There’s a storm in Buenos Aires and no seats left in the departure lounge as all the flights are delayed, toddlers are going off like grenades left, right and centre, and the queue for the ladies loos is predictably gigantic. Eventually it’s clear that all our flights have been cancelled.

Team work prevails.

I wait for our luggage while Clive dives into the morass of people at check-in trying to get out of Buenos Aires. He is third in-line but unfortunately a German girl at the front wielded even better team work and her 12 ebullient compatriots appear with all of their luggage, ecstatic that she has nabbed the last of that evening’s remaining flights. There are no flights left until the day after tomorrow. Our final trip, to Puerto Madryn and the whale watching trip, might be the one that got away.

Will our brains explode at 2 am?

Eventually we are offered flights at 4am, to Trelew, half an hour’s drive from Madryn, which we accept. There are only $600 a night hotel rooms left in BA, so as we would be sleeping in the airport anyway, we figure we might as well go for it, although with some trepidation. Apart from rare events when we might stay awake until oooooh 2am, we never go to bed after midnight, and are generally tucked up and snoring by 11pm. We are genuinely scared that our brains might explode after 2am. Hence Clive’s “Remember to be nice to each other” as we make an uncomfortable camp for ourselves in Burger King, no doubt expecting me to bury my teeth into one of his carotid arteries at 3 am when he says something (he thinks is) innocuous.

A pod of dolphins passes by our window.

We eventually arrived in Puerto Madryn at 8am. I dreaded it being like another La Serena in Chile, blowing a hoolie up a gazillion mile long sand blasted beach with circling vultures. But it’s more Hove circa 1960, and getting back to self-catering is a joy, especially when we spot a pod of passing dolphins from the living room window.

After a day of recovering, we head for the Valdez Peninsula, to see some wildlife, especially whales. Our guide is at the extreme end of pessimistic, preparing us all for disappointment. He explains that the mothers are teaching their babies how to swim, to dive, and to feed, and they will be gone by next month, down South to the Antarctic. They spend a lot of time diving to feed on krill, tiny little prawns they sift through keratin curtains lining their mouths. Hence they aren’t seen at the surface much.

I am 100% prepared to see nothing at all.

I lost count of how many whales we saw – all Southern Right whales, all in possession of a 100 -200 tonne baby whale. They come to this bay near Puerto Piramides because it is shallow. This keeps them safe from Orcas, whose preferred method of hunting baby whales is for one orca to swim above the baby while another swims below it. The lower orca shoves the baby towards the surface while the other orca blocks its blow hole.

Puerto Piramides is a cool little village that reminds me of somewhere on a Greek island. We decide we’ll stay here when we return.

Elsewhere on the Valdes peninsula, which you reach via an isthmus near Puerto Madryn, is one of only two places in the world where Orcas have learnt to intentionally strand themselves to hunt the seals snoozing obliviously in the sun. The mothers have taught their children to do this, and interestingly the seals haven’t done the same and taught their broods to move away from the sea edge. Like lions, it’s the females who hunt, as the males are too big to be stealthy. The male only joins in if they need a bit of muscle, otherwise he holds back while looking after the babies.

Little armadillos, walking across my floor.

Although a rather flat and unexciting landscape, there’s a tremendous amount of wildlife here. After the whale watching we are as high as kites. As we get off the bus to see some seals, Clive says

“I feel lucky- I AM  going to see an armadillo today”,

And Immediately, one scuttled past. They were much smaller and nippier than I expected, and not afraid of humans. I have a strong suspicion that their diet includes snippets of ham and cheese sandwiches nicked from the tourists in the tea house but our guide says they are there for the fresh water.

Wales transplanted to Argentina.

A Welsh colony arrived here in the mid 1800s to escape the English yoke that banned the teaching and speaking of the Welsh language and religion. On a day we went to see yet more Magellan penguins at Punta Tombo, we popped in for a carb fest at a cafe in Gaiman, aka “Welsh tea”. Welsh is still spoken here, although I am not sure if that’s a first or second language. I would dearly love to tell you the waitress bowled up and said “”Helo, what’s occurring?” But she spoke Spanish, disappointingly.

Cramming for a Spanish language test.

We are back in Buenos Aires and due for a Spanish language test this afternoon as we are going back to school. My overwhelming feeling is excitement that we have 19 days to explore this beautiful, interesting and sunny city. The weather is warm and sunny.

I am frantically cramming sentences that are way beyond my proper level as I don’t want to be in the beginners class, and as a class A crammer, a skill honed to polished perfection at uni 41 years ago, I am optimistic. Deseame suerta!