It's not something I usually lose much sleep over but occasionally, when the boat is out the water, all chocked up nice and safely, I think back to an event some fifty years or so ago and think "what happens if the yard goes bust as happened to my dad's pal?" Or, for whatever reason, the yard can't, or won't put the boat back in the water.

Back then, dad's pal, also a Largs Sailing Club member, was eagerly awaiting delivery of his new boat, making its way to Largs overland, from a yard in Scandinavia somewhere. The boat made it as far as the south coast when word came through that the yard and all its contents were now in the hands of the receiver, behind locked gates as the builder's UK dealer had gone bust.

Somewhat concerned about his new purchase and a distinct lack of interest from the Receiver, dad's pal rented himself a Land Rover, bought a pair of bolt cutters and headed off down the M6 with mischief on his mind.

Under cover of darkness, both Land Rover and bolt cutters were put to good use and the boat made it safely back to Largs. I'm sure there was a bit of a to-do behind the scenes but sometimes, there's things you gotta do.

Which brings us to Norfolk Virginia on a cold winters night. We left Time Bandit in the yard for three to four weeks while we went gallivanting around South America. Three to four weeks turned into nine weeks and, just as we're getting ready to head back, we get an email that says, "Whoops, the Travelift is kaput. We can't get you back in the water."

It is getting cold in Norfolk, Virginia and we really need to get south so the butter will melt and we can thaw out. Ironically, we will be heading back almost on a reciprocal course to the one we painfully flew all day yesterday.

The Blog has been "off the air" for a while as those last nine weeks have been on two wheels rather than two hulls and you don't really need to read about these travels. (Although, if I can ever get WiFi there will be hours of tedious YouTube videos to watch).

The grand plan is to head for Antigua and hopefully, this time we won't find any missing sailors. That is, if we can get the boat back in the water and if everything works.

Welcome back, thanks for reading and Happy Christmas.

My apologies for the absence of insightful and educational posts in the blog over these many weeks. We’ve been a bit busy. Mostly either covering hundreds and hundreds of kilometres every day….or sleeping, priming ourselves for the next long distance slog.

“Why do you go so far every day?” our younger son asked. “‘Cause there’s hee haw in-between” was the reply. And these isn’t. And we’re over camping.

In this video we get north to the picturesque village of San Pedro De Atacama, the freezing cold border town of Ollague, bump and grind our way across the desert and salt flats to Uyuni - home to a REALLY big salt flat.

As I just said in my previous blog, this trip is full of continuing daily surprises. Not the least of which is that, apparently, I've ticked off another year this morning. Thanks to all who wished me feliz cumpleaños as we say here.

Not that anyone can understand what I say, but after months of listening to my Spanish For Idjits courses, I like to try conversation. If only those to whom I am speaking didn't look quite so mystified, I'd feel quite chuffed.

Making progress out here is a real challenge as the scenery, and we've done scenery before, is simply amazing......other than the Nullabor type, straight-as-die roads across wide expanses of desert. However, in their own way, these can be pretty interesting, at least for a while. Range after range of mountains reach off to the horizon in all colours. Ravines and chasms cut through the landscape where, at times, copious amounts of flood water patently scour the land. We spend a lot of time slowed down or at a standstill simply to "stop and gawp".

This morning we passed a sign that showed, "Ruta 40 - 4,000Km". I think that 4,000km to Ushuia. That's not in the agenda, at least right now but Puerto Natales is and that's only 3,300km.

Better get our skates on!

This trip is delivering a never ending succession of surprises. Vistas, meals lost in translation, hotel bookings and the odd corner.

We’re a bit behind schedule but here’s Part 1 of Time Bandit Does South America, or, actually, has another go at it.

No sooner had we flogged our way to the northernmost point of our trip, trying to escape the chill Patagonian winds, than it's now too bloomin' hot.

Since our last post we continued north to the Chilean / Bolivian border only to find it wasn't legal for foreigners to take a Chilean plated bike into Bolivia. Only Chilean permanent residents can do that, and, as we are barely resident anywhere, we were on a dusty wicket.

Fortunately, for once, we got a friendly Adouna who kindly made an "excepcion".......'cause we were really nice people. Anne's crying helped.

Two hundred and thirty kilometres of dusty gravel, broken up roads and nerves shot to pieces later, we blew in to the Bolivia metropolis that is Uyuni.

Our elder son had recommended we visit Uyuni. He also recommended we chew Coca leaves to avoid the effects of altitude, Uyuni being at 3,600 metres above sea level. As we drove through what looked much like a (brick) work-in-progress, ramshackle town, I had to wonder just how much Coca leaves he'd been chewing before coming to the conclusion that Uyuni was "brilliant."

Some long term readers might know I tend to think in pictures and what instantly came to mind was an image of Butch and Sundance arriving in Bolivia for the first time and stepping off the train in Santa Ines, into a dusty, broken down, adobe farmyard.

"It could be worse. You get a lot more for your money in Bolivia." said Butch.

"It could be worse" said Anne. At least we're booked into the fancy hotel.

An hotel with a spa!!!!

Jacuzzi, steam room and swimming pool, all on the edge of a huge desert. We couldn't help but feel guilty trampling all over the environment while relaxing on the, "pants off" massage table.

And that's another scary story.

Chile is a long, skinny country, approximately two thousand six hundred miles south to north. By comparison, Los Angeles to New York is around two thousand two hundred and mainland Scotland is a fraction of these at about two hundred and twenty miles.

As I said in our previous blog, maybe we've bitten off more than we can chew. At least, that's what our backsides are saying.

We landed in Puerto Varas, where last February we ended our last attempt at motor biking Patagonia. Compared to the sunshine and packed beaches back then, the town was cold and wet with a minor hurricane blowing. And at between three and six degrees centigrade, it was decidedly chilly.

The original plan had been to head due east and nip up the mountains to the border into the lee of the Andes where the temperature was forecast to be a good ten degrees warmer. However, the border crossing is at over three thousand metres. With a skidoo that might have been possible. On two wheels, not so easy. I suppose the clue was in the folks carrying skis at the airport.

And so, the plan to cross the Andes was scratched and we decided to head strait north.

Looking at the forecasts, we began to picture Chile as a thermometer. Freezing in the south and warm, even hot in the north - so north we went, keeping going until we could finally switch off our twelve volt, heated underwear.

After two thousand, eight hundred and something kilometres, the heated underwear is still fired up. Yes, we're much farther north but, we're also two and a half thousand metres up on the altiplano, sunning ourselves in the blazing sunshine of San Pedro De Atacama, but, step out of the sunshine and, again, it's decidedly chilly.

Tomorrow, we've been talked into going for a swim in the Laguna Cerca. I believe they're at 10c.

Oh joy.

I’ve been jammed full of great ideas (at the time) for many, many years. Since I could first talk, my mother might have said.

One of these great ideas was to buy an ocean cruising boat, just in case we could, one day, escape the rat race and retire at an age when we could manage the rigours of crossing oceans. Little did I know, the most taxing rigour, other than dancing around on the foredeck fighting a giant spinnaker pole, largely revolved around how best to keep one’s liver in decent shape.

Anyway, the “great idea” sprang from an event that you will best enjoy reading about in my “Forthcoming Book”. That event subsequently led to a lazy evening fiddling about on that amazing piece of time-wasting technology; the Internet.

It was while indulging in this invaluable research that I found the first Time Bandit, now known as Beige Bandit.

Long story, kept brief here so as not to spoil your future reading pleasure, in early 2008, we ended up buying Beige Bandit. It was all just perfect. The right spec, the right size, the right type of boat for our planned future endeavours and, most importantly, the right exchange rate. You see, Beige Bandit was a continent and an ocean away in Boston, USA.

Undeterred, we pushed ahead with the purchase and, come May 2008 we hopped on a flight across, “The Pond” to toss the boat in the water and sail it home to Scotland.

It was while we were somewhere over the aforementioned ocean that I glanced out the window. Down below, at sea level, there was mayhem. Even from thirty thousand feet you could tell it was absolutely honking. Huge foaming breakers leaving trails of spume and foam in their path.

“Oh oh.” I thought. “Maybe we’ve bitten off more than we could chew. Just four of us in our little boat in amongst that vastness.”

Obviously, we made it, relatively unscathed and it will make for a jolly good read. I hope.

Two days ago, on a flight to Puerto Montt, Chile, I once again looked out the window.

“Oh oh.” I thought. “Maybe we’ve bitten off more than we could chew.”

We were returning to South America to continue our attempt to motorcycle around its classic biking routes, power across miles of salt flats in Bolivia and zig-zag across the Andes, hopefully getting good weather to gawk at the Torres Del Paine and Aconcagua.

However, looking down, from horizon to horizon the mountains, through which I was planning to ride in just a few days were plastered in deep, freezing snow.

Another “great idea at the time.” So, here we go again. South America part ll.

We had a grand plan for this summer. First, check out the cruising in Vancouver. Second, join the Ocean Cruising Club 70th Anniversary celebrations in and around Long Island Sound. We'd then finish off with a cruise to Maine to gate crash more OCC festivities.

Vancouver went well from the wholly selfish perspective of getting out and about on a motorcycle, although, I have to confess, we didn't see much of the cruising grounds such where the weather forecasts.

New England went well, dropping in and out of Lo g Island's expensive yacht clubs. $135 per night for a mooring! Don't ask how much a gin and tonic cost.

When the time came to head north for Maine I thought I'd just check the engines.

I popped into the starboard engine, checked the oil. OK. Checked the coolant. OK. Checked the fan belt. All OK. Then, last up, check the oil in the Saildrive. Aaaarrgh. Would you flaming well believe it! The seals that I had paid "professionals" to replace in Grenada only in March and just a few hours on the engine were leaking. What should have been honey clear oil was a mush of emulsified oil and sea water. Aaaarrgh.

I was furious. I climbed out the engine room, shot into the cockpit to bend Anne's ear for no other reason than, as usual, she's the only one there.

"Would you believe it?" I yelled. "These idiots in Grenada have left the seals leaking". I was spinning around like a Tasmanian devil absolutely livid. However before I went any further I thought I'd better check the other engine. I opened up the hatch, climbed in. Unscrewed the dip stick and......aaaarrgh. It too was leaking. The oil looking more like yogurt than oil.

There went our trip to Maine as I'd have to absolutely minimise motoring.

Once I'd stopped spinning we formulated a new plan which was basically to find a flesh pot like Boston or Newport and, like the well-heeled of yesteryear, the Vanderbilts and the like, summer at the "cottage". Except our cottage was the boat.

And so, we whiled away quite a number of weeks watching the tourists, the classic twelve metres, schooners and luxury super yachts come and go. We walked for miles around Newport mansions a.k.a. cottages.

One day, for reasons I don't remember, I thought I'd check the engines again just to see if magically they had fixed themselves. And would you believe it? The port engine had!

Or, perhaps not. It seems that while I was spinning around like a dervish, cursing the engineers when I went to check the "other"engine, I'd actually checked the same engine twice!

Ooops!

Here's a bit of what we got up to - definitely Time Bandit holiday snaps as, once again, absolutely nothing of real interest has happened.