We were awake early (not our best night's sleep) and enjoyed a nice breakfast on the roof terrace after repacking and returning the room to its previous state. Our hostess Myra was very touched by the M&S gift bag we gave her before we left. We explained to her that we planned to stay in Pilon that night and as there was no hotel there and only 2 casas, Myra phoned ahead to her friend (Lydia) to organise a room there for us.

After a false start (due to the fact we suddenly had an ant infestation in the car - literally thousands of the b*****s running amok around the door sills, dash board and central console - we finally set off again around 9.15am. Today's itinerary is one that could be described as the 'day of the revolution'.

On our way to Manzanillo, we have an impromptu stop in Yara, where all the locals are gathered for a baseball match. Cowboys and even a rather cool cowgirl on horseback, pig roasts and an excited buzz amongst the crowd create an atmosphere of celebration and anticipation. We buy a cerdo asada bocadito (a hog roast pork roll to you and me) - this is our first local peso transaction (not convertibles). 1 CUC equals 24 pesos, so our pork roll cost 9 local pesos about 12p - outrageously cheap and delicious!

We continue journey to the coast, with a brief wander around Manzanillo's main square, complete with rather fancy bandstand and a guy who sidles up and asks in a whisper if we want to buy cigars. It's a coastal town with mixture of colonial and clapboard houses - it's a bit like a wild west version of streets of San Francisco, with streets leading uphill away from the main square and a roller coaster ride across each junction. The car dips and bucks each time we traverse the water drainage ditches at each intersection.

We continue our journey to Media Luna, arriving at midday just in time for the Celia Sanchez museum to close for two hours. A simply, smart wooden clapboard house, the family home for Celia who was a major player in the revolution and apparent close friend/confidante of Fidel Castro (I think we all know what close friend/confidante actually stands for…). We walk into garden and despite the museo officially being closed the very pretty and sexy lady opens specially for us (Jon wrote that bit) and gives us a private tour. In the garden, she picks a flower and hands it to me. The Mariposa is a delicate white flower and is the national flower for Cuba. It is also synonymous with Celia, who is generally thought of as "the first lady of the revolution".

After a brief stop in Niquero, we head onwards to the Parque Nacional Desembarco del Granma; this is the site of the landing of Castro and his motley crew in the Granma boat and represents the starting point of the revolution. As is usual in Granma province, we dodge the pot holes that pock mark the road and reach the park entrance where we pay 10 CUC to enter park. A few kilometres along the road we see a replica of the Granma yacht on our right (we saw original at the museum of the revolution in Havana). We pay another 4 CUC for guide around the museo (basically one room with a few photos and a small hut where the rebels were fed and watered). Even though he only spoke Spanish, we're now able to understand quite a bit and the guide explains in detail the details of the rebels first month in Cuba and he does bring the situation to life for us. Critical to their success was the support and food / water provided by the simple country people of the area of the Sierra Maestra. There is also a letter from Raul Castro, that is signed Luar Trocas (he used an anagram of his name, so that Batista's men wouldn't know who it was from).

The part that most brought to life the circumstances for the men as they first arrived in Cuba was when we walked to the landing point with the guide. It's almost 1.5 km on a straight concrete boardwalk that cuts through sharp grass and dense mangrove swamp. The distance, that took us less than 20 minutes to walk, took Fidel and his men 5 hours. Apparently Che wasn't happy about where they landed and b****ed a bit about it, but with Batista's men closing in, they didn't have much choice but to disembark and risk the hazardous journey. The end of the jetty crumbles into nothing and joins with the sea. Our only companions are some sea birds sitting on the jetty struts and a couple of local fishermen are heading out from the point. For some reason that I can't explain, there is a sense of tranquillity here, like the calm before the storm, which the revolution became and ultimately changed the shape of Cuba.

The campasina hut we visited is on the site of the first point they stopped for food and water, only 1 mile into their journey. Without having seen the dense mangrove swamp, it would have made no sense why they needed to stop so soon. They split up at this point and to most of them it must have seemed a hopeless task ahead of them. 21 of the 82 men were killed early on, including Fidel's 2nd in command and it would take over three weeks for the survivors to make the journey of only 75kms (50 miles) to the safe haven of the Cinqo Palmas sugar plantation.

Our revolutionary pilgrimage continues as we head over the Sierra Maestra mountains, along the terrain that Fidel and his ragtag crew took after the landing. The scenery is stunning, but the rugged remoteness has hardly changed since the events that took place half a century ago.

We arrive at Pilon, out planned overnight stop, at around 5pm and find our Casa without too much trouble. Lydia greets us and all looks good, so we unload our bags into the spotlessly clean room. Our big mistake was to switch on the light. Mosquitoes swarm in through the central light fitting, there must be a hole in the ceiling where they rest out in between fresh victims for blood-letting. The soon fill the space, until there is a cloud of 100 or more swarming in the room, searching for fresh blood. Knowing that mosquitos find me particularly tasty, I realise that this is more than my trusty repellent spray will be able to cope with and I'll have no chance of sleeping tonight. The moment the light goes off, there'll be that nasal whining sound that's bad enough, until it stops and you wonder where the blood seeking critter has landed and why it's no longer making the buzzing sound - most likely it's stopped for dinner!

We take the risky decision not to stay and are frantically loading the car back up with our bags, when an English-speaking Dutch guy wanders past with his kids. Sometimes in life, chance meetings occur and you could believe you have a guardian angel - this guy turned out to be it. Probably the only English speaker in town, he gave us directions to the only hotels in driving distance before sunset. The setting sun is a critical component of our decision, as the increasingly deteriorating state of the road means that travelling after dark is not an option for us. We are fully aware that if they have no space we will be sleeping in the car, but that was still preferable to the mosquito infested option.

Around 15 kms along the road, and just as the sun is sliding below the horizon, we turn right along a bumpy track to the Falliron Hotel, where we are in luck and find that they have a room available. We are mentally and physically exhausted after a full few days covering half the length of Cuba, so we decide to stay for two nights. It's once again full of Canadians seeking cheap winter sun and at 64 CUC a night, all inclusive (£20 per person per day for bed, food, drinks etc it truly is cheap) Jon takes this as a personal challenge to see if he can eat and drink more than that each day, so that his bed is free.

The main reason we had decided to stay over in Pilon was for the Saturday street party that happens in each town in this area and had a glowing review in the Lonely Planet. We join the waiting Canadians and board a coach from the hotel (the driver must be local, so therefore knows exactly where the road disappears and can even do this in the dark) and go back into Pilon. The coach is not due to return to the hotel until 2 ½ hours after it drops us off. We were ready to come back after 30 mins - nuff said (except for not even the Lonely Planet gets it right every time).