Mad dogs and Englishman

I´ve now been in South America for a fortnight. In that time I´ve explored Buenos Aires, visited the Welsh tea rooms of Patagonia, and voyaged two thousand miles to Ushuaia - the World´s most southern city.

Owing to shipping delays my bike only showed up from South Africa 6 days ago, so for the first week of my trip I spent my time in the welcoming metropolis of Buenos Aires. With its wide boulevards, green parks and occasional obelisk, Buenos seems very European to me. But one big difference from many European cities is the people - almost all friendly and almost all stunningly attractive. (They can probably all dance too). Needless to say, as a pasty Brit with no rhythm I stand out like a sore thumb.




But after six days of wandering around the city, seeing the sights, staying in a hotel, enjoying fine food and generally acting like a tourist, I had had enough. It was time to get out and explore. With my bike still waiting for a plane in Johannesburg I resorted to the backpacker method, lugged my gear to the nearest bus terminal and hopped on a coach.

A couple of hours later I found myself in a quiet town with single storey stone buildings, cobbled streets and a distinctive "land that time forgot" feel to it. I immediately liked San Antonio de Areco. The lines of ageing cars in the central square, the abundance of helado (ice cream) parlours, and of course the warm welcome I received from the town´s dogs.



A pack of about eight strays all made the effort to crawl out of the cool shade and bid me hello when I arrived. One particularly hot looking dog with a thick black, brown and white coat even went to the trouble of leading me to a nice hotel a few blocks away. I thanked him with a few pats on the head, and he replied with a wagging tail and said "no trouble at all". Strange I thought, a talking dog. "Ah, you noticed that did you" he barked. I did indeed, after all it´s not every day you meet a talking dog.

Boddingtons, who named himself after the famous English beer on account of his colouring, was a mixed breed - similar to a Beagle in size, but with the fur of an English Sheepdog. When asked about his lineage, he described himself as a ´pavement special´ and left it at that. It soon emerged that Boddingtons was keen to move to a cooler climate where his thick fur would be an asset rather than a burden. And I promptly mentioned I was heading south and would be glad of the company. After all my blog needs a hero. And that´s how Boddingtons the Adventure Dog and his sidekick (me) began our voyage to the end of the world.

Back in Buenos Aires at the airport, Boddingtons distracted the customs guards while I sneaked the bike out. Finally, after eight days of waiting I was on the road. I was riding and Boddingtons sat behind me with his ears flapping in the breeze. We were travelling on the smooth surface of Ruta 3, which extends all the way from the capital to Argentina´s southern tip. It was great to have the freedom of the bike back, and Boddingtons and I celebrated by motoring well over 400 miles that afternoon. But as we travelled further south and crossed into Patagonia the scenery turned more bleak, the road more dull, and the weather more and more formidable.



Wind was a permanent feature of the ride from Buenos Aires. Admiteddly for the first few hundred miles it was just Boddingtons clearing his pipes. But as we travelled further south through Patagonia the westerly gusts became more and more intense. Often we would end up riding with the bike leaned over into the wind just to keep us on the right side of the road. The howling noise was distracting too (and not just from Boddingtons). I always wear ear plugs when riding, but even with them, it was like standing next to a jet engine for hours on end. I don´t know how Boddingtons coped. But when I offered him some ear plugs he barked back "have you seen the size of my ears?".

To break up the journey and to get some respite from the wind, we stopped off in the town of Trelew on the way down - sight of one of the few Welsh colonies. I explained to Boddingtons that I was three quarters Welsh and wanted to find some signs of the original Welsh settlers. But after riding around for a little while, all I could find was a sobre looking monument with a Welsh flag outside it.


Trelew was a bit of a disappointment. But then Boddingtons picked up the scent of something good. We headed inland along the Chubut Valley and soon came across the small town of Gaiman. Welsh Dragons were all over the place and Boddingtons and I soon found ourselves sitting down to a traditional Welsh tea in one of the town´s pleasant tea rooms. They brought us so much cake and tea that we didn´t eat anything else for a full day afterwards. But boy was it good.




Back on the road as we motored further south the wind remained a distraction, but the real challenge became the temperature. By the time we got to the straights of Magellan on the southern tip of the mainland I was wearing a ridiculous amount of clothing and was still nippy. At one point I had on: a pair of boots, two pairs of socks, undies, long johns, knee guards, riding trousers, waterproof trousers, a long-sleeved t-shirt, normal t-shirt, body warmer, windstopper, riding jacket, wrist bands, two neck warmers, waterproof jacket, gloves, googles and a helmet. In contrast, Boddingtons was sitting smugly behind me, comfortable in his thick winter coat. He gloated for several hundred miles before it started raining and he got soaked. Then it was my turn to chuckle, but my gloating was short lived too, as we decided to camp that night and I woke up with the smell of wet dog all around me. Of course Boddingtons blamed my boots, but I think we all know better.

After catching the short ferry across the strait of Magellan and traversing a fun stretch of dirt road in Chilean Territory, we emerged on the Argentine side of Tierra del Fuego - the Land of Fire. The dull monotony of Patagonia was behind us, replaced with the Andes rising up from the sea. The landscapes were stunning and full of fantastic twisty roads. Perfect for biking.




And so, after just five and a half days and 2000 miles, Boddingtons and I rode into Ushuaia and reached "El Fin del Mundo" - the end of the world. We pulled up to get the obligatory shot of the sign, but as I was explaining to Boddingtons that this was as far south as I could go with my bike, the weather rolled in and soaked us again with a freezing torrential downpour. "Only mad dogs and Englishman ay Boddingtons?" I joked. "More like mad Englishman and imaginary dogs" he smiled back, and then he was gone.