Hi diddly ho! So, as mentioned, BA was left in high spirits, our last night involving us being caught up in a brawl and having someone's nose bleed down my arm as I affectionately shoved ice in his face. I was also chatted up by a girl named "Joy" and described by an Austrailian Hammer-Head Shark look-alike as "a good sort." Charmed, I´m sure. Rosie successfully locked up all her possessions in her locker, including her key, so a good half an hour was spent watching her prodding twigs through the bars in a vain attempt to salvage said belongings. I shouldn't have laughed. But I did. As punishment, Rosie locked me myself in one of the cages with the rescued key, and conveniently "forgot" the key again. A bus journey of tense silences led us to Bariloche, in the heart of the Argentine Lake District. And it was lush, so very pretty. We set up base in our own wee wooden cabin, and the next two days were spent lazily by the gorgeous lakes and watching the kite surfers do their thang in the glorious sunshine. A momentous event also occured for Rosie and I, (note to mum, wobbly alert)... we hitchhiked for the very first time. Our second successful attempt entailed being told that the murder rate of tourists in Bariloche is off the scale. Ah. Yet we were not to be disheartened. Lining our pockets with jagged stones, and - in Rosie´s case - a small boulder, in the event of attack; we point blank refused to walk the remaining 6 km and found ourselves bumbling along in the back of a van to our fire-lit cabin. Maybe not a good idea.
We were eagerly anticipating the following stage, where we had organised to do a ranch for four days, picturing ourselves galloping gallantly in the wind on two noble steeds, fighting off forest bears from our tent under a star-streaked sky, and feasting on barbeques morning til night in cowboy hats and the skins of the slayed animals of the day on our backs. We were to be the next Gauchos in town.Well, now. We made our way boldly 40 minutes up the mountain, following signs to our meeting spot "el catedral," as instructed by the chief, erm, rider. Standing proudly in the pouring rain at the entrance, 10 minutes passed. Half an hour passed. The hour was almost up. It was time to take action.
 "Excuuuuuse me," I pleaded with a suspicious looking local selling soggy biscuits, "Is there another place called Le Catedral in the area?"
"Yes," he replied toothily, "Le Catedral de San Juan, the mother of all churches. In the centre, 45 minutes."
... Bollocks. So, checked out of the hostel, with no buses running til Easter Monday, Rosie and I had no choice but to eye up the surrounding bus shelters for the coming night's accomodation. Destitute, miserable, and not a saddle in sight. It could only happen to us.