Having taken Sue to the chilly south of the country, we next took her to the steamy and tropical north to witness one of the world's greatest spectacles, Iguazu Falls, on the border with Brazil and Paraguay. We stayed in a lovely resort with a turquoise and tempting swimming pool in a cute little cabana with a huge living area and 3 bedrooms, backing onto hundreds of miles of lush, verdant rainforest. Sue insisted on sleeping in the only room without a balcony as she was nervous of either marauding monkeys or indigenous tribes people scaling up the walls in the middle of the night and carting her off into the jungle, never to be seen again. I suspect that after a couple of days of trying to untangle the O'Toole family tree they would have returned her to us unharmed.

The waterfalls really are amazing.First we went to see a huge bowl of frothing water, called the 'Devil's Throat'. The water roars over the top with such ferocity that it is impossible to see the bottom of the falls. There's a constant spray from the force of the water that leaves you soaked within a few minutes of standing at the edge, peering nervously over. Trying to take a quick photo before the camera gets waterlogged is difficult because of the hordes of gurning tourists in ridiculous hats who have the same idea and are busy trying to squeeze you out of the way so they can take their own perfect shot. Our sharp little elbows got the better of them though.

Across on the other side of immaculately manicured Iguazu-Land was another impressive array of waterfalls, each view more impressive and photogenic than the last. Wanting to get a little closer we pulled on some rather elegant and stylish rain ponchos, strapped on our lifejackets and climbed onto a boat for a ride through some fairly gentle rapids and a closer, much closer, look at the waterfalls. You could call it a fish-eye view, as we were driven straight under this torrential gush of water and our pathetic attempts at waterproofing were rendered laughably inadequate within a nano-second. The French people sharing our boat who, only moments earlier we had been deriding for stripping off to their ill-fitting swimwear, started to look unbearably smug and sensible. We looked more like drowned rats in bad clothing.

Arriving back on shore to peel off our laughably useless ponchos and throw them contemptuously in the nearest bin we unsuccessfully attempted to find one dry patch of clothing that had withstood the deluge. And we were now having a very bad hair day.

In the evening we dined again at a lovely restaurant called El Ruedo, staffed by immaculately attired and attentive waiters who were so delighted to see us again it felt like being back amongst our family (with the added advantage of not having to do the washing up or discuss falling house prices). Our waiter, Reuben, was particularly helpful and endearing and we were totally won over when he endearingly started to stroke the back of our necks when we had our photos taken with him. On the way home we stop to buy some wares from some local people dressed rather bizarrely as Red Indians and are pleased to note that they have forsaken their traditional practices of chasing cowboys and living in wigwams and taken instead to selling small and colourful hand-woven wares at very low prices. A wise move on their part, and one which we enthusiastically supported by relieving them of most of their stock.