It was cold enough for me to sink well down inside the sleeping bag and pull the drawn-string tight round, closing the sleeping bag's hood up so there only remains a hole the size of my hand for ventilation. Still, I lay with arms folded and curled up to stay warm.

This morning the tent fly-sheet is silvery white and when I unzip, see there's been a severe frost. The black sand beach white and there's a thin layer of mist resting on the lake surface. There is ice in the water bottle.

To stay warm I breakfast warmly dressed and with the sleeping bag zipped up round my chest, while watching the sun light up the wooded hilltops around the lake, with the area in shade gradually receding down the slopes, to cross the water. My tent in along trees that fringe the shore and in the shade of a mountain to the east will be the last place the sun will reach. So I take my time until the sun reaches this far.

When it has warmed up and I break camp, I go to take a photo of the lake before leaving; mind the memory card broke yesterday evening, so, it come as no great surprise on switching on the camera, there's an instant tinkle alarm sound and popup message on the screen "Memory Card Locked" For this reason there is no photos today. I suppose I'll have to buy a new memory card. And hope I can still use the photos on the broken card.

I set off warmly dressed. The sun now well up. The road winding steeply down into a lush river valley to the next town, Curarrehue; and being hungry, not having had real food for near a day, I'm glad to find lots of small supermercados open even though it's Sunday.

Once I've bough a big bag containing more than enough food for a substantial lunch, I meet a young Canadian touring cyclist. We sit together on the curb eating lunch and are joined by a friendly dog, whom the Canadian pets, while exchanging where we'd started and the usual things. He like me started in Buenos Aires, and route 22, too is his introduction to Patagonia. He mentions the dangerous narrow section between General Roca and Neuquén: a stretch where they're in the process of building dual-carriageway. When the road building is completed, there'll be a wide shoulder dual-carriageway all the way from the town before General Roca, to about 50km after Neuquén, where route 237 splits off south west for Bariloche. Both of us agreed this is a fairly scenic route, following near Rio Limay. He relates not having to pedal for fifteen kilometres on a long descend. I account having camped at the top of the hill and starting the follow day the long descend. Nevertheless, cycling west its predominately a gradual uphill the whole way.

He set off before me and I thought I might catch him up in the afternoon, but I never see him again.

I am left petting and talking to the dog, who moments later attempts to snatch my food and I have to beat him off.

Although a glorious sunny afternoon, there is a distinct autumnal feel in the air on the road on with a sharp cool headwind.

The conical volcano Villarica looms large ahead and further on to my left, as I near the town of Pucon, on the east side of a large lake, Lago Villarica. I bypass town and it is 26km, which climbs most of the way further to my gold, the town of Villarica.

The tourist information office has closed at 17.30. It is now 17.48 on my watch and I think if I hadn't have taken that twenty minute break on the climb up from Pucon, I would've got here on time to get a city plan with a hostel marked thereon.

I stayed at a hostel here in 2011, but I can't mind it's name, nor which street its in. I've just got a rough idea where it is in relation to the centre, so head that way. I recall it was run by a Swiss couple. But my mind is jumbled.

I ride along a few streets parallel to each other hoping to come upon the same hostel by chance. There are quite a few other hostels, or accommodation places calling themselves hostel, but they either look scruffy, or expensive. Then, as I'd thought, I come to a place called Torre Suiza, which instantly rings a bell. This is the place. A two story wood cabin set in a garden with an evy hedge in front.

I ring the intercom by the gate. There's no reply. I ring a second, then third time but no differences, just silence with usual street sounds in the background. It still looks to be a hostel and looking up through the windows the place is tidy indicating habitation. I ring a forth time. This time there's an answer.

A large Chilean man lets me in and after showing me a dorm, I check in for two nights. I thought at first he is a caretaker, but learn, the Swiss couple have moved on and he is the new owner. He doesn't talk much and take an interest in his guests. The very opposite of the previous owners, who, the first thing they said when I'd checked in, make yourself at home. They had a way of drawing the various guests together in conversation during the few evenings I stayed back then. Whereas the present owner sits silently watching football on the television.

There come a Belgium couple with an eighteen month old toddler a little later, who are good company as they too have cycle toured. We talk as I have a very disagreeable dinner of boiled potatoes and fried eggs, the later sticking to the pan, which is the best pan of a bad lot. The kitchen having next to nothing useful in it. In fact the worse hostel kitchen I've cooked in.

The wifi works well, so I'm occupied uploading pictures until half eleven. Happy my broken memory card will allows as much.

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