A flight from Gatwick, January 19.
But first, "Welcome to the USA".
Sanford airport, Orlando, Florida. Everyone off the plane for restocking with fuel for plane and passengers. Queue for immigration (having already filled in elaborate forms on the flight, headed 'Welcome to the USA'), queue for customs (but nothing was inspected), queue for emigration to be allowed back on the plane. All this took an hour or more, and that was our first visit to the US. "Thank you", said Marion, "we have enjoyed our stay."
Welcome ? ? Not an encouragement for any future visit.

But 5.30pm at PUERTO VALLARTA, 16 hours from Gatwick, definitely WAS Mexico. Could NOT be mistaken for USA or GB.

Rattling bus ride on tin seats in a 'camion' from airport to El Centro -- cobbled streets, palm trees and dusty banana leaves. Glimpses of Pacific Ocean. Timothy, studying guide book, led us to the Villa del Mar, and a room for three. Spanish style hotel with central courtyard and curving stone staircases with elegant twisted iron banisters, leading up to our room and on up to a roof terrace with view towards the mountains -- "panorama bonita", as an old man pointed out to us on our first tour of inspection. Actually, the peaks were at first covered with low black clouds; an imminent thunderstorm one might have expected at home, but, of course, no such thing occurred, and there were no further thoughts of rain for the next two weeks. Lovely and warm; 27C or so. Music in the streets from every bar and restaurant introduced us to the everlasting 'sound of Mexico'.

Next morning, to the municipal market nearby at 7.30 for our first 'desayuno'. The market not yet under way, but a restaurant stall was open, as we had expected. Ham omelette with 'frijos' (bean curd) and 'tortillas' (thin dry maize pancakes), both of these (plus salsa and chilis on the side) accompanying nearly every meal thereafter, and coffee. A visit to the tourist office for bus enquiries, paraded along El Malecon, the long ocean promenade, as all tourists must, and generally explored. Many cobbled streets and old buildings in our older part of the city. Economical set lunch at a more standard restaurant. Afternoon siesta on our hotel roof, then to the beach for a swim. Large waves with strong undertow at our chosen spot, not highly satisfactory. Found a couple of nearly deserted beaches beyond the touristed main 'playa'. Evening meal was only for Marion and Timothy, while I nursed a slight indigestion in bed.

Drinking water was from a communal large plastic container in the courtyard.. This was so almost everywhere we stayed, and almost all our rooms had wash and shower facilities attached.

"......made in the Rhymney ironworks......" Rhymney ? Why should anyone be talking about my great-grandfather's ironworks here in this little Mexican mountain village of SAN SEBASTIAN DEL OESTE. ? We had only just arrived here, and I was sitting in the square guarding our luggage while Marion and Timothy checked the two hotels. The words I had overheard were spoken by a guide with a small group of Americans; he seemed to be showing them a telegraph post. I couldn't help going over and expressing my surprise and interest. This telegraph post was made from old railway rails; cast into the rails were the words 'Rhymney Steel 88 BSR'. The group were on their way to visit an old silver mine at which these rails would have been used. Their guide was interested enough in my interest to invite us to join them for their visit. So of course we did. We all piled into their pick-up truck for the 15 minute ride further up into the hills, a short walk and into the mine itself -- a level adit of some 200 yards just high enough for walking upright. A few veins of quartz with bits of silver were pointed out to us, as well as bats (hanging and flying), and masses (literally masses) of daddy-long-legs-like spiders near the entrance. It was possible to pick from the roof a handful, all actively stuck together. This mine was in use from the early 19th century until 1910, one of the later colonial mines. (No more railway lines were now in existence on site.)

So that was a most unexpected and interesting culmination to our morning's activities. We had started at 8am with an exciting 2 1/2 hour dusty mountain journey up 5000ft into these hills by 2nd class bus up to the hamlet of Estancia, and then a pick-up truck. The American party had taken just 12 minutes to fly the same distance to the local airstrip. I wonder how much they had paid for this.

So we made ourselves at home in a friendly hotel, and found a restaurant for lunch. Afternoon siesta in the pleasant hotel garden courtyard in sun or shade of our choice under the lime and orange trees. Evening walk up a mountain path picking up (and eating) fallen sweet oranges on the way. Later, coats and extra pullovers on, to combat a really cold evening, before going out to see the cock fighting. Interesting, but really most unexciting. Long waits between fights, each fight lasting barely two minutes. The first ended after two rounds by agreement, with both contestants still living (just), the second in one very short round with one dead cock lying in the ring. A feeble clap from the spectators after the first fight, but otherwise no sign of excitement or appreciation. Much noise, however, from a LOUDspeaker, and people selling tickets which seemed to be for a lottery as well as for betting. After all the waiting around, we were too bored to see more, so that was our 'entertainment' for the evening. We left the dead and dying cocks where they had been abandoned in a corner. One would have thought that the dying one might at least have been swiftly finished off.

Wednesday, Jan. 23.
Breakfast with Goca in the courtyard at Cristy's. Goca being a large green parrot who took to following Marion around, and Cristy's the recommended breakfast eating establishment. Scrambled eggs ( with, of course, mushy beans and tortillas), and also toast and butter and jam; the first bread and butter we had yet been able to find. The toast was specially made for us today only because we had specifically asked for bread.

Then shopping for picnic lunch (no bread) ready for a mountain walk. A very pleasant day up a pine and oak wooded valley between steep hillsides with no map or destination in mind. But we did get to a high point on a ridge and were pleased to find a different way down. Hot sun, but plenty of shade. Discovered more mine entrances and unusual plants. Came nose to nose, as it were, with a sweet lilac-like flower at one point. Many little yellow butterflies, one swallowtail, and a trail of small bits of leaf all moving along in a line; these were being carried by leaf-cutter ants; we followed the trail from the hole into which they were disappearing, for some 20 yards back to a four foot high bush from which they were cutting the leaves. Large stooks or ricks of harvested maize in the lower fields near the village. Now another siesta in our courtyard.

Tonight's evening stroll took us to the local coffee factory, but there was no one at work to help us with any information, so we just bought a wedge of crushed apricots (another of their products), not wanting to carry coffee with us on our travels. But we did meet someone who told us about Mike and Pauline who live in the village, and we found them by chance on our way back. Mike is from Cardiff and Pauline from Risca Road, Newport, "just opposite Jews' Wood" !! So they had to invite us in to their courtyard for a chat. They have two bed and breakfast rooms, and have lived here for three years. Full of further information about the area -- we should have contacted them earlier. They encouraged us to revise our onward travel plans for tomorrow, and not to return to Puerto Vallarta. We also, after the coffee factory, found another march of leaf-cutter ants, this time all scurrying to and from a fallen branch of a flowering shrub in the cemetery, creating a fascinating line of moving bright red petals.

Thursday. Jan. 24.
Cold start. 6am (and only) bus from San Sebastian to Mascota. This turned out to be an open backed pick-up at 6.30. However, it went only 300 yards before meeting a minibus type van and transferring its ten or so passengers. This was of course a great relief, even if still not exactly warm. More mountain roads down to Estancia, then up and down again, eventually emerging on to a flat plain and reaching the town of Mascota at 8.0. By 7.30 there were lovely views of an orange dawn breaking against a backdrop of purple-black mountains, until the sun filtered through the trees and dust of the roadside.

MASCOTA. A small agricultural market town. Gratifyingly few tourist facilities, but a pleasant town centre 'posada' or small hotel, with, once again, a 3-bedded room to ourselves. Substantial 'desayuno' in a restaurant next door --- no parrot, but the best bread rolls yet discovered, and, of course, the unstoppable musical accompaniment. Interesting archaeological museum with ancient artefacts (back to 3000 years old) from the district , and photographs of 'petroglyphs' or rock engravings, all explained in detail for us (the only visitors) in Spanish, ably translated by Timothy. The prize exhibit was a quartz prism, protected behind glass, only about half an inch long, but 3000 years old. Difficult enough to work quartz to look like polished glass even in this modern age.

Restaurant lunch in the town market. Costilla de res (Seaton), caldo de pollo (Marion), chilequillas (Timothy): i.e. beef ribs, chicken broth and tortilla chips. Coffee for me, with a jar of Nescafe at the table for helping yourself to your own strength -- an excellent idea. You order 'agua para Nescaf ' and are served with a cup of hot water, and a glass of milk if ordered 'con leche'. I am sorry to have to say that the local coffee does not appeal to me -- 'no me gusta'. Evening walk out of town to view the local agricultural scene -- grazing cattle mostly, and dried-up grass, and a photo session when trying to converse with a family group feeding a few cows in a small paddock. The extent of our walk was limited by a river in which a lorry and car were being washed. Then a visit to a supermarket supplied us with material for a different style of evening meal -- a sort of picnic supper in our hotel courtyard at dusk.

Next day. To the big city for a big change of scene.
Another bus journey of four hours, this time on tarmac roads all the way, over mountains and across plains to GUADALAJARA. 10.30 to 2.30, with lunch while traveling. Taxi to our next 'posada' near the city centre. Selected from a 'Lonely Planet' recommendation, it had no name outside or any indication that accommodation was available. A good find -- a large room with three separate beds this time, and even a table and two chairs; and cheap. Drawback was the street outside, with frequent buses accelerating, even though distinctly quieter than many Guadalajara streets.

A highly successful evening ensued. Very much hoped for, but hardly expected. A telephone call to the Altamirano family produced immediate results. Now the Altamirano family home was where Sarah Gurney spent a year while learning Spanish some five years ago (she now teaches Spanish (including me) in the Llandysul area), and she had almost lost touch with them, and even expected that they had moved. She had charged me with the task of trying to find out. Luckily, they have not moved, and, within less than two hours of our call (chiefly conducted by Timothy), Fernando was at our door with a car to take us home out to the suburbs. Of course they remembered Sarah, and were delighted to meet us. At first only Fernando and Yolande were there, and the two poodles, Dacha and Gamila, none of them with a word of English, so we stumbled along quite entertainingly in Spanish with drinks and food. Later, their daughter Marifer and her husband Pedro came in, and more sophisticated conversation was possible. She speaks good English and he was born in America. They all seemed so interested in Sarah and any news from Britain that it is surprising why communication between them should have broken down; but the postal service is extremely not efficient. We now have e-mail addresses for future contact, and feel that we have really been a help in re-establishing relations. They were even kind enough to offer us beds for the night, but we thought we were well accommodated more suitably in the city centre, and Fernando had already presented Marion with an American book on Mexico, and been out to buy orange juice that she had innocently asked for. An evening not to be missed.

Breakfast in Hell. In the huge commercial market at a stall with tables. Loud live music from a strident trumpet on top of the persistent market clamour. Scrambled egg with the usual accompaniments, orange juice and coffee. No objection to the food, but just before finishing, two stringed instruments started up beside us to add to the already existing din. We soon departed. Desayuno mexicano.! We had wanted to find somewhere away from traffic noise, and we had succeeded in that. We just had not been able to find anywhere else at 8.30am, apart from one very expensive restaurant. Even McDonalds was closed.

There followed a Guadalajara sightseeing day.:
The Cultural Centre. 'A huge neo-classical gem', dating from 1805 and used for most of the time as an orphanage. Now a huge building of architectural merit and emptiness, with two large open courtyards surrounded by 23 small ones, and a large (empty) centrally domed chapel. But the chapel does contain 54 remarkable frescoes of 1938 date, striking, famous, but not pleasing (to us). It also contains many flat benches suitable for lying on to study the ceiling frescoes. In one of the courtyards was a dancing class in progress -- girls with flowing skirts and hard-heeled shoes; much the most lively spectacle in the whole place; we were lucky to have happened on that. Cameras not allowed. There were also several exhibitions of local artists, and a few trees around with grapefruit and oranges (sour). Curious flowers of poinsettia plants with little yellow 'mouths'.

Then the Cathedral, the first in Mexico (?), dating back to 1556. Impressive, ornate, and we were fortunate to find the Sacristy, to ask to be allowed in to see a famous Murillo painting: 'The ascent of the Virgin'. Many other old buildings surround the main square, the Plaza de la Liberacion, and other plazas and pedestrian areas are a relief from the overall traffic noises, but the whole set-up and the music, music, music are not inducive to peaceful contemplation.

We had been amused the evening before when Yolande said that she so much appreciated the quiet of Guadalajara after Mexico City where she comes from !

Sunday, Jan. 27.
We have now found our way to SANTA MARIA DEL ORO. Resting in the village square eating freshly roasted corn-on-the-cob while waiting between buses. The next bus will, we hope, take us to the lake where we will find some sort of accommodation -- a lakeside cabin perhaps. We'll see.

Three buses so far have brought us here from the centre of Guadalajara (an express first class coach on a toll road for most of the way). We gained an hour of time on leaving the state of Jalisco and entering Nayarit. Nice and quiet here after the city's crowded clangour. A relief to be away from all that.

Before starting, four credit cards had failed to produce any money from a cash machine, but Marion's Nationwide debit card succeeded; they should be congratulated.

Yes, here we are now sitting in the crater of a volcano, enjoying the lakeside scenery in our cabin ('bungalow' is the unlikely local word for it) in the shade of palm and eucalyptus trees. Timothy and I have just had a warm swim. It is a little holiday resort, this Laguna del Oro, but at least it is a Mexican one. The camping and picnic parties this Sunday afternoon seem to be all Mexican. But this is definitely NOT Guadalajara. Good. A selection of restaurants close by, and even here each has to have its own competing choice of music. There is also one small shop; Timothy discovered this, merely an insignificant hole in a house wall; what made him look in to see shelves of groceries inside, I don' really know. Anyway, a lucky find. A delicious fresh grilled fish for supper was unfortunately not from the lake; fishing has been almost banned because of dwindling stocks. We have a gas cooking stove in our 'home'; only a limited supply of food from the shop. but we have found eggs and rolls for breakfast. We have to buy our own container of drinking water. A cool evening with several card games, and a colder night.

Monday. Early morning lake very still in the sun which gradually added golden light to the hills around.
A circuit of the lake of about four miles on foot took most of the day. Long stops for a swim and a lakeside restaurant lunch (fish again); one restaurant has music virtually all day; this really is not an unpleasing sound when heard coming across the water from the opposite side of the lake ! Interesting birds, flowers, butterflies, insects and some extraordinary trees to admire. Had a long talk with Arla, a lady who happened to be walking alongside us, who was keen to talk, and accompanied us to a bar for a drink. Local, but American speaking, and, we learned later, a well-known character given to exaggeration and elaboration of the truth. Many white herons flying round, and coots on the water; a flock of large buzzard-like birds feeding on the ground; a butterfly with long yellow striped wings; many bright yellow flowers on tall trees that we never discovered the name of; giant cacti growing unexpectedly among the trees; carefully planted fields of agave (maguey) for making tequila, THE 'spirit of Mexico'.

In the evening, met Chris French, the English owner of our site, who has been here for 27 years and was the first to realise the tourist opportunities of the area. He inspired us to seek out a notable walk up a creek to a mountain viewpoint col. So next day.......

........Kellogg's corn flakes and poached eggs for breakfast (what a nice change !), before setting off to find the creek. Easy enough to find the start, then a scramble over rocks and tree trunks up more of a gorge than a creek, dead dry, of course, and pleasantly cool deep in the shade of the steep tree-covered banks on either side. An hour of scrambling brought us to the base of an imposing cliff -- a discouraging climb, with the alternative of a steep bank of slippery loose leaves which might or might not have led to the top. So we rested, and decided we had gone far enough. Pretty tired by then, too -- at least I was. But a pity not to have reached a summit, or even the col. On the way down , met a party of three eating sandwiches on the rocks. An American couple and a local guide with whom they were staying. More interesting facts gleaned; the huge trees with fantastic spreading multi-roots that we have been seeing in abundance are strangler figs. If these are indigenous and unstoppable, why are edible figs not grown here ? They pointed out to us the start of an attractive trail to avoid 'rock-hopping' (their term) all the way down the rest of the gorge. So we took that option.

So all that was another good exploring expedition, finishing with a swim at home and a large restaurant lunch at about 2 o'clock.

Wednesday, January 30.
A minor walk today, following farm tracks up into the hills, aiming vaguely for the viewpoint on the road up to Santa Maria. Didn't get there, but had an easier walk than yesterday and achieved greater height and a lovely view of the lake. A short cut back took us through fields of esparto grass (?) ten feet high.

We had to be back at midday for a final dip in the lake, lunch and packing, before catching the 1 o'clock bus to take us away from our lakeland retreat.

So up and away at 1.20, with a farewell view of our lake from the top of the crater rim 1000 feet above. This bus took us through Santa Maria to the toll road, where we caught an express coach southwards to the exit point for Ixtlan del Rio. Here, quite by chance, a taxi appeared to take us the last mile into the town. Another small provincial town. The best hotel for us ! But at about 6 pounds each, we thought we could afford it.

A change of style of evening meal: in a snackbar type place on the edge of La Plaza. Pozole (soup with maize (like popcorn) plus meat and vegetables, served with lettuce, radishes, salsa and chopped onion to choose as required), and tacos (a meat and veg mixture on a tortilla and eaten by hand (awkward)). Then to a street stall for churros (a spiral doughnut fried in deep fat -- fascinating to watch, and delicious to eat) eaten on a seat in the square. Then Marion and I had coffee (agua para Nescaf again) in the restaurant of our hotel. A three course, three location meal. At the snackbar we were greatly helped by a lady who spoke English and was determined to make it all easier for us, after overhearing our efforts to try to understand the choices on offer from a staff with not one word of English. I think she really enjoyed being able to help.

In the main street a carnival-type funeral procession with a brass band held up the traffic for some time. Before supper we had walked to look for the river -- Ixtlan del Rio must surely have one. We walked through fields of potatoes, scrambled over a deep drainage ditch, and found a small stream almost hidden in thick bushes and gravel banks. Not inspiring. But no doubt a rushing torrent at the right time. We also had to retrace our route in almost total darkness after being blocked by a long wall and a locked gate, though we could still hear the band playing in the cemetery. Not a great success.

Thursday.
'Continental' breakfast in our hotel, including toast, honey and black cherry jam. A change from Mexican.

Then, and this is why we were here, to Ixtlan archaeological site -- Los Torriles -- a large Mayan and Toltec town containing El Templo a Ehecatl Quetzelcoatl (the Temple of the God of the Wind, the Feathered Serpent God), a round structure, instead of the usual square pattern. So we had a ruins morning, our first attempt at a bit of ancient education. These ruins, although low-key and low-rise compared to the more advertised Palenque or Teotihuacan, are nevertheless full of interest, with good English information signs, and the only other visitors being a young school party diligently writing in their notebooks. A Mexican rather than a tourist scene. The site is flat, open and hot, with few trees. The buildings, surrounded with the characteristic steps one expects of Mexican ruins, have presumably been re-erected from the stones dug up after rediscovery of the site some 50 years ago.

We went out by taxi, and walked back by way of the Christ-topped hill that overlooks the town, and down the long pilgrim steps past the 13 stations of the Cross. Then a good restaurant lunch of burritos, salad and stuffed tomato (with a tuna mix).

At 3pm, leave by bus back to the coast for our last three Oceanside nights. A two hour journey to La Penita de Jaltempa. Palms and bananas mixed with woodland trees on our descent to sea level. Pawpaws, mangoes, agave, tobacco, oranges in the fertile coastal plain.

A cloudy evening ! To bed with the sound of Pacific waves breaking on the sandy beach in front of our room, well out of reach of the music from the town behind us. Another complete change of scene.

Friday, February 1.
8.30am. All day stroll along the beach. A stop for a restaurant breakfast at Guayabitos, the main tourist centre of this bay (which is why we were staying at La Penita). Several stalls on the sand, one grilling and selling fish was surrounded by pelicans all hoping for the best bits. At the end of the bay, a footpath and short section of road across a headland to Los Ayala, a small village with a much smaller inviting beach. A bathe in strong surging waves (not a swim -- the waves were impassable), and an hour or so just watching the waves breaking spectacularly on the rocks with huge bursts of spray. Then a large fresh fish for lunch grilled in another beachside eating establishment (could hardly be called a restaurant -- just one old lady and two young children on the staff). A Mexican beach, no American to be heard or seen. Then another footpath over the next headland to an even smaller beach for afternoon siesta and another bathe for Timothy and me before the sun dipped below the hills before 5pm. Marion had a further exploration to yet another little sandy beach, uninhabited except by small crabs. A good bit of coast. Back home by minibus, taxibus or 'combi', as they are called here.

Saturday. A pleasing cloudy morning at first.
A happily unplanned day resulted in finding someone to take us to see ancient rock engravings. The 'someone' being Canuto, a friend of Maria, our English speaking hotel owner. A 45 minute journey inland along stony roads by pickup truck. Unsignposted, and even Canuto had never been there before, but we did find them, in a wooded valley with a rough path beside a rocky, dry creek. Surprisingly, once there, at a small car park (not that a car could have got there), was the start of a series of well written useful notices in English explaining the history and meaning of the site. We found numerous engravings among the scattered rocks, some clear, many less so. A certain amount of searching needed, which made it all the more interesting. They are of the Tecoxquine people of 2000 years ago (who were annihilated by the Spaniards in 1530), and not rediscovered until 1994. Spirals, crosses, humans, animals and religious designs of obscure meaning, and included the 'maize man' with maize sprouting from a human form. It was their descendants, the Huichol tribespeople, who still live in the area, who were able to help explain the meanings to ignorant modern man. Naihualism, a sort of Shamanism, was their religion, whose 'priests' were able to go into trances within the help of various plant substances. The Tamoanchen, the cosmic tree, was one of their symbols; this could be represented by any species of actual tree. Two small shrines we passed are still revered by the Indian farmers (one had a candle burning), and at the end of the path was a caretaker sweeping leaves (we had the impression of being in an almost uninhabited area, but they love sweeping leaves and dust off the streets, usually ignoring the plastic and other litter). There were no other visitors. Does the lack of directions mean that too many people are not encouraged, except on limited organised tours? We were lucky to have found our own 'private' viewing. Home for a swim before a 2pm lunch, this time going the other way along the beach. The Pacific rollers are causing coastal erosion and we saw bungalows and palm trees that had become engulfed, and a cemetery where the graves were getting washed away and revealing their ghoulish contents.

Deep fat fried bananas purchased at a pavement stall were eaten with relish on a seat in the main street after our evening meal. Yesterday we had had churros again, as at Ixtlan.

Sunday, Feb. 2.
Oh dear ! Last day. Last 'desayunos' at our, by now, favourite restaurant; 'huevos pasada por agua' for me -- 'eggs passed through water', which means boiled eggs, but served, in this case, broken into a bowl, with spoon. Also rolls, butter, jam and honey, and 'French toast' ('pan frances') for Timothy, orange juice and 'cafe con leche' -- black coffee with a glass of milk to add. Marion did some shopping, all had a last stroll along our beach and a swim in more subdued waves than previously.

Bus at midday back to Puerto Vallarta bus station (one hour), a short 'camion' ride to the airport, and joined the usual herding rituals from there on.

Mexico left us at 6pm. -- midnight in Britain, we now had to realise -- and no useless stop in USA or anywhere else (only a ten hour flight with the wind behind us).

So coach, camion, plane and three perfectly connecting trains from Gatwick to Carmarthen got us home at 5pm on Monday in almost exactly 22 hours from La Penita (you can work that out for yourself if you like). Wind and pouring rain to greet us. Nice change ?