End of the world, and back to Chile.

A half day in downtown Ushuaia was more than enough for us. The town is quite charming, but it's a matter of shouldering one's way between the mobs of 'other' tourists, who have mostly come by air to join a cruise to Antarctica. Given its popularity with the money-is-no-object end of the tourism spectrum, there are few bargains to be had in town either. Back in camp we read, write, tinker with motorcycle, tent and gear, and relax in our forest by the stream.

Ruta 3 finishes in the Tierra del Fuego National Park, and a photo by the sign marking the end of the road is de rigeur.

So is a visit to the park itself. Emily and I hiked up the Guanaco trail to the top of Cerro Guanaco, just to prove to our legs and bums that there's more to life than sitting on a motorcycle.

They paid us back over the following days, too, but the views, solitude and that wonderful feeling of insignificance in the immensity of nature was worth the debt.

A burly, dark and grumpy storm shooed us down from the peak, though not before we had lunched on the mountain, watching the weather approach.

Four days at the town at the end of the world was enough, sort of. We'd met a new crew, and now feel a part of the overland biking community, we'd heard some yarns and shared some others. We had washed clothes, cooked in a kitchen, and made some repairs to our kit (and others' too - I'm sure Ted is impressed with Emily's sewing skills). Despite this we didn't really feel ready to leave, and may have stayed longer if not for the attractions of Patagonia which beckoned us along the road.

Out of Ushuaia earlyish - about midday! We were in a bit of a hurry, or at least we had a schedule for the first time in a long time. We needed to catch a ferry from Porvenir to Punta Arenas. So we were into it, back up over the Garibaldi Pass, a 230km stint without stopping, our longest ever to date. A pitstop in Rio Grande, then border formalities to cross back into Chile, this time we were able to write that we planned to stay weeks rather than hours as we had on the way down.

Between the border post at San Sebatian and Porvenir ther is about 150 kms of quite smooth gravel road. Undulating along the coast, the road itself offers lots of great views and few difficulties.

Toss in winds of somehwere around 120 km/h at a guess, and ther level of difficulty rises sharply, and time to enjoy the scenery evaporates (for me, andway, I'm sure Em did a bit of rubber-necking). That's just what you expect down this far on the wedge of South America. When we realised the timezone chage from Argentina to Chile had given us an extra hour, we stopped for a photo shoot on a deserted pebbly beach, then again to watch the guanacos.

Porvenir has the charm of these Chilean seaside villages - brightly painted buildings made from corrugated iron, built low as if hunkered down against the wind. Trimmed lawns and hedges give a homely feel, while the rusted motor vehicles and the pace of these towns recall decades past. At Porvenir, a concrete wall seems to mumble the somwehat murky statement that 'To govern is to educate'. The Chilean flag in front of the sign though not yet faded by sun or salt is stretched and frayed by the wind.

The people around here look weahterbeaten and tough but are kind, helpful and gently spoken. Pulling up at the ferry terminal, we park in the lee of a truck and bolt for the cafe. There's plenty on offer, and we tuck into a hearty seafood casserole with loads of bread to mop up the ample juice, and a beer each - the waiter is up for a conversation, and seems unconcerned that the scheduled sailing time for the fery is fast approcaching. This attitude is shared by the ticket office, and the long queue trickles unhurriedly while departure time slips past.

The vessel, ''Melinka'' is brightly painted in red, green and white, though the ochre if rust also features in the colour scheme.

It's a bit of a free-for-all loading - they supply the ropes, you do the tying - and to cross the Straits of Magellan in this gale, I'm not messing around. As the little ship heaves against a solid swell and shrieking wind, we find the lower passenger deck slightly more comfortable. We sling to the horizon with our eyes to stave off the worst of the seasickness and both manage the three hour crossing with our seafood casserole intact. It's dark when we dock at Punta Arenas, and we have to ruffle ingloriously around in the town for an hour or so to find a hostel.