Jorge, with his beaming smile, beanie hat and bright yellow and blue motocross top, comes out to meet us, he speaks little English so after a short conversation in broken Spanish and an inspection of the bikes, he puts his arm on my shoulder looks me in the eye and says “Mi amigo”, there can be no finer welcome.

From humble beginnings Jorge started a motorcycle club in Azul many years ago, from this grew a small shop at the front of his plot – Jorge and his family live in a bungalow at the back - and a club house. In one room is a large open fire place, with an asado rack – asado is an Argentine barbecue – and a small work shop, with double garage doors opening onto the street. In the other room is a kitchen dinner and bunk beds, with an en-suite loo and wood burning spittoon style water heater and shower head. If you fancy a shower, gather some kindling in the back garden, search around for some scrap paper, then from a basket of logs build yourself a nice fire. After an hour, open the window to clear any smoke that’s not left via the chimney and your ready for a nice hot shower. The club house is covered with graffiti, drawings, painting, murals, photographs, stickers, sculptures and memorabilia from all over the world, along side are messages in a multitude of languages and scripts. It’s all word of mouth in the overland motorcycle world and anyone passing is welcomed and offered a bed or a camping pitch for as long as they like. The price for this? Narda, nothing, zilch. It’s only through constant pressure, persuasion and direct action that a donation box was eventually made by a guest and screwed to the wall.

We set up our tents in the back garden near a sculpture made from old bike parts, a vesper body, headlights and assorted junk. Chickens and chicks waddle about on the freshly cut green grass, between the trees and motorbikes. There will be an asardo the following night where they’ll be cooking up a whole sheep to celebrate Jorge’s wife Monica’s birthday, with twenty or so friends and family and we are duly added to the list. Life at “La Posta” is very communal and supper is already being prepared by another biker, Mike a 65 year old from Scotland who looks and sounds like Clive James – he’s originally from New Zealand – who believe it or not I know from a motorcycle meet I’d been to in Derby a few months before. He sends us out for more pasta and beer and we return to a feast and ghoulish tales of the winds further south.

As we are getting ready to leave the morning after the asado Jorge has one last gesture of hospitality. I have a problem with my side stand, loaded the bike sits almost vertical and there is a danger it could be blown over. Jorge as an engineer solves the problem by shortening the stand, then welding on a new wide metal plate to prevent the stand sinking into the mud. He jokes that this will be mucho pesos, but once finished refuses any money, so it back to the donations box. It’s really great when you come across places like “La Posta” and what shines though above everything else is just how content Jorge seems with life.

The road now stretches straight disappearing into the horizon, as the meadows begin to give way to a slightly more arid landscape, with thick green brackens & thistle like plants with colourful flowers. The drainage ditch continues either side of the road along with a simple fences to keep live stock off the road, interrupted only occasionally by ranch gates marked by tyres painted white on tall poles, the tracks again run off into the distance, with no ranches in site. Falcons & hawks become a common site as they catch the thermals, hunting their prey or more likely home in on road kill. There is rumour a spreading that theirs a corner coming up in the next few hours, but there have been such roomers before and they’ve come to nothing. The miles flow by and still nothing changes and the horizon remains the same as the fear begins to set in. It’s been a long time, will I still be able to coupe with a corner, but deep down I still have what’s needed. Then it appears far off in the distance, is it the light playing tricks, as the sun is fierce and the clouds scarce, I’ve learned in the short time I’ve been on the road it’s best not to get you hopes up, but soon it becomes more defined, it’s far off but it’s defiantly there. As the road rushes past I prepare, I see the camber of the road slowly change, I reduce my speed slightly, before accelerating out on the other side. It’s a vintage bend that folk law is built around and I know future bends will struggle in comparison. We could learn a lot from these Argentine engineers I think as road stretches out again into infinity.

We stop on the outskirts of Saldungary to pick up some food and double check the directions to a near by lake where we’ll free camp. It was bound to happen eventually, we’ve heard plenty nightmare stories about the police, brides, corruption and trumped up traffic violations. A really friendly man and his son who speak better English than our Spanish are explaining how to get to the lake 30km down a dirt track as a police pick up truck cruses up and down the deserted street. We head into town to find a supermarket not too far away and park up. We exchange a few smiles with people as on the way and are filling our basket with a few bits a pieces, when a kindly gentleman suddenly appear pointing and saying “Policia……policia”. I go straight out to where the bikes are parked, where the police truck has pulled up, the officer standing in front, he looks a little bit like 'Ponch' Poncherello from chips. He points at the bikes and then the road sign, as it dawns on me we are parked the wrong way up a one way street. Through gestures he suggests we move the bikes, as he climbs back into his truck. After finishing the shop, we come out to load up the bikes. He’s still their courteously keeping an eye on our bikes to make sure nothing untoward happens to them and on seeing we are ready to head off he smiles, fire up the truck and thunders off.