Sunday 13 November, 2016: Puerto Varas – El Bolsón
Today’s blog is a little delayed; it has been very hard to find a working Internet connection.
Yet another beautiful Chilean church
Sadly it was time to leave Chile,with its beautiful wooden churches, and we made our way back to Argentina through the Puyehue Pass to Angostura. The weather made its way too through sun, rain, mist and fog, and photographic opportunities were limited.
Petrol stop – is this the smallest branch of Banco Santander ever?
One final stop in Entre Lagos to get petrol in case the border was closed (with the current work to rule this was a possibility) and after one final church –one of the most beautiful we saw– we were at the border.
Our last (and possibly most beautiful) wooden church
As we drove back across the Andes evidence of the last eruption of the Pueyhue volcano was everywhere, with slowly rejuvenating trees and volcanic ash covering the sides of the twisting mountain road.
The Chilean frontier post was a long way before the actual political border and we passed through immediately with the minimum of bureaucracy, an immense relief.
Chilean immigration and customs post at Puyehue
After a long, mountainous (and misty) drive through no man’s land we found ourselves back on Argentina soil.
… and entering Argentina
Entry into Argentina was equally smooth although we got drenched walking from where we had to leave the car to the immigration and customs offices. And again on the way back. Still, one advantage of the driving rain was that no one was interested in standing in the rail to inspect the contents of our car.
Broom lining the highways
The sun came out briefly as we drove back into Argentina, reflecting the bright yellow of the broom lining the roads. Occasional patches of lupins were beginning to show.
The worst coffee in the world?
We stopped for lunch in Villa La Angostura. We shared an unusual pizza (pink pizza base with venison and wild boar topping) which was ok, but the coffee was absolutely undrinkable. I’d better not give the name of the eatery.
Arriving in El Bolsón
On and on we drove along twisting mountain roads through driving rain. We had arranged to sleep in El Bolsón, a sleepy town where 1960s hippies decamped in large numbers. Here we had our evening meal in a beer house that served delicious draft raspberry beer for Martin and a passable Chardonnay for Caroline.
Caroline paying our supper bill in El Bolsón
After supper we retired to a bungalow just outside the town. We had booked this on line, and although basic it was warm and dry, unlike the weather aside.
To the left, our resting place for the night