1000 WORDS

I wake up under a thorn tree in a field and set about cooking myself breakfast. As I am stirring my porridge over a small fire, a cowboy climbs through the fence in the corner of the field a mere twenty metres away but he discreetly ignores me until I bid him good morning at which he returns the greeting and goes on his way without questioning my presence.

It suddenly occurs to me that it could be my birthday today but I am not entirely certain of either the day or the date.

Another day in ranch country - gentle terrain...

... and a perfect road.

I set off and the road continues to unwind through rolling hills until it deposits me in Dolores Hidalgo, a pretty colonial town that was apparently the birthplace of the Mexican War of Independence. It seems a chilled out place now, though.

A man strumming his guitar in the main plaza of Dolores Hidalgo.

A guy surveying the scene from his delivery bike.

Tiled doorways - ceramics are Hidalgo's main industry.

After relaxing in the plaza for a while, I head out the other side of town onto another gravel track leading towards San Miguel de Allende. After a reasonably challenging start, involving a gnarly river ford, deep sand and some vicious corrugations, the road wanders serenely through more sunny rolling hills dotted with ranchitos.

A little bit of single track as an alternative to a horribly corrugated and sandy road on the other side of the field.

These tiny settlements, often consisting of only a few buildings, nonetheless seem to receive regular deliveries of all the usual suspects – Coca Cola, Pepsi, and, of course, beer. The road I am riding on dead ends suddenly in one of these ranchitos and a man getting out of a Corona truck is perplexed by my appearance. He asks me where I am going and I explain that I am heading to San Miguel de Allende.

“Why don’t you take the highway?,” he exclaims, sounding positively aggrieved.

I suggest that highway traffic poses a greater risks to a cyclist than cattle but he continues to gaze at me disapprovingly and repeats his question. I smile and shrug and eventually he points me back to a track on to the other side of a small lake.

Nowhere is spared: the Pepsi truck is as big as the shop it is stocking.

After a happy afternoon navigating the tangled network of tracks running through the fields, guided largely by instinct and good luck, I arrive at a larger road clearly signposted to San Miguel and from there it’s an easy downhill run into the UNESCO listed town otherwise known as Gringolandia.

Mmmmm... really? I wasn't convinced by this sign.

When I get into town my first stop is a internet cafe which reveals that today is indeed my birthday.