All through my wild days, my mad existence…

Apologies for the predictable title. The Argentinian leg of our tour began in Buenos Aires and we duly ticked off the tourist-trail holy trinity of football, Evita (museum and grave) and tango.

One of Julian’s top priorities was to go to a South American football match to see if it measured up to the sporting atmosphere and fair play served up in a West Ham v Millwall mash-up. We went with an over-priced guided tour to the River Plate v Huracan derby, having been warned by locals it was neither safe nor sensible for foreigners, particularly women, to go independently. It was still a remarkable experience, just like the classic games often portrayed in the media - thousands of fans all wearing team colours bouncing up and down in time to the beat of hundreds of drums and the whole ground strung with banners and the pitch covered in ticker-tape. Just like Upton Park then. For the record River Plate won 2 – 0.

When Ryders go on tour, the rarefied atmosphere of high culture is never far away. It was time for tango. Portenos (residents of Buenos Aires) have their own unique timetable, eating late and socialising into the early hours. In an attempt to blend in at Bar Sur (a small bar with nightly shows claiming to provide an authentic tango experience) we arrived shortly after 10.00pm, which would generally be beyond our curfew for going out. It was heaving with people drinking, tapping their feet to the music and swaying along with the fabulous dancing. We settled in with a bottle of Malbec only to find at about 10.15pm the bar started to empty out at an alarming rate. By 11.00pm it was just us and one other couple. We spent the next hour being privately serenaded by tango dancers and musicians in an intimate little space in the middle of Buenos Aires wondering when it would be polite to leave.

Much as we both fell in love with Buenos Aires, after five days it was time to move on. We decided to rent a car and explore the pampas in easy reach of Buenos Aires. We quickly found the repeated warnings about the great distances, condition of roads and lunatic habits of local drivers to be scarily accurate. Luckily, we’ve chosen to tour this vast land in a Vauxhall Corsa, a car equipped to tackle all but the roughest terrain in comfort and safety. Having spent 400 kilometres being overtaken by 40-tonne lorries, pulled over by police for non-existent infringements and closing our eyes in silent prayer going over crossroads, we have come to one definite conclusion: Julian is the only motorist in Argentina to use indicators. Ever.

Colon, a lovely town across the river Uruguay from the county of the same name, saw us joining a boat trip with a fascinating and charming Argentine guide (of Scottish heritage) called Charlie Adamson. We were invited to Charlie’s house for dinner that evening for an ‘asado’ (traditional BBQ) and an impromptu tango show with our new Danish friends. The tango was provided by Charlie’s wife and her dance partner Raoul. Once they showed us how it easy it can look, they insisted we return the favour and show them how difficult it can look. When you’ve spent the evening taking advantage of someone’s hospitality it’s difficult to refuse them the small pleasure of watching you making a complete fool of yourself shuffling round their living room. We were taught the eight basic steps by the professionals who then insisted we give it a go together. They clearly hadn’t heard of the death grip employed by Ryder men when forced to dance with their womenfolk. We were doing ok until our Danish friends took to the floor. Ryders work best in a rigid 4-4-2 formation and as we were not able to deviate or change direction from the eight basic steps much crashing about and hilarity ensued, which took the sensuous gloss off this supposedly passionate Latin-American dance. However, it was an evening that will live long in the memory.

Having been exposed as the true leaden-footed hoofers that we are, we left Colon before being totally stripped of our dignity; this blog finds us in Rosario, Argentina’s third city and the birth place of Che Guevara. Revolution is in the air....

Highlights: Julian’s was seeing a game in the stadium long burned in his memory for hosting the 1978 World Cup final. Cath’s was being flung around the dance floor (read living room) by a professional tango dancer.   

Lowlights: Sat-nav operator error (two places called Colon in Argentina, both within driving range of Buenos Aires, who’d have thought it?) leading to a tense and confusing few minutes of going up and down the same road in different directions several times while cursing the grip of computers on the life of modern man.

Malbec count: Six bottles (approx.) – ranging from £3 end-of-bin specials to vintage reserve.