle on the roads as long as there were no cars. All of which made for pretty slow progress. But it did give me a lot of time to enjoy the scenery, which was stunning.

As a reward for Sarah's manning-up towards the end of the cycle ride, we stopped for tea at a guesthouse we spotted on the way back to our hostel. We were waved inside by a jolly red-faced man by the name of Alexander Gough. As he introduced himself it came to light that his family were Welsh immigrants to Argentina, one of many families that moved to Patagonia in the 1800s. This went some way to explain the décor of the living room, which bore an uncanny resemblance to Sarah's great aunt Enid's house in Porthcawl. When he learned that we both had Welsh heritage too, that was it – we were soon enjoying a fresh pot of tea with an assortment of seven different types of cake, whilst a CD of the Welsh National Anthem played on repeat in the background. It brought a tear to my eye.

The next day we hired a car from a friend of Javi's and drove out to see the Seven Lakes – one of the 'must-see' day trips in the Lake District. We hired the car with a cool young couple from just outside Brisbane, Andrew & Megan, who were off to Peru the following week. We were lucky to have such great company as the incredible views that we were promised were hidden behind a thick curtain of rain and mist for most of the day. We didn't mind much; we had a great time chatting away about Australia, London, Peru, and weddings. I think this wedding chat may have distracted Sarah from her map-reading duties, as we accidentally ended up driving to the Chilean border. The border guard did not look amused as we did a rapid u-turn and motored back into Argentina.

We had the car for one more day, and used it to drive out to see the 'Black Glacier' in the Nahuel Huapi National Park. Now the roads around the Seven Lakes were pretty ropey, but those in the National Park were ridiculous. Once we got into the park the road disappeared altogether and we had to drive for over four hours along a bumpy dirt and gravel track through the forests to get to the glacier. It was pretty eery – we were so completely alone in the wilderness the whole time it was a relief to see other people when we eventually arrived at the glacier. The glacier itself is black due to the rock and sediment mixed up in the ice when it formed thousands of years ago. Bascially, it's dirty ice. Nevertheless, the sight of the dirty glacier shunting down into the milky meltwater lake filled with icebergs was very nearly worth the bone-shaking drive to get there.

Tired after the second long day of driving, we walked to a local Parrilla – grill restaurant – that Natti had recommended to us. To the left of the door walking in were stacks of cooking meat sizzling over red hot coals, tended to by two serious looking chefs with large knives. Encouraging! We tried a steak cut that we hadn't tried before called entraña – again a recommendation from Natti – that has only been on menus in Argentina for the last couple of years. Apparently when meat prices went up recently, everyone started frantically experimenting with cheaper cuts for their barbeques and entraña was one of the more popular innovations. What else could they do? Eat less beef? Like that's going to happen! Entraña is a skirt steak – a little chewier than filet but much more tasty. And it goes very well with a strong malbec like the Patagonian Intimo which we drank in record time. We meandered home stuffed, ready for the next leg of our journey down the Chubut valley to Gaiman to visit more of our Welsh brethren.

In Córdoba we figured out that nice as the buses are in Argentina, they're only a bit cheaper than flying. The choice between a budget 1 ½ flight and a luxury 15 hour bus was an easy one, and we booked our plane tickets to Mendoza. Anyway, it was fitting that we arrived in Mendoza by plane. Unbeknownst to us at the time, we were about to embark upon a 3 day flashpacking extravaganza - the flight was just the start.

Mendoza is another desert town, but aside from the heat you wouldn't know it. Aquifers originally dug by the Huarpes tribe babble along the sides of every street, and the trees and grass of the many plazas are all well-watered and green.

Like Cafayate, the town and its wineries sit to the east of the Andes, just over the border from Chile. The mountains absorb any moisture that would otherwise rain in the region, leaving them just 220mm a year. The heat, low moisture and stoney soil make the area perfect for growing intense grapes like malbec. The only weather that the winery owners have to worry about are strange hailstorms that ride in from the mountains in late summer, with potentially disastrous results for their vines. We saw many vines growing under netting to protect them from hail.

Having dumped our bags at our hostel in the north of town, we managed to get halfway to the centre before stopping for a leisurely lunch – the sun and the number of nice cafes set out on the wide pavements sucked us in. The cheapest menu del dia came with a house malbec, so we made an early start. And after the stresses of the big city, didn't we deserve another break? No, is the answer, but we took one anyway.

Feeling full and happy, we rolled on to the centre of town to take a look around. Mendoza seems to be a favourite vacation destination for Americans bored of trips to the Napa Valley, and most of them seemed to be staying at the enormous Hyatt casino hotel built next to the central square. We wandered in to see what all the fuss was about, and found an extremely well kitted-out gym. They also had a deal on for a day's use of their facilities that included a free massage. Thinking back to when we last visited a gym – July – we panicked and booked ourselves in for later that week.

Our next task was to find a wine-tasting tour to go on. We had heard good things about The Amphora Wine company, and were on our way to their offices when we passed what we thought was some kind of comedy Argentine Abercrombie & Fitch rip-off – a very preppy, very expensive polo-themed clothes shop. On closer inspection though, the store turned out to be completely legit – there actually is a real polo scene in Argentina, and La Martina is the brand of choice. The window even had a poster for a local polo tournament. Deciphering the print, we realised that it was at the Mendoza Country Club, the tournament finals were tomorrow, and it was free! So having booked our wine-tour we had a three day plan of polo, wine then spa. As I said, flashpacking.

After lunch the next day we dressed up in our smartest clothes and caught a taxi out to the country club. After a little bit of confusion at the entrance gate of the club – 'Polo? What polo?' - our taxi was redirected to a couple of fields across the road. There was no-one there. We weren't sure we were in the right place but we saw a couple of horses running around in the distance so we walked on over, trying to look like we belonged. On one field we found a polo match in progress and a couple of very well-to-do looking mums pushing babies around the boundary in hi-tech buggies. I recognise a WAG when I see one – this was the place! Beside the field, there were a couple of well-branded stalls set up to serve drinks, with tables and leather sofas dotted around, but no-one on them. Clearly we had turned up a couple of hours too early.

We decided to settle in and watched our first match from some wooden bleachers. Even to the uneducated eye, the two teams playing were clearly second-rate – lots of swinging and missing – but it was nonetheless very entertaining to watch. Despite their inability to connect with the ball, the players' skill in handling the horses was incredible. One minute they were twirling in circles in a scrum of other horses, the next turning to gallop downfield chasing the ball – all with only one-hand on the reins as they used the other to wave their mallets around in the air ready to strike... or not, as the case may be.

Sarah and I soon found ourselves a little hot sitting in the sun, and decided to let the wallet take a hit and order some drinks. We sat ourselves down on some stools at the Chandon stall and ordered two glasses of champagne. When I asked how much I owed for the drinks, the bartender looked a little confused for a second, then replied, 'They're all free'. This changed things somewhat. We spent the next few hours watching several polo matches of increasingly quality, whilst sampling a lot of champagne from different local estates. To top things off, the polo club had employed a couple of waiters to walk around the field with plates of fresh empañadas for everyone. This polo crowd certainly know how to live!

Just as interesting as the polo itself (and the champagne sampling) was the people-watching. The crowd that was building as we approached the final games of the tournament seemed to be mostly made up of polo players, their pretty young wives and kids. Talking with our new friend Ramone from La Chamiza estate, we learned that while polo is a bit more common a sport in Argentina than in the UK, it is still the preserve of the rich – to play a match you need at least 4 horses, so you've got to be at least moderately wealthy! There's clearly a degree of status attached to playing the sport too: Those who had played in a match that day changed out of their tops and boots but swaggered around in their muddied white trousers on for the rest of the afternoon, just so that everyone knew that they were players.

The next day, with slightly fuzzy heads, we woke up and ate a big breakfast in preparation for the wine tour. Having been a little bit disappointed with the standard of the free tastings during our wanderings in Cafayate, we had booked ourselves onto a 'premium' tour which meant we would get to taste the best wines from each of the wineries we would visit.

They weren't kidding with the 'premium' label. When the van picked us up, it turned out that there were only four of us on the tour: Sarah, myself, Alan and Judy – two lovely Atlantians – and our guide Maria who gave us a fantastic introduction to Mendoza's history on the drive out to the Luján de Cuyo region.

We were treated like royalty the entire day. At each winery we were met at the gates by a rep, then taken on a completely private tour of their operations – from the vines to the fermentation tanks to the barrels and bottling – before finishing up with a comprehensive tasting. It was great to get to see the more industrial side of wine production that usually kept hidden behind the scenes in Oz & NZ – it felt like we got a feel for wine as a business as well as just a finished product.

The problem with any wine tasting is that there is a lot of interesting information to take in, but also lots of tasty wine to take on. And the latter tends to blot out the former. Despite this fact, we learned a lot about Mendoza, malbecs and torrontés grapes. The marketeer in both of us was very interested to see the number of wine-in-bags stacked up in the Piatelli factory: Their principle export market is the US, and bags now make up a significant proportion of their volume. Foil bags ('goon bags' for the Aussies out there) actually keep the wine in a better state than bottles do, and are ideal for a market where wine is mostly served by the glass. Consumers aren't quite ready for the modern ugliness of these silver bags yet though, so most restaurants put them inside twee little wooden casks that are displayed behind the bar.

The pinnacle of the tours' premiumness came at lunch, which we enjoyed in a private dining room at Bodega Ruca Malen's. Sipping aperitifs out on our very own balcony overlooking the vineyards, the chef himself came up to introduce each of the five courses and the wines chosen to match them. I think he must have thought we were a bit simple sitting there with dazed grins on our faces, dumbstruck by our good luck.

There had to be a downside to all this indulgence of course. The next day after a long lie-in we had to drag ourselves to the gym. We did have the gym to ourselves when we got there though – probably a good thing as we sweated out two days' worth of alcohol, limping along on the treadmills. It also meant we got control of the massive flatscreen TV, and so got to watch Ali with Will Smith. The motivational training scenes definitely helped us through the trauma of being back in a gym after so long. And the massages at the end of it all helped too.

After a long journey down from Cafayate with a short overnight stop in the city of Tucumán, we finally arrived in Córdoba to find ourselves stuck in a traffic jam. We were thrilled! An actual traffic jam! With new looking cars! The novelty kept us entertained for the half hour ride to our hostel on the north of town.

Córdoba is and has always been a university town. The Jesuits set up the first University in the country here in 1622, and the town is still rammed with students doing studenty things: Drinking, putting posters up for gigs, demonstrating against things, drinking coffee and modelling strange fashions and mullet haircuts.

Clearly pleased with their university, the Jesuits spent the rest of the 17th century throwing up all manner of other buildings in the area – churches, cathedrals and crypts – which were funded by a series of grand estancias (posh farms) in the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately for them, their success in Córdoba and elsewhere in the country made the Vatican and the royals back in Europe suspicious, and they decided to kick them out of all Portuguese and Spanish territories in 1759 and '67 and suppressed them completely in 1773.

We had lots of time to see this Jesuit legacy the day after we turned up. It turned out it was National Census Day, and absolutely everything was shut as everyone had to stay in their homes to be counted by people with clipboards. Córdoba was a complete ghost-town and we wandered through empty streets all morning, around the Jesuit quarter, Plaza San Martin, then up to the park. It's a great looking city. I think it looks something like a mini Spanish version of New York – brick high-rises, parks, museums, bars and a big avenue block system.

After 4 hours of walking we were getting a little hungry and realised that we had no food, and nowhere was going to be open till 8 that night. Luckily, on the way back to our hostel we found one tiny little corner shop that had seemed to have struck a deal with a policeman standing outside, and was open and selling food to a small crowd of hungry-looking locals. Relieved, we bought their last two empañadas.

That same day, we learned that the ex-president Néstor Kirchner had died of a heart-attack. The husband of the current president, Kirchner was a hugely popular figure in Argentina, and did a lot to bring to justice many of the people responsible for the atrocities committed by the military government of the 70s. Sarah nearly caused a scene in the hostel that morning when she misunderstood the news on TV. Having watched a montage of footage of Kirchner celebrating, with the day's date in large letters underneath, Sarah turned to our hostel owner and said in Spanish, 'Ah! Happy Birthday President Kirchner!'. To which the man replied, deadpan, 'No, it's not his birthday, he's dead.'

Having scoped out where we wanted to visit the previous day during our walk around town, and now a day behind our intended itinerary, we set off on Friday for a big day of sight-seeing. Córdoba has lots of museums, and we visited as many as we could. The best was the Palacio Ferrerya, a grand old building with a massive collection of first rate modern art. If I could rob one museum of all its works, this would be it.

After the museum, and exhausted from the hectic pace we had set, I suggested we stop for aperitifs at a cool-looking bar I had spotted. Back home in London, the guys were out celebrating the birthdays of Mr Burke and Mr Lawes, and I was keen to join in the fun as best I could. I did this by ordering an Argentine favourite – Fernet & Coke. Fernet is an Italian herbal liqueur not dissimilar to Jägermeister. It tastes horrible, but then I figured this was fitting tribute given Steve and Glennie would probably be drinking much worse.

The bus pulled up into Cafayate on a sleepy Saturday afternoon. The dusty square was flooded with sunlight, the grassy area in the centre filled with locals and tourists alike, whiling away the day sunbathing. We decided that perhaps it was finally time to give ourselves a few days' rest and that perhaps Cafayate was the place in which to do it.

We were staying in a hostel called Rusty K, which had a gorgeous suntrap of a garden, and after a quick trip to the corner shop for crisps and beer, we sat in the sun and planned the next few weeks of the tour, stopping occasionally to pet the two adorable dogs belonging to the owners. This was starting to feel like a regular holiday!

Our gastronomic explorations continued here in Cafayate. Northern Argentina has some traditional dishes, and so we tried tamales, balls made of corn filled with minced beef and vegetables (writing this down makes it sound disgusting but they were actually very good!) and humitas, a mushy paste made up of sweetcorn, onions, and bits of melted cheese, which I was considerably less keen on – it's what I imagine eating baby food would be like. But the best thing was dulche de leche, an Argentinian-wide obsession, which is essentially a sweet caramel spread, eaten at every possible opportunity, but especially at breakfast time. It was too sweet for James, but I loved it – took me back to my youthful obsession with Nutella. Yum!

Cafayate is best-known for producing the best torrontés wine in Argentina, and so we were obviously keen to sample a glass or two. We had high hopes after having such a good time in the Marlborough region in NZ, but we were to discover that the Argentinian approach to wine tasting was generally a little more...low key. There were a few small bodegas in the centre of town, which we decided to have a little wander around first. Our first and favourite stop was Bodega Nonni, which we arrived at straight after lunch, ready for the 3pm tasting. We were early. As we sat in the little sun-filled courtyard, awaiting our tour, we realised this wasn't the first time we'd waited for a winery to open....we probably shouldn't make a habit of it. The tour was conducted entirely in Spanish, and although we did our best to follow what was going on, we spent most of the time nodding, smiling and saying “si” whenever occasion seemed to demand it. We got to sample a few wines, including the lovely torrontés, which is a lot like sauvignon blanc, only fruitier. They also gave us a rosé which smelt like strawberries and cream, but tasted more like syrup – apparently rosé wine is not yet very popular here in Argentina. I am starting to see why.

The next day it was the turn of the bigger vineyards: both Diageo and Pernod-Ricard have bought wineries in the area. Our first port of call was Diageo's Bodega El Esteco, a sunny 2km walk down the road. Diageo has clearly invested a lot of money in the area, as all of Cafayate's street signs are branded with the bodega's logo. The vineyard was suitably impressive: the vines sprawl over 400 hectares, and the wine-making equipment is housed in a huge white building, built in 1892. The tour was again in Spanish, but we'd picked up a bit of technical vocab by now, plus what we saw was interesting enough not to require much explanation. I couldn't believe how close we were allowed to come to actual production. We wandered amongst workers washing out barrels, operating the bottling line and packing the finished product ready for shipment. Very cool. The tasting was a little less impressive – despite paying for a tour, we were only allowed to sample one white and one red, both from the most basic range. We weren't impressed, especially when we glanced outside and saw another group enjoying a private tasting. Damn them.

But all was redeemed by Pernod-Ricard's Bodega Eckhart. This was a little way out of town, and so we hired bikes from our hostel and cycled along quiet roads flanked by bright green vines and the peaks of the Andes beyond. A pretty spectacular place to grow wine. The bodega itself was pretty industrial, with huge metal vats filled with litres and litres of torrontés and cabernet sauvignon, but the tasting room, in the oldest part of the building, was beautiful – all old oak panelling and wooden casks. They also still have about 40 bottles of the first wine they ever produced, in 1938. Can't imagine it tastes any good now.....

The tasting was fantastic: our group of ten (all Argentinian except for us) gathered around an old cask, cut in half and varnished to become a table. We shared glasses between two, which is apparently the norm here, and were given in turn a delicious torrontés, a malbec, a fruity cabernet sauvignon and a late harvest torrontés. Fans of the late harvest already following our stint in NZ, this was our favourite. In each case, James and I passed the glass between us until it was finished. It was only at the end of the tasting, as we looked around the table, that we realised we were the only ones to have done so: all the other glasses were at least half-full. Clearly 'tasting' really does mean just that in this part of the world! With a cheeky smile, and a joke about “los borrachos Ingleses” we made some instant friends. One of the guys started trying out his English language skills on us. He'd mastered about 5 words, after which he resorted to the names of his favourite English musicians (the Beatles featured prominently) and all the Argentinian footballers currently playing in the Premier League.

It was in Cafayate that we also met one of the weirdest people we've encountered on the trip so far, a man from one of the Hebrides (I forget exactly which) who was celebrating his retirement with a 6 week trip around Argentina, Bolivia and Peru. We happened to be having lunch at the table next to his one day, and using the merits of the Rough Guide (his choice) vs. the Lonely Planet (ours) as an opening gambit, invited himself to come and join us and quiz us on our recent travels in Bolivia. He only wanted to visit “non-touristy, authentic places” and on these grounds, was thinking he probably wouldn't go to Machu Picchu at all! He also boasted about having stayed in the most dangerous part of Buenos Aires at the start of his trip, recommending we do the same. Since he was wearing what I can only describe as a bright green smock during this conversation, I find this hard to believe, but will take him at his word. So it seems we have discovered a new breed of traveller: the Gap Yah Retiree.

An odd thing started to happen as we drove south from Tilcara to Salta. The dusty roads gave way to tarmac, which later gave way to multi-lane motorways. The landscape, brown for so long, became greener, and suddenly, we spotted trees. As we got closer to the city, petrol stations and advertising billboards appeared. It seemed we were re-entering civilisation!

This was confirmed later that day, as we found ourselves sitting in a cafe overlooking Salta's Plaza de Mayo, sipping ice-cold Quilmes and enjoying the last of the day's sunshine. Bolivia felt a very long way away already....

Salta is the 4th largest city in Argentina, and the biggest city in the Andean northwest. It was originally founded by the Spaniards in 1582 to grow crops which simply refused to prosper in the harsher Bolivian climes – essentially, it was the bread basket for the rich silver mine owners. More recently, it's become a magnet for poor Bolivian and rural Argentinian families, seeking their fortune in the big city. As a result, it's a bit of a melting pot, which we caught a glimpse of from the variety of faces we saw whilst people-watching in the square: Argentinians have a more diverse heritage than most of their South American neighbours, as a result of immigration from across Europe in the last few centuries.

One of the things we were most excited about on arriving in Argentina proper was the food, especially after 2 weeks of Bolivian 'cuisine,' and it didn't disappoint. Salta is famous for its empañadas, which are scoffed in large quantities for lunch, for dinner, and at any time inbetween. We ate as many as we could get our hands on – I fear I may have a new addiction. We had both been dreaming about a proper steak for weeks and although the beef is allegedly best further south, we couldn't stop ourselves indulging in some red meat at the appropriately named Bifé del Rey, or King of Beef. Or at least, we tried to. The menu was divided according to cuts of meat, which was a little beyond our Spanish skills. Instead we opted for the 'point and guess' approach. This worked well for me, but James was less successful – he ended up with a chicken leg. I gave him half of mine out of pity.

Salta is described by the Lonely Planet as “smoothing ruffled psyches” and this was definitely true for us – we focused on eating, drinking, sleeping and enjoying the relative normalcy of our surroundings. But we did make time for a bit of sightseeing. Starved of modern art in recent weeks, we made a beeline for the small but delightful Modern Art Museum, currently showcasing giant inflatable bats, flowers and plasticine monsters. It was pretty surreal.

I also visited the High Altitude Archeology Museum, better known as the house of frozen mummies, like the one we saw in Arequipa. James decided one mummy museum was enough for him, and opted out. Salta's 3 mummies, a teenage girl and two six year olds (one male, one female) were found at the peak of Mount Llullaillaco, some 480km from Salta, during a 1999 expedition of the 6739m mountain. Of all the mummies discovered from the Incan era to date, they are by far the best preserved, kept in near-perfect condition as a result of the freezing temperatures, low pressure and lack of oxygen. The museum was a lot slicker than the one in Arequipa – though I almost missed the creepy guide leading us around. The mummies are displayed on rotation, again effectively in a large freezer. On the day I visited it was The Girl Struck by Lightning, kept in a quiet room under the watchful gaze of a guard. She still looked so perfect, I got freaked out she was going to open her eyes if I got too close. Eerie stuff.

We said goodbye to Swills in Sucre, and from there it was on to Argentina. After the awful journey from La Paz to Uyuni we contemplated sparing ourselves the anguish and getting a flight, but the prospect of 4 connecting flights and spending $500 USD didn't really appeal. So there was nothing for it but to travel the old fashioned way:

Stage 1: 11 hour overnight bus ride from Sucre to Tupiza

We left Sucre at about 5.30pm. About 20 mins later, the in-journey 'entertainment' started. Usually this consists of a film, or music videos, or sometimes documentaries about the area you're heading to. But in this instance, it was the Bolivian favourite: pan pipe music. And the speaker was directly above my head. Now I don't know whether James and I have a particularly low tolerance for pan pipes, but after half an hour we were both considering either ripping the speaker out or ripping our ears off. Nothing drowned it out. In the end I settled for the noise reduction offered by my ear plugs and tried to sleep, only to be jolted awake every time the singers shouted “Boli-via” at the top of their voices. It happened a lot.

The bus was mostly filled with locals, who I'd noticed had all got on clutching their alpaca blankets (de riguer in these parts), in anticipation of the cold Andean night ahead. We had one North Face jacket between us, James having packed his in his rucksack in the mistaken assumption that 'it can't get that cold.' Oh how wrong we were. The combination of the overnight temperature drop and the fact that the windows rattled open every 20 minutes or so meant it was bloody freezing. At about midnight his shivering got too much for both of us and we compromised with one layer of the jacket each and huddled together for warmth.

And it got worse. Bolivian roads have left a fair amount to be desired thus far: this trip was no exception. We thought we'd got away with it, but about 12.30am we left the paved road behind and endured another 3 hours of bone-shaking as the bus was driven over loose rocks at high speed. Not fun. Finally we arrived at Tupiza....at 3.30 in the morning, far earlier than we'd expected, and were cursorily dumped in the middle of town. We shared a taxi with another English girl to our hostel, and then stood outside for 20 mins whilst we rang the doorbell and tried to wake the night porter. With the help of some friendly Italians who happened to be smoking out of their window, we eventually roused him. Stupidly we'd only booked a hostel for the following evening, and unfortunately that night it was full. But the kindly night porter took pity on us and let us sleep on the sofa in the living room. He even gave us an alpaca blanket.

Stage 2: 3 hour bus ride from Tupiza to Villazon

We spent a day in Tupiza resting and recovering. The countryside around Tupiza is allegedly where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came to a sticky end, and so there were all manner of tours offering horseback riding and adventure trekking. But we just didn't have the energy (plus, as I'd learnt in KL, horses move rather a lot when you're riding them). Instead we enjoyed hot showers, naps and lots of pizza, accompanied by more pan pipe music.

The next morning we wandered down to the bus station to pick up one of the many buses our hostel owners had assured us would be passing through from 9am, en route to Villazón, the Bolivian border town. They were wrong. Instead we had to wait almost 2 hours for the only bus heading in that direction to show up. The bus was rusty and falling apart: every time James moved, his chair did, and so did mine, and bits of the bus above our heads appeared to be held together with sellotape. As a result, we were pretty dubious about whether it would make it to its destination at all. Astoundingly, we got there with no breakdowns or flat tyres, just a few more bruises from the rocky road.

Stage 3: 4 ½ hour bus ride from La Quiaca to Tilcara

At first glance, northern Argentina was identical to southern Bolivia. The sleepy border town of La Quiaca used to be a railroad hub but now exists largely to serve the needs of passing tourists. We were just pleased because it gave us opportunity to withdraw some Argentinian pesos and enjoy the biggest meal ever (I ate the equivalent of at least 2 large chickens in escalope form), wincing all the while at the difference in currency. Bolivia really was cheap!

And then it was time to catch our bus. We'd been reassured by travellers coming the other way that Argentinian buses were fantastic, but there was not much evidence of that at La Quiaca. Another rickety old bus conveyed us the 4 ½ hours from there to Tilcara, but not before stopping in every tinpot village and at every random roadside bus stop in between. We were also stopped about half an hour across the border by the Argentinian police, who got everyone and everything off the bus, made us stand in lines and searched every bag, one by one. Except ours – clearly whatever they were looking for (Cocaine? Counterfeit pesos? Illegal pan pipe music?), foreigners are not under suspicion. A cursory glance at our passports and we were waved through.

At 8.30pm we arrived in Tilcara, in the heart of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, an enormous canyon which we drove through as the sun was setting – it was pretty spectacular, especially driving through as the sun was setting. We were astounded to find the town overrun with wealthy tourists, boutique hotels, and 4x4s. We had picked it because it was halfway between the border and Salta, but clearly someone, somewhere is touting it as a must-see tourist destination. I'm still not sure why.

The numbers of people (and our lack of a reservation) meant that we had to trudge between hostels looking for somewhere to lay our weary heads for the night. We tried everywhere from standard hostels to boutique hotels to cabañas, without success, but it was 5th time lucky. I am not sure whether it was tiredness, desperation, or both, but we found ourselves checking into what was effectively a hippie commune run by two brothers offering daily yoga, meditation and music therapy. They were nice enough, but the bongo music which continued into the early hours wasn't. Once again, it was time for the earplugs.

Stage 4: 5 hour bus ride from Tilcara to Salta (and civilisation!)

The next morning we made a sharp exit and headed straight for the bus station, in the hope there'd be an early morning bus for us to make our escape. Oh no. Not only was there no bus until midday, but the computer system was down, meaning there could be no bookings. We'd simply have to hang around and hope there was space on the bus in a few hours time.

I made an attempt to head to the local pre-Inca ruins, but the combination of hot weather and lack of inclination meant I soon turned back. James, much more sensibly, sat in the sunshine and read. We grabbed an early lunch of empañadas (mini Cornish pasties filled with mince and spices or chicken) and then headed to the bus station for the imminent arrival of our transportation. Fortunately the computer system was up and running again so we at least knew we'd be getting on it.

And we waited. And we waited. Finally about an hour late the bus showed up. But it was new. It had reclining seats. And air conditioning. And an in-journey film. And free super-sweet coffee. We were in heaven, especially when we stopped halfway and a guy got on selling fresh sandwiches. In fact, we were both almost a little disappointed when the bus arrived in Salta, a mere 5 hours later.

Arriving in Sucre was like a breath of fresh air – it's by far the most beautiful city in Bolivia, all whitewashed buildings and terracotta rooftops. Unesco seems to agree, as it's been designated a World Heritage Site, in recognition of its rich colonial history. Sucre was where Bolivia was born – the Declaration of Independence was signed at the Casa de la Liberdad in 1825, and its presidents resided here for nearly a century. These days the political capital has been moved to La Paz, but Sucre remains the judicial capital, and Santa Cruz is the economic capital – you would have thought this would cause all manner of rivalries and problems, but the people of Sucre at least seem happy with their lot.

We headed first for the Cafe Gourmet Mirador, which has the best views over the city. Relaxing in deck chairs and sipping gin and bitter lemon as we watched the sun go down, this was starting to feel like a proper holiday. Lovely. Again it was nice to end in a place with a slightly more laid-back feel after the pace we'd made Swills keep since his arrival – 4 towns in 7 days! Sadly his departure was even faster than expected, as the following morning we discovered his flight was actually later that day and not the next day as we'd all thought. Fortunately he realised this in time!

As a result we designated Sunday morning 'Sucre Sightseeing Half-Day,' beginning with the Casa de la Liberdad. Nadia, our guide, painted a fantastic picture of the history of the place, which was originally a Jesuit college and then an exam hall before it became the important site it is today. We saw a copy of the Declaration – the real one is only brought out once a year for the people to see. It was also fascinating to learn a little more about Bolivia's turbulent history – it has had some 80 presidents in less than 200 years, a significant proportion of whom were assassinated or deposed by military coup. Alpaca-jumper-wearing Evo is highly regarded amongst the people here, not least for being the 'first' indigenous leader. This is not actually true – he's the 3rd, but he looks far more indigenous than either of the others so it's a lasting fallacy.

From there we headed to the Parque Simón Bolivar, named for the first 'honorary' president of Bolivia – honorary because he was holding out for the title of 'President of Casa d'America', a proposed USA-style union of South American states that never came to pass. The park is a lovely outdoor space, clearly popular with the locals, especially as we arrived: the local police force were holding a 'Fun Day' offering kids the chance to take a ride around the park on their motorbikes or in a police car. The park is home to a mini Eiffel Tower which we decided to climb. There are a lot fewer steps here than in Paris, but the structure is also a lot more rickety – after a couple of minutes swaying gently in the breeze at the top, we quickly climbed down again!

We squeezed in a 'Quality Lunch' before Swills' departure in honour of his birthday the following weekend. Sunday lunches in Bolivia consist of a salad course, a soup course, as much meat as you can stomach accompanied by at least 4 different varieties of carbs, and a dessert, all for the equivalent of £5.50. To this we added a couple of bottles of Bolivia's own Concepcíon Sauvignon Blanc (learning: the white is much better than the red) which meant that by the time Swills departed for the airport, we were all happily merry. James and I spent the rest of the day in our lovely hotel room (must stop this flashpacking!), sleeping and watching awful movies on TV.

We had one more day in Sucre whilst we awaited our next bus connection to Tupiza, a mere 11 hours away. As a result, we opted for a fairly lazy last few hours, going back to the park and enjoying the sunshine. We did also manage a trip to the Parque Cretácico, the local Jurassic Park themed tourist attraction, with the largest collection of dinosaur footprints anywhere in the world. We were expecting to be able to wander amongst them, comparing our little feet with those of a T-Rex or a Brontosaurus, but sadly we were disappointed – the footprints are about 1km away in a quarry, discovered by the local cement company in 1995. The company, Fonseca cement (“Building for your future”) had been excavating the site for some 40 years before the footprints were found, so goodness knows how many were destroyed before anyone even realised they were there. However, those that remain are pretty impressive (so distinct they look fake, even though their authenticity has been verified by world-renowned palaeontologists). I also enjoyed posing for photos with plastic models of my favourite species – it really started to feel like we were in Jurassic Park, though fortunately without the live action models!