Monday, 18th September.
Hotel Belorado

We stopped at about 10am at a little bar in a shitty little town. A couple of the local tarts walked in. (Although they could've been tarts from out of town, but they had an air of locality about them, if that makes sense.) "There's no in between with these Spanish women," I said to Dave.
"What do you mean?"
"Well," I replied, "they're either amazing or ugly. There's no middle ground."

As we entered Belorado, some fool started us singing "Welcome to the hotel Belorado" to the tune of "Hotel California" by obscure 70s pop group the Eagles. Aargh, now I've got that sodding song stuck in my head. Someone hum me a few bars of a Thompson Twins song, please!

I discovered today that the girls are picking up on my vocabulary. Barb has started using the word "ridiculous" and Noelle referred to me as a bloke in her diary. "You're joking," I said, using another one of my favourite phrases. "And I said 'bugger' the other day! Aaargh!" muttered Barb. Funny that, none of their vocabulary is rubbing off on me.

Before dinner we all climbed a hill that shoots up behind the refugio. At the top of the hill is the ruins of some old building, none of us were exactly sure what it might have been. In the silence, the wind brushed our cheeks, and we sat in the evening sun.

above: a view of Belorado from that hill

It was Dave's turn to cook, and tonight he was sharing the kitchen with four blonde women (two German and two Brazilian). It was a struggle for him, but full credit to the little Aussie battler, he saw it through.