A storm gave the ger a good rattling overnight and the rain hammered against the felt. I opened the door to a grey morning, where the wind carried the rain horizontally making a trip to the gents a very swift experience. The promise of porridge for breakfast had Bob wriggling excitedly in her sleepingbag, but on arrival it turned out that Mongolian porridge used rice instead of oats, water instead of milk and salt instead of sugar... Nevertheless it was warm and filling and set us up well to battle the elements, as we loaded up Olive and got underway.

We set off at axel-breaking speed and were soon without a single landmark on our dead flat 360 degree horizon. We disturbed a few coveys of partridge and briefly raced alongside a cantering camel and a high speed gazelle but otherwise we were very much alone. As the intense Russian propaganda rock filled the cabin, accompanied by Eegii's sing along vocals, my head repeatedly made involuntary contact with the ceiling, leaving some valuable hairs embedded in the speaker. Whitney Houston's 6th airing was followed by a PowerPoint montage subtitling Declan's search for 'Bright Eyes' but we ploughed. With the sound system only playing repeats we were all glad to arrive at the ruined monastery, which was also our lunch stop. Victor cooked whilst we ambled between the ruins, wondering what had possessed Stalin to bomb a monastery before returning to the car and a steaming plate of spaghetti. Eegii was concerned that Olive was drinking too much fuel so at the next town we pulled up to allow Eegii and another mechanic, who appeared from nowhere, time to furtle around under the engine cover. There was much revving, banging and Mongolian cursing but within half an hour of leaving them to it we were signalled back to the car and roared away with Eegii much happier.

The arid rocky plains began to green up and soon we were surrounded by the cover image of the Lonely Planet. Vast green valleys filled with sheep, goats and horses edged by acute mountain ranges under a limitless blue sky. Having stopped to ask a herdsman about the possibility of finding a local family who might accommodate us for the night we pulled up at several nomadic dwellings, scoring a bullseye on the second enquiry. This extended family group had never hosted foreigners before but after bribing the army of small children with lollipops we were away. After the obligatory milk tea and introductions to Grandad Sambo and Granny Arussia, we took a tour around the mares and foals, before heading up to the ridge to take in our beautifully remote surroundings. The 3 adventurous boys had followed us up the hill, and treated us with guarded interest. Not to be outdone their sister, who could only have been 3 years old, toddled unaided, slowly but steadily behind them, in hand-me-down boots a few sizes too big and clutching her bottle of milk, determined to be involved.

We returned to the ger camp with the free range children, who disappeared off at a run, giggling and laughing, returning with a couple of old motorbike tyres. These provided much amusement until we ran out of tyre related challenges and were called for supper. The mutton pasta cooked by our hosts was excellent and we sat in one of the younger families gers to eat. During the meal the lack of toilet facilities became apparent as one of the toddlers wandered out of the door and did her business practically on the doormat for all to watch.

Carefully stepping out of the supper tent, and thanking our host, we soaked up the evening sunlight which bathed the happy homestead. Somebody produced a long skipping rope and soon the whole family were involved. Victor was a secret skipping pro and invented numerous different ways for the less coordinated amongst us to become ensnared. Bob excelled herself and as the sun sank, and the laughter faded, we headed up the bank to view the expansive sunset. A pair of men set off on horseback, trotting photogenically away across the plains, and we watched them driving the various groups of stock across the far side of the valley.

We returned to the main ger, which had rapidly filled with people, and whilst drinking salt tea, another member of the family appeared at the door and presented a weaned lamb for our inspection as it was off its food. A brief examination revealed a firm mass of ingesta in its abdomen so using Victor as an interpreter we dosed it with some oil and persuaded them not to give it any of the Alamycin LA which was being drawn up...

We retired to the younger families' ger and Sambo followed with a tin of knuckle bones, and a very wide smile. A rug was spread out and Victor explained the game which involved each player in turn scattering a palmful of dried and dyed lamb phalanxes over the rug and then flicking them into each other depending on which way they landed. Each orientation was named after either a sheep, goat, camel or horse and within 3 rounds Bob, Emilie and I were out, leaving the cackling group of old Mongolians, and Simeon to get increasingly excited as their individual stashes of pasterns grew. The girls and I took the opportunity to teach the other assembled members of the family the cork trick, which provided much amusement but was tricky to explain by the light of a single 40 watt bulb to Mongolians with fingers the same size and dexterity of frozen sausages. Eventually they got it and with Simeon out of knuckle bones we said good night and retired to our cosy ger where a roaring dung fire had been lit in our absence.

I attempted some astrophotography under the beautifully clear sky which was scattered with stars, but quickly returned to the ger to warm up over the stove as the outside temperature dropped well below freezing. I sat in the armchair and recorded the day's events before topping up the fire and delicately balancing myself on the edge of Bob's single bed.