I have pushed the bike down onto the beach, where, I now sit and write after having had a simple lunch of what is left of the rice miixed with some spices. I can report that I made good progress yesterday evening from the crossroads West, even-though the road meandered so I rode into the wind on some stretches. The whole time the road remained a good distance from the shore with fenced in sheep pasture on either side; until it swung left and dropped down near the shore, which was just as the sun was setting behind the hills after an evening where the grey cloud of the afternoon had drifted off East leaving clear sky in it's wake. Near the shore, I easily found a place to camp. This morning has remained sunny but with the usual cold blustery wind; and as yet, in early afternoon, there are only a few white fluffy circa clouds. Today the road remains by the coast alternating between climbing over headlands and stretches where it follows along the beach as it does now behind me.

All along the beach this morning and now a few hundred metres from where I'm sat are rows of fishermen's huts. They are of faded coloured old currigated iron with leanto roofs with lots of plastic crates outside, and often a beached fishing boat in front. Out on the bay there are two fishing boats not moving of which I can hear the engines hum. And beyond the silvery line of the sea, all along the horizon are jagged mountains peaks, called the Darwin Range which is still on the main island of Tierra del Fuego. To the South West I can see where the mountain range is broken and farther West rear up again; this most be Dawson island. The island was where Chile detained indians after clearing them off their lands in the 19th century. And a story survives, which goes something like this, how a group of them tried to escape by in secrect over quite a period of time constructing a dug-out canoe. The missionaries assign to look after them, discovered the canoe just after it had been completed and the indians were awaiting a change to make their escape. Not revealing that they knew of the canoe and thereby the escape plan, the missionaries secretly sawed the canoe almost in half so on the night the indians decided to go, the canoe broke in half when they picked it up, to the amusement of the missionaries. More recently, during the military dictatorship, there was a detension camp on the island where surviving mimisters of the deposed goverment were inprisoned.

There is only 27km to Porvenvir now. The road onward in the afternoon though would be slow covered as the road climbed away from the beach and turned into the wind. It looped up steeply and over headlands and up again with the wind sometimes a headwind, sometimes crosswind; then, it dropped down and crossed a low open plain where I rode directly into the wind and struggle the whole way to the hills on the opposite side; where the road swung right and the hills provide a degree of shelter from the now crosswind. Soon, a turquoise blue lagoon opened up on the right of the road providing a moments distraction; before, the last ten or so kilometres that seemed to be uphill the whole way, as if the hinterland behind Porvenvir which is on the coast is below sea-level.

Finally, I crest the hill and Porvenir opened up before me. I felt shy riding into town as I was scruffy and unwashed for many days and I expected many stares as well as the usual attention. But forgot this isn't Argentine where people want to know your life story as soon as they've met you. Here in Chile they leave you alone.

The town like most places in Patagonia has seen better times. The golden-era of wealth from sheep and wool from the estancias of the European settlers that came from the late 19th century on is now celebrated in the wagons they used and which have been donated by their Grand children to dislay in the town's plaza. And as there isn't mush easily extracted natural building material, the town is built of currigated iron. Even. the nicest houses in town have walls of gayily painted currigated iron and roofs the same painted in a colour which contrast with the former. I've also been reading notes on historic reference placts, detailing the Croatian imagrimants contribution in the area; building the road I've rode here on along the coast.

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Next morning. (Sat 26th Mar)

Now as I write, I'm sat on the ferry waiting to sail to Punta Arenas. The guesthouse in Porvenir where I past the night, is a big 2 storey house in the usual metal sheeting painted indigo yellow with decortive white painted woodwork around wide pictureframe windows and under the eaves, of a red currigated roof. The inside is like The Waltons. The walls are wood-panneled, the windows have net-curtains and furnishing is 1930s The dining room at breakfast has a long family table with a check table-cloth. My host is a man that was young in the late 60s and still has the same hairstyle which is now partly grey. He is a smiling happy man and he keeps his house spotlessly clean, though, that is done by the housekeeper he employs, a small dark haired lady that also bakes great bread which I ate to breakfast.

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As the floor-boards creaked under me upstair in the passage to my room I took time to study framed maps on the wall including a fairly detailed map of Tierra del Fuego, showing the road I've ridden in the past week. It looks inspiring on paper, though it wasn't so much fun to ride. But that is often the story of cycle-touring or any out-door pursuit in wilderness locations exposed to the eliments.