In Cafayate our hotel is the former estancia of the adjacent winery founder, white single storey spanish style, internal patios with orange trees and fountains, surrounded by vines and a fringe of mountains, possibly the most beautiful we have ever stayed in. It's a day for superlatives as we drive back 30km up the gorge, a winding road with a different breathtaking view around every bend. 90 million years ago earthquakes raised the mountains up from the seabed, producing zig zag layers of rock at every crazy angle. Red with iron, green with copper, yellow with shellfish fossils. The now dry river eroded the gorge, areas like mini grand canyons, cliffs of folded columns like crumbling castles, greek temples or ancient cities.

The leaflet suggests a walk into the desert for a close look at the rocks. There is no signpost only a rough idea of the nearest km marker. We ask directions at an adobe shack selling the usual with 2 llamas and a free range billy goat outside. The directions are vague, she points in the general direction and we head for a gap in the rocks until we find footprints in the sand to follow. We find the path, we lose it, lose each other, yell and find each other and the rock face, like a strawberry, pistachio and cream layer cake.

Back at the shack we buy a coke and have snack lunch on a rough wooden table and benches in the other adobe shed. No wasps, but the horned, bearded, piercing-eyed, cloven-hoofed billy goat gruff sniffs out our local Easter cake, treats our shooing with disdain and climbs over us, onto the bench and onto the table. Martin grabs his camera and runs. I gather up the remains of our picnic, bottles and bags and we retreat to the car.