I slept well. There was no all night background rhythm disturbing the peace, so today Is feeling well rested. The narrow old road, route nine was a steady grind away from El Carman, with flat brown cultivated fields either side and foothills beyond on all sides, which I reached by eleven; then began a long series of meanderings up along steep jungle clad slopes with a drop into deep gorge to the left of the canopy shrouded road. It had to be a holiday; as with the campsite, there were unusually many cars and people about for Monday. After grinding up over a col called, Santa Lucia, which had a "Limit de Salta" sign marking the provencial boundary, I caught up with three cyclists. They were taking a breather, sitting on a rock-outcrop in a clearing and after the usual introductary exchange, the one that done most of the talking and had decided either I needed a rest from Spanish, or he wanted to show how well he spoke English, went on to say, "Yes, it is a holiday. It is Colombus Day. And everybody has a holiday today".

The three were company on the road onwards for a bit, but then they dropped behind and the next time I looked back they were no longer there. It was steady downhill, curving through left-swinging bends followed by right-swinging bends, underneath overhanging trees and hanging vines; to the valley below with rough bush studded cattle pasture to the side. I was now feeling depleted and looked forward to lunch and knew it would be only a few kilometres more to the rusty old suspension bridge on the right, over dry gravel riverbed to the village La Caldera: a good place to stop.

The first cyclist came spinning down the slope of the riverbank towards me, where I'd stopped taking a photo at the tee running right and down onto the bridge. Then came the second cyclist, shortly follow by the third. Together, we cycled over the bridge and shortly were bumping along over the cobble-stone street of La Caldera, past colonial era veranda front houses. There was quite a choice of eating places openned today for the holiday, with empanadas, pollos, milanese...... fare written up on chalkboards outside. There was no shortage of trade today. At one, where we'd leant the bikes against the garden wall, and had gathered round a free table on the veranda, when englishspeaker bubbled out in Buenos Aires accent a request of the girl serving who at that moment was walking by. She continued in through the door completely ignoring him who was midway into a seat, but instantly straightened again and said to me "lets go somewhere else", having taken a dislike to the girl's attitude..

Further up the street we leant our bikes outside an open corrugated iron leanto with a chirpy native american matron running the show inside the rustic restaurant with various family members helping out. First came a big plater of empanadas out on the table; each took an empanada and rolled it in a serviette and ate using fingers; spooning from a bowl spicy Chimi Churre to taste onto the steaming meat and vegetable filling. There was a big jug of red wine on the go and glasses were kept topped up. Then the main coarse came: steak and freshly cut chips and crisp salad of letuce, tomatoe and onion.

It was as well that Is all most there after all the wine and a glass of beer. I was now riding on alone, further down the valley basking in afternoon sun, having shaken hands with the others at the tee up from the bridge as they set off back north. I'd a heavy feeling and my head was buzzing, but was in control and soon was recovering. Once the road swung right and crossed a long bridge over the dry gravel bed in the valley's middle, I'd to ride hard uphill the other side, up through the village Vacquero where I rose to the challenge and was feeling strong again; pressing hard on the pedals with plenty of energy to press on rapidly towards the city.

Soon I was on a wide divided highway where traffic was a light one or two cars, typical for the sleeply afternoon. I passed round a roundabout with a big Armadillo scrupture in the middle and rows of white housing blocks on the left and bush clad hills behind. Round another roundabout and onto the final Autopista approach, passing below a big green sign on a gangtre with: Centro, arrowed ahead, and: Cafayate: Chile (por paso de Sico), arrowed right.

With Salta rearing up all round now, a teenager on a cheap mountainbike sprinted by me. He kept a jumpy body, chopping the pedals round as fast as he could possibly move his legs. He was doing well and I wasn't going to try passing him. I wondered though would he be so energetic after the five hundred kilometres ride from San Pedro. I spun a gear which was much larger and so pedaled comparitively slowly; and sat smoothly upon the bike, keeping a few wheels behind in his draught. Is remindered of a power boat chopping precariously over the water ahead of an ocean-going liner sliding smoothly into port after weeks on the high sea.