If you could harvest noise, what a wonderful resource it would be. We’ve been blown off the road on two instances - literally. A nor’westerly that has a hot sun and a cold coming out of a clear blue sky, coming at us from the Chilean Humbolt and accentuated, chilled further over the high tops to our north. We’ve fought the blast for the better part of a morning, the forward momentum little better than a brisk walking pace. It comes in blasts, catching the front panniers, pushing them, then, as you compensate, the wind gives a little and you’re in the gravel or over the median line. Either way it’s not safe. The countyside up to this point is completely devoid of shelter. Not a rock, bush or tree large enough to hide or hunker down behind; it’s all tooth, hook and claw. So when a decrepit wooden sign appears like divine magic and announces ’camping’, you pull over and investigate. It’s an estancia of deceased farm machinery, piled logs and barking dogs. Skins of goats are strung up on the washing line, hoofs of a cow beside the track. Not very promising. But ’yes’ we can camp, the charge is a little over a quid, of course we stop. I hope I’ve learned my lesson, for there are lined out rows of tall fastigate poplars. It has shelter, the one commodity that we crave at this precise moment.