Jeremy peered into the inky black January evening. “He’s here.”

John, our driver, was already outside, waiting for us, 15 minutes early. It was only 6pm but it might as well have been midnight. With a great heave ho we piled our two heavily laden ‘Eastpacks’ and a couple of equally laden cabin bags into the car. There followed the last frantic checking and re-checking on the presence of our phones, passports and documentation, before it was time to slam the front door and get going.

The vehicle creamed its way south, unhindered by queues or jams. We stared mindlessly at the lights streaming by, the occasional road signs, lost in thought. When you have been waiting for a particular adventure to start for so long, you can begin to doubt it has, but here we were, bound for Heathrow. We were flying to Buenos Aires, and thence south to the bottom of the world: Ushuaia, to tour The Falkland Islands, South Georgia and the Antarctic Peninsula. This had been a dream for years, and now it was happening!

A welcome call from one of the children broke the journey. There was much exchanging of well wishing and family news.. then… fond farewells. We drew up outside Terminal Five and threaded our way to bag drop.

It had hardly been a gentle run up to this point. Having celebrated my 60th birthday in wild style only a couple of weeks beforehand, I had immediately been felled by a fluey cold, lying prone and feverish for several days. The spectre of having to travel whilst poorly (as had happened once previously) loomed, but Jeremy determinedly nursed me back to health. Then one of my toes started complaining and at the eleventh hour could no longer be ignored, so I was obliged to submit to the blade. A large corn was identified and excavated with some relish (still recovering). But wonky feet are not desirable for trudging through slush or hikes across the ice.

Then, twenty fours before leaving, Jeremy too succumbed to the virus. He retreated first to the safety of his armchair by the fire and eventually to bed. He is a stoic patient, preferring to fight his battles on his own, unlike me who tends to imagine the worst, requiring much sympathy and holding of the hand. As he lay there the night before we left, a wild and chilly wind whipped menacingly around the house, rattling our attic windows. I was wrapt in my readings of Stephen Venables’ audacious ascent of Everest without oxygen, and might as well have been storm blown on the ice myself, so atmospheric was the sound.

We enjoyed a long but uneventful flight, even sleeping a bit. It seems extraordinary that you can travel 8000 miles in only 14 hours. I wonder what those arch rivals Shackleton and Scott would have made of it. The world may have shrunk, but sometimes I think a little of the ability to suffer and risk all to penetrate ‘terre incognite’ may have gone with it. But I am sure many would disagree!

*******

Arrival

We touched down on time at 9am local time. Clutching the two extra fleeces and shawl I had snatched last minute, my camera and a small rucksack, we made an ungainly exit into the oven temperature of a cloudless Buenos Aires day. We passed through the airless immigration hall and slowly gathered in our travel group, smiling and introducing ourselves. Then came the welcome bliss of an air conditioned coach ride to the Alvear Art Hotel.

By some clever feat of negotiation Jeremy had managed to secure us an immediate check in. Our room on 15th floor, commanded a broad urban view (see above) of concrete blocks and office buildings. So we showered and changed and gathered ourselves a little. Having travelled over night and arrived in sauna temperatures, most people would then have rested or swum in the hotel pool. But we had a cycle tour arranged! I stealed myself for the heat.

A few blocks away we found our guide Camila, clad in her uniform of shorts and ‘biketours’ T shirt, her helmet slung nonchalantly over the back of her head. She stood in the shade near our bicycles; large black affairs, gearless and slightly battered but rejoicing in goodly suspension and capacious padded saddles. Camila proved both expert and charming.

Cycle ways are clearly demarcated in Buenos Aires. The roads are almost flat and laid out in grid style. Avenues are often tree lined, by acacias, eucalyptus, pines, and maple trees, providing islands of blessed shade.

We would pause under these as Camila gave us our next piece of historical information, in remarkably clear English. Here is the Planetarium:

Beginning at the San Martin Plaza, she talked us through a whole range of monuments and places including the Falklands memorial, the Torre de los Inglese in Retiro, and the remarkable solar powered metal flower ‘Floris Generica’ which closes at night and opens each morning. Then we continued past the Malba museum of Latin American Art, round 3rd Feb Park and it’s beautiful rose garden, and into a super upmarket quarter of Palermo. Property prices here run at $4000/sq m – but you don’t just need money to live there. One buys only on the personal recommendation of another resident. Hmm!

From there we eventually curled homeward past the monument to Eva Peron and round to Recoleta and the Cemetaey where Eva Peron is buried. The cemetery is a veritable village of tombs, laid out in grandiose ghostly streets, some even having front doors or glass screens behind which whole families of caskets lie, dust covered and a little lonesome looking. Beautiful carving and carrara statues abounded

By now, rivulets of sweats had coursed down our bodies, so that trousers were wringing and clinging to our legs and I could feel my skin prickle alarmingly. It was with some relief therefore, that we followed Camila back from there to the hotel. Notwithstanding the heat and the discomfort, she had managed to lead us serenely and engagingly for a distance of over 17kms. Well done that woman!

An hour or two later we gathered for a welcome drink and a short presentation of what the trip has in store. (All will be revealed anon..)! Then another lovely cool coach ride to a restaurant where we enjoyed the enormous privilege of sitting with Wade Davis, author of many books including Into the Silence. It charts the emergence of pioneers and fearless explorers who had defied death in World War One and felt the world was theirs for the taking. His anthropological passion poured forth as we chatted at the table. The wine flowed, quantities of tasty meat were put before us and I could feel myself sink into an exhausted but contented haze. Yet.. I now can’t wait to learn more!