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I like my rest. What person doesn't. There's nothing quite like being supine in the tent late in the day thinking about the road ahead. But this last few evenings, I remember nothing. I was asleep shortly after my head touches the stuff-sack. Perhaps, because I've drank two cups of wine or whatever. I don't then wake until daylight.

It's taking me a while, after a week off to get back into the swing of getting on the road in the morning. Today, however, I have the tent down and all loaded on the bike for half nine.

The road from where I set off is in the process of being widened. They've tipped small river stones all over it, so I'm riding along at not much more than walking pace looking down at the front wheel all the time, to steer the best route between the egg-size smooth stones: the rear wheel nonetheless run onto the stones, tripping the wheel sideways, loosing traction. Some parts though are more rideable than others, car wheels have cleared a stone free track.

There's a climb in which I turn a steep bend where a sudden blast of headwind combined with riding onto loose stones brings me to a halt. Then it's necessary to push a bit until I've traction to ride again. Over the brow of the hill, the road drops to a broad level bottomed valley crisscrossed by green streams of a braided river with grey gravelbar islands in-between. To which the road on remains dead level to the side of for the rest of the morning. The day remaining comfortable, intervals of sunshine breaking through low cloud and warm enough in shelter of the wooded valley side.

Along here I pick up the tyre tracks of two bikes and think it could be the Korean couple, Jon and TV. But think then they couldn't be this far on. Then rounding a bend, see two cyclists stopped on the outside looking out to the river. They don't look like the Koreans. When I catch up, I find they are French. They say they saw me in Cerro Castillo yesterday afternoon where they stayed last night; and, they got a lift in a pickup truck from the village this morning and passed me, to a couple of kilometres back, as the road was too rough and they don't have much time left. In effect cutting out that hideous hill.

Not only does the fences either side, which continue much of the way, make finding a place to camp difficult, it also makes stopping for lunch in away from the rumble of passing pickups in a tranquil spot to picnic harder. The traffic on this road is a vehicle every five minutes or so, many of which rip pass leaving a cloud of dust behind. Eating a good way away from this spew is desirable.

There's fence, fence, fence. Most of it stupid as it's not enclosing pasture land. It makes the countryside seem exclusive, belonging to only the landowner even though not productive in most cases. I'm all for putting fences around livestock and staying out of it as it isn't any good for me to camp in, but woodland, for flamingsake. I add yet another con to the Caratera Austral.

Then the marvellous level road, well established, so free of loose stones, much of it compressed grit in fact, ends. Where the road can be seen winding up a hillside. I think where now can I stop for lunch.

It's a gradual climb, nothing too bad. And the surface remains clear of those egg-size, ball bearing stones. Clean car tracks. A kilometre on it levels out where I see a couple of old rotten fence posts broken off at the ground and the fence lain flat. I push the bike in off the road over the downed fence, into a part pasture-part woodland with lots of dead wood, one of which I lean the bike against and sit down to lunch on bread and cheese.

The view from my lunch spot is of a vertical hillside closing the valley, clad with dwarf woodland with crags of grey rocky cliffs further up; where a thin stream cascades down in one long shute. A gauche on horseback passes a little to the side of where I'm sat. Later I find when pushing the bike back out to the road, the fence has been propped up, so I've to take it down, push the bike out and prop it back up again, the way the gauche left it. Leaving things how I found them.

I keep on going, on smooth compacted brown clay with the fenced in woodland either side and wind swept snow mountaintops beyond. I meet three other cyclists riding at a galloping pace. One an Australian with sun cream dripping down his cheeks, who remarks that my rear tyre is showing the internal casting. This I know. But the tyre has enough wear to complete the tour I assure him. The second from England, had never seen a Dawes bike before and had to take a photo of it. The third, with a great beard, reminded me of Crazy Guy Leo Lewinski. After they'd ridden on their way north, it wasn't long until the road comes level with a river on the right with for a change access to the riverbank, and an old wooden bridge across, which I cross over and continue along a grassy track the other side not much used by vehicles by the look of it, to another well away from the road campsite; a level grass sward with trees on all sides.

I pitch the tent. The time shortly after five; having a full evening to do everything in daylight before laying down to sleep.