The town was quickly behind me and in a run of low, flat fields dotted with the occasional farm building I encountered the southern winds for the first time.

Comments about the wind in my copy of the Lonely Planet were cursory at best. It was as though anyone reading the book would just *know* without having to be told. Well I can assure you I didn't know just how strong or how constant the wind would turn out to be. This first intimation of what was to come was uncomfortable, intrusive, tiring -- but nothing more. The horror sinks in slowly. It takes a few days for you to realise the wind is *always* there.

Back to today and the wind was slowing me down, no question.

I ate lunch not far out of Bahia. The restaurant was attached to a petrol station, a big, empty, white room with a handful of tables spread out at random. A couple of travel posters on the wall. It was run by a young couple, who were feeding their infant son when I walked in. There were no other customers. The woman was attentive, smiley, pregnant. Her husband gave me an extra large helping (of beef - of course) and they both took a great and friendly interest in my trip. They laughed and gasped and asked me all sorts of questions.

Here I was travelling just for the hell of it, by myself and on my own motorbike... doing something in their country they would never be able to do themselves. I might have been spending as little as possible but it was still more than they could have managed. I think about them often.

Shortly before the town of Juan A. Pradere a long iron bridge crosses the mighty Rio Colorado. The river marks the start of Patagonia. Wow! There is a sign on the side of the road which every traveller must surely stop to photograph.

Although it's chilling to study a map of Argentina and realise that you're still only a third of the way down the coast. Behind me now 95% of the population and money; ahead of me... well, we shall find out what lies ahead.

Ruta 3 heads straight for the next towns, Patagones and Viedma, ignoring the indented coast a few miles off to the east. Not much to see or detain the traveller. The towns lie either side of the Rio Negro. Patagones is old -- colonial relics all over the place -- while Viedma has grown in recent years to become far larger, stronger and uglier. Another great bridge links the two and I came over it as darkness fell.

The campsite is in Viedma, but when I found it the ground was barren and rock hard and most of the cars in Argentina seemed to be tooting on the highway that ran behind it. Plus (shameful to admit) the gravel road in to the site itself looked like a nightmare to ride on - oh, what a weedy wimp I am!.

I turned away before it got too embarrassing and cruised through the town centre instead to an area of cheap hotels close to the river. I found a bed in what appeared to be a residential hotel, far cheaper than the tourist hotel next door. The man who booked me in thought my trip was a grand thing indeed, and we spoke for quite some time. It was cold. I wrapped up in everything I had to hand, most of it clean, to stroll back into the centre and find an Internet connection. I took a long time writing to Samantha and my family that evening, needing the connection with familiar faces and places.

Back out on the streets I was looking for a bank machine. A passing pedestrian turned out to be not only a fellow-motorcyclist but the local English teacher as well. He wanted to know all about the trip and was full of good advice. However, his English was *terrible* and I found myself translating a couple of words in to Spanish for him. And given how bad my Spanish was...

So that was Viedma. Friendly, approachable, Patagonian and certainly interested in what I was doing. And cold.