An eerie dream. What was it? What message was it trying to send?

I was trying to shut a door, but the door wouldn't shut no matter how hard I try. The past? A warning? Woo ahead?

It could've been related to today; waking up, disheartened, rain drumming on the tent. Will it be a wet day, all day? I wonder, while I delay, spending almost an hour daydreaming over coffee. I cannot stay here the day, I remember there is no water supply,.

Then it quits raining, The sun brightens and warms the tent. I look out, seeing a big area of blue sky. But see a sheet of dark cloud, more rain is fast moving in.

The tent quickly dries in the sun and I rush to pack panniers and take the tent down dry. I just about have everything on the bike ready to go, when the rain comes on again.

I push the bike up the grassy track between dripping pine-trees to the gate at the road, where I've to take all off the bike so it is light enough to lift over, followed by passing the bags over and putting all back on the bike. Then set off downhill into a dull grey landscape teaming rain. A seven-kilometre descent to Corcovado: the worse start to a day there could be; wet and cold already and getting colder; fingers numb, due to no pedalling as the bike careers downhill. My brakes chewed in a slush of rain-water from the soaking road surface as I try to slowdown.

Entering the village at the bottom of a deep green valley, the rain closes low down the surrounding hills in a low fog; and going from rough gravel onto bumpy concrete, I then spend half an hour soft pedalling, getting colder, trying to find the road on to Rio Pico: there are no signs, and there are many roads that turn to rough tracks beyond the edge of town.

I ask four different people before I'm put in the right direction. Which descends further, where I've to put my foot on the ground as I have no longer any stopping power when braking, to halt at a bridge over Rio Corcovado, presently a powerful thundering stream. Crossing over the bridge, the road swings right to follow parallel to the river from north to south through a valley cloaked in forest. The rain easing off towards noon, revealing a steep range of hills to the east: the forest reaching the tops where there is a fresh dusting of snow. To the west, the Cordillera, the Andes, white with snow.

Half twelve: I reach a strip of mature pines between the road and a stock-fence
with lots of space underneath; good shelter to lunch, as although the cloud is clearing with a hint of sun, it still remains undecided whether it has stopped raining for the day. And not a bad campsite should it be a wet afternoon. Water is available: I can hear a stream not far away. There is only one thing: a great white stallion being territorial. When he saw me first, he galloped wildly through the trees. Then as I sit by a tree he approaches snarling through his nose until a little way off, when he turns and gallops off. He repeats this four-five times, coming within ten metres; standing snarling, then turns and gallops off. He must've got fed-up then, as he disappeared.

Once I've lunched on bread, cheese and honey, foundered cold, I adjust my brakes, setting off again to a fabulous view ahead, the sun breaking through lingering cloud upon the fresh snow on the hills.

There was one car passed while I was stopped, the only car I've seen on this
road all day.

The road isn't bad for a secondary road, a gravel loose stony surface but with vehicle wheel tracks clear of stones to ride on. Not far on though it deteriorates to a chaos of small stones, like ballbearings rolling under my wheels. Worse still, the way ahead can be seen winding up a steep hill out of the valley.

On the steep incline, the front-wheel is light and doesn't have quite the traction and ability to steer, and I wander over onto the worse ballbearing stones, while the rear-wheel runs onto fist-sized stones, causing me to halt. Much of the switch-back climb is too rough and steep to ride, so I'm off pushing.

As I reach the top and riding again, there's a familiar wobble feel in the rear-tyre with the rim starting to touch the road. The rear-tyre is soft. At this point there's nowhere at the roadside I can repair a puncture; it's steep uphill to the right and drops away on the left. So I've to push a bit until it levels out on the right, where I push the bike in a faint track between dwarf trees.

It is the same problem I had Saturday: the air hissing out from the other side of the same patch, the patch repair of a puncture of three weeks ago. All has to be taken off the bike, and it is forty-five minutes before I've the rear-wheel pumped up hard and am ready to go again.

I had been thinking I'd surely make it to Lago Wintter today, 64km from last night's campsite, but this ballbearing road has slowed the pace right down. I have decided to camp when I reach the next river.

Half six: I come to quite a big river, with track down to a grassy riverbank before the bridge over, with lots of small beech trees for shelter. I pitch the tent and am glad to get inside to warm up inside my sleeping-bag. I cup my hands for warmth round the stove while heating water to make spagetti. The stove going helps warm the whole inside of the tent.

I reckon I'm 22km from Lago Wintter; it would be nice to reach there tomoorow lunchtime. Then camp halfway between there and Rio Pico. Only a plan depending on what the road is like ahead, and what tomorrow's weather is like.