It was cold as we slept and cold as we woke.
The dogs that barked in the night were gone as were the horses that stood silently in the darkness around our tents as we slept.
After breakfast, we had a short 150km drive to Estancia Los Potreros (Farm of the Paddocks). We left the main highway and wound down increasingly narrow roads before the truck forced its way between thorn trees that blocked the way to all but smaller vehicles. Finally, we bounced for 2km down the estancia farm track and up to the front door of Kevin and Lou, the proprietors of the establishment.
By the time the tents were erected and we had gone for a short walk down the track that we had come in on, it was evening and a wine tasting was approaching.
Kevin was a wino and laid on a spread of cheese and his favourite tipples in his living room. His home was a single storey house built on a L-shaped foot print, backing onto trees and a large but uncared for swimming pool. Three mares, each with foals, wandered the paddock in which we camped and approached unbidden for a nuzzle and a head scratch.
The family emigrated to Buenos Aires in the 1820’s and Grandpa Kevin bought the farm a hundred years ago. Sadly, he bought the farm shortly after buying the farm and it came down through the male line. The family was well to do and collected old cars and sent its children to England to be educated. Kevin spent time in banking in the city but retired young either because he was very good or very bad at it.
Between generous servings of Malbec, Torrontes and Cab Sav, we ate mountains of local of cheese and discussed Argentinian politics, history, economics and the Falklands/Malvenas issue.
Kevin managed to engage in a spirited debate without ever once revealing his position. He survived the periodic economic crashes and the military juntas that came and went. He gave an interesting insight into Anglo-Argentinain relations but at the end of the night it was impossible to tell whether he was an Englishman abroad or an Argentinian Anglophile.
All we really learned was of his penchant for raising rare breeds of chickens, some as big as dogs, and of his passion for Aberdeen Angus cattle, originally imported from the UK, which give birth easily and look after themselves until the butcher comes calling.
Rolling merrily out from the warmth of the Kevin’s hearth that seemed to have been burning continuously for a century, we were snapped back to reality by the rapidly dropping temperatures. Thankfully Dave and Ivan had whipped up sausage and mash that we ate in the extension up on a small hillock, called El Tambo. After dinner we played table football until the early hours, partly because of the intense rivalry that had grown up and partly because it was so chuffing freezing outside and no one wanted to retire to bed in an ice-box.
Retire we did and in the morning there was ice everywhere.
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