(First published in the Buenos Aires Herald, June 2008)
With a lot of encouragement, Luna, my nag, carried my to the top of Cerro Belvedere, from where the view was unbelievable. Is cobalt the colour I mean? No, I don´t think cobalt is as clear. Aquamarine? Or maybe there´s a colour called Argentine Late Summer Lake Blue´ You´ll understand when I get home,and upload some photos.

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Two young Argentine girls, both lawyers, also joined in the ride, with Andres, our ´leader´. ´What´s your job, Andres?' I asked. `Are you a gaucho?`

'Being a gaucho isn´t a job,' he said. 'It's a way of life, and you have to be born a gaucho. I was born in the city, so I can't be a gaucho. I do horserides. That's my job'.

'So you write 'horseride doer' beside 'profession' on official forms?'

'No, I write 'tour operator'.

Somehow, after that, I feel that it's okay to write 'Writer' beside 'profession' on official forms.

Half-way up the mountain we stopped at a waterfall and took some fun photos of us cross-legged, eyes closed, hands on knees, in an´'om' pose. I can think of worse places to meditate.

At the top of Cerro Belvedere, we let the horses loose, and looked down over the sheer cliff to Lakes Correntoso and Nahuel Huapi. The lakes are joined by the shortest river in the world, the 250-metre Rio Correntoso.

We sat on the ground and Andres took out his mate. We had a bonding session, sipping and passing it around.

'So what's the difference between Argentines and Uruguayans?' I asked.

'Well, Uruguayans drink mate all the time - even when they're walking on the street or standing in a queue. We always sit down to drink mate.' So no mate on the hoof, so to speak, in Argentina.

What I hadn't realised was that we would have to lead the horses a long way down on foot, as it was too steep to ride them, and their saddles would slide off with our weight.

Not what the gorgeous physiotherapist Pablo had prescribed before I left. ('Gentle horserides, yes, Paola, because I know I can't stop you, but mountain hikes, NO. Half-hour walks on the flat with good boots. No more.'

So my knee suffered a bit, but yesterday I did absolutely nothing apart from sit in a bus and cross the Andes to Puerto Montt in Chile, and back. The knee is fine today. But from way back before we left I had this nagging cough, that hacks at my lungs like a pickaxe at night and is not conducive to sleep) and yesterday (maybe because of the horsing exertions) I felt really weak.

We got to Chile and the menu was fish, fish, or fish. With potatoes. So I sinned. I deliberately sinned. I could have had potatoes. Or looked for another restaurant. But I had a huge salmon steak that was absolutely delicious. Having decided (helped by Sujen) to draw my vegetarian line at not eating anything with a mum and a dad, I consciously, willingly ate a huge piece of salmon and enjoyed it, and felt much better for it. I beg forgiveness from that salmon's mum and dad.

Argentina really does not cater for vegetarians. I had written to our hotel (super bijou) before we arrived, and was assured that vegetarianism would not be a problem, but I think that the alternation between their egg-plant ravioli and their green salad with brie simply is not enough variation. I am NOT a fussy eater, but I think i just NEEDED that salmon.

This is turning into a ramble. Three quarters of an hour till the bus back to the hotel (and a swim in the heated outdoor pool). So let me ramble on about the fact that this holiday is giving me too much thinking time, and I´m beginning to get into a blind panic about the upcoming move. I only have to hear the word 'move' and I burst into tears. It's not really the fact of leaving Uruguay. I am used to leaving places. And as you know, I'm used to packing and travelling. I deliberately don't invest in getting too close to people. I invest in the place, in making the most of it, but I know it's finite. Never do I want to be in a situation where I think 'I didn't make the most of it', or 'Why didnt I...?'

And it's not a fear of living in the next place, which could be Brussels, but might not. If it's Brussels, I'm closer to my kids, I know it well, I can easily find work...

The panic is about the bit in between. The packing. The flat-hunting. The inventories. The paperwork. Getting an international driving licence. All those little things. Finding a home for the dog. Setting up at the other end. I just want to go to to sleep and wake up with it all done.

But this is the price - a very small one - which I have to pay for this wondrous bubble I've lived in for almost eight years - four in Tanzania and three and a half here. Get real, Paola. Back to the real world.

On to other things. I think I shall abandon the WB course. Reading a Nick Hornby book (forgotten the tittle) in which he advocates abandoning books that you really aren't getting into, and this feels similar. Fiction doesn't seem to be my thing. I have sent off for the poetry course. And would you believe, my poem 'Em', slightly modified, got shortlisted for WL Resources this month!

New routine when I get home (well, I get home on Saturday, then leave on Wednesday for a week in Italy, for my parents´60th anniversary, so I'm talking about mid-April - my justification is that it's an important occasion and that those airmiles must be used): two hours a day sorting and clearing, two hours a day writing and doing writing-related stuff, and the rest of the time LIVING, BREATHING Uruguay to the full. And yes, back to yoga, which was abandoned months ago because of the knee.

And finding strength to face this stupid move, that many people would die for. If you're still with me, thank you. Half an hour before the bus to read YOUR blogs!