On the timetable for the Valley there are two different letters, �a� and �v�. I�d noticed them before but never really paid any attention to them, after all, if the bus gets me from Trelew to Gaiman or Gaiman to Dolavon, then why worry?

It turns out that they refer to the route the bus takes to get between the major conurbations. So an �a� bus goes pretty much direct between places on the main road (i.e. the one which has tarmac on it) while a �v� takes the circular route through the farms on dusty dirt-tracks.

This bus was one of the latter, so I got the scenic route through Las Chacras watching the sheep scatter as we approached.

They don�t really have bus stops here so people just stand on the side of the street and raise their arms � quite a hazardous approach late at night I�d imagine if the driver�s not paying attention. �Look, there�s the last bus, oh, he didn�t see me, bugger, ten mile walk home�.

So, every now and again the bus would lurch to a halt to take on passengers from the farms going towards Dolavon.

Dolavon is described in the guidebooks as being �authentic� in contrast to the touristy Gaiman.

That�s probably quite a true description although I don�t understand why the guidebooks would want to glorify something being �real�. In any case, where Gaiman has a feel of being rebuilt to look more Welsh, Dolavon looks like it could be a mid-Wales village with small brick buildings, a village flagpole, a load of family run shops and a bemusement with strangers.

Today is the first time that I�ve ever been commented upon purely by my racial characteristics, one of the workmen shouting �Oi, Blanco� at me. I wasn�t sure quite how to react, so carried on walking down the street. I spent about an hour weaving my way through Dolavon�s criss-cross of streets before heading back to the middle of town for the 12 noon bus, as, nice and quiet as it was, I didn�t fancy another two hours in the village.

Arriving back in Gaiman on the straight route, I got off the bus and went for a pre-siesta walk around town to look at the more Welsh side.

First of all, I crossed the river and went pass the tea house on the other side of the river, �Ty Draw Yr Avon� and then walked along Avenida Yrigoyen (apparently no Welsh connection � disappointing) which is the street filled with tea houses, all looking out onto the green-ness of Plaza Roca or over the river.

Post-siesta, and a bag of crisps from the shop later, I went back up to the Welsh Museum to have a longer conversation with Tegai Roberts who seemed surprised to see me again.

During a lull in the activity in the museum, I sat down and had a chat with her about what I was doing in Argentina. She listened intently and looked more and more disturbed as the conversation went on. I started to get worried. Was this all a huuuuge mistake?

Another visitor came in, a friend of some sort apparently, and Tegai introduced me to her, asking me to explain what I was doing �Better do it in English,� she said, �it might be easier than explaining it in Welsh�.

My turn to look puzzled, �Would it not be easier in Spanish?� Tegai looked confused again and started beaming as I explained the project in my halting, but apparently perfectly understandable Spanish. Result.

Suddenly my work seemed feasible in her eyes rather than her having to explain that actually most people didn�t speak Welsh.

We had a quick chat about her Welsh community programme which is on Fridays, gave me a copy of the Drafod from 2002 and I bought a copy of �El Riflero de Ffos Halen� a �historical novel� about the Welsh in the Chubut which was nominated for one of the country�s top book prizes for new authors and, I think I read somewhere, has been translated into Welsh.

On the way back from the museum, I popped into Siop Bara to get some more cakes (note to myself: remember to join gym quickly!) where for the first time in a shop I was officially �spotted� and greeted in Welsh, with lots of �Pnawn Da�s and Diolch yn Fawr�s.

I had intended to pay a visit to Breuddwyd for dinner, but sadly it was closed, significantly narrowing my choice of eateries. There was Gusto�s the pizzeria, which I could see winking at me in a seductive manner, but instead I went along to Unelem (as I think it�s called) a hotel a few blocks away.

It was empty, save for the kids of the house singing along loudly to Bon Jovi, but they were happy enough to serve me, even after I explained that I didn�t want any of the house specials because they were stuffed with dead animal (I put it a bit more tactfully, honest, guv). Very nice mozzarrella thing for starters, followed by a vegetable ravioli and ice-cream.

Watched a bit more of the slightly surreal Argentinian television � this time a comedy set in a hairdressers with a man dressed as a cow (a la Rentaghost) and a bevy of beautiful Benny Hill-style women getting into a tizz about nothing whatsoever. Whatever.