In Patagonia

Puerto Madryn. Those two words display a fusion of two languages, two cultures. In 1865, 160 plucky welsh men and women from all over Wales sailed a ship called Mimosa from Wales to Brazil. Finding that Brazil was not for them, they pushed on, down the coast, to the isolated Chubut Province, landing at what is now Puerto Madryn. They lived in caves all winter. (Hardcore in the ice and snow of Patagonia) Then hiked a few kilometres to create the towns now known as Gaiman, Dolavon and Trelew. They wanted to create a "little Wales beyond Wales", and in a way, that is what they have done.

I walk into the Ty Gwyn Tea Shop in Gaiman. There are pictures of welsh chapels and love spoons hung on the walls. Doilies and daffodils adorn the quaint pine tables, all set for tea. I could be in Treprior (old family farm) and I begin to shake. A woman hears the bell and emerges wearing an apron. A deep breath: "Siarad Cymraeg?" I ask hesitantly. "Ahhh ydwy! Croesawa Gaiman! Ble ach chan?" (Ahhhh yes! Welcome to Gaiman! Where are you from?) The welsh rolls off her tongue as if she´s from Abereiron. She even speaks English like a Welsh person, with a lovely, heavy accent. I´m completely overexcited, and immediately want to phone my mam, my mam-gu. She serves us a tray of bread and butter, welsh cakes, bara brith, scones and endless tea. Proper tea. I discover that this woman has been to Kidwelly Castle, has driven through Newtown and that her family are from Lampeter. She speaks welsh at home, and Spanish of course. Her kids learn Welsh in school. This is far more welsh than the part of Wales I grew up in. I keep shaking my head and grinning in disbelief.

Puerto Madryn is also the breeding ground for the Southern Right Whale. On a grey, drizzly afternoon, we take a boat trip to get up close and personal. A dinghy full of expectant tourists holding impotent cameras, we head for the nearest fin. It is a mother and a rare white calf. Like an albino, mottled and ivory white. The whales are not intimidated by the boat at all, and we spend the 2 hours absoltely surrounded by these massive creatures. Hearing, feeling their breath, watching them dive away from the gulls trying to peck at them, seeing the babies lolling over their mothers, tired with milk. Being so near the whales is incredible. Much much bigger than our boat, we are staring them in the eyes. So close I could reach out and stroke them.

We also go to a penguin colony (a million penguins, so many they become passe) and get pretty close to the obese elephant seals slobbing along the shore. At one point two alpha males nearly have a scrap, and one has to peg it (i use that term loosely) for fear of attack from his fatter opponent.

Nestled in the highest valley in Argentina, just before the many rivers reach their Pacific destination, finishing their nutritious journey through the Andes, is a town called El Bolson. A ´non-Nuclear zone´, it is full of hippies. Everyone we meet has moved here from other parts to build their own homes, raise kids, work on their crafts to sell at the beautiful market.

Completely by chance we end up staying with a man called Augustine Porro at Le Casa Del Viajero. He has built this beautiful place himself and he shows us round a couple of log cabins. "My children were born here" he points upstairs to one of the bedrooms. "My wife built that house" he points to the stone farmhouse which is now their main abode. We live, for a few blissful days, in a log cabin at the base of Mount Piltrequitron, by the crystal clear River Azul. We hike up the valley, through the forest, following the river to reach the canyon. The Cajon De Azul, where water thunders hundreds of feet below us and snow-capped mountains stretch high ahead. Further down, we dive into the deep river, and scramble out breathless. Ice cold glacial water. So pure you can drink it. The Welsh chose their Latin American home wisely. This is paradise.