...at the end of the world

With such an unusual travelling threesome, it was only a matter of time before some tension crept in.
Everything had gone swimmingly for two weeks, as The One With The Common Sense spent so much time fussing over her dad that she didn´t find time to get fed up with my foibles.
But I think it was around the time that I started wearing his underpants that things got a little fraught.
I was having a bit of trouble identifying my briefs in the laundry pile when I noticed the "Primark Essentials" label - the brand of all discerning gents - and fished them out to put in my rucksack.
It was only when I´d had them on for a while the next day that I noticed they didn´t quite sit properly. (Obviously I don´t have the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie´s buns of steel.)
He took the news that I´d taken our relationship to a whole different level rather well - and as I pointed out it could have been a lot worse had he ended up wearing a pair of my wangers.
However, relations between myself and The One With The Common Sense were beginning to show signs of strain as I sulked about our rapidly diminishing bank balance.
Our budget was struggling to cope with The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie´s daily demands for hot chocolate and penchant for casually throwing back beer and wine. (Of course, I could have sat out the drinks but refusing alcohol has never been one of my strengths.)
So not only did he have to put up with my wearing his smalls but my increasingly grumpy moods and the subsequent marital snipes.
When one morning The One With The Common Sense and I both got out of bed on the wrong side (though she may suggest the right side of my bunk was facing the wall), The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie told me he could take himself off for a walk to give us some space.
I gruffly replied that I´d rather it was The One With The Common Sense who shoved off on a walk.
What I didn´t know was that when minutes earlier he had asked her if we needed a bit of alone time, she´d snapped: "I don´t want to spend any time with him".

Being so far south, at the very foot of Argentinian Patagonia, Ushuaia styles itself as "the city at the end of the world".
So we dutifully visited the tourist information office to get a passport stamp marking our visit to the "world´s most southerly city" and had a drink in planet Earth´s most southerly (and probably worst) Irish pub.
But the attractive and colourful buildings arranged around its harbour and backdrop of imposing mountains mean there´s much more to Ushuaia than simply a location to tick off the list.
One of our first trips was to climb to Glaciar Martial to take in the spectacular view from about 1,000m above sea level.
It was quite a challenging hike but the chance to get close to the ice and even stand on the edges proved well worth it.
Being so high up proved a little worrying for The One With The Common Sense, however.
Having watched her father graduate from tripping over tree roots to Norman Wisdom-style stumbles into shopping trolleys, kerbs and even bins, her heart skipped a beat as she looked up to find him standing precariously high on a rock, taking photos with an apple wedged in his mouth.
Meanwhile, I had a couple of heart-stopping moments of my own when my troublesome digestive system almost caused me to fall foul of the world´s most southerly pant-pooing incident.
Thankfully, I made it to a loo in time rather than embarrassing myself on a road called Maipú Avenue (I kid you not) but it was a close call.

Another of Ushuaia´s draws is the opportunity to take a boat onto the Beagle Channel, the last link between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans before having to round Cape Horn.
Our two trips were to prove a last hurrah for the bird-watching aspect of the trip.
The first gave us the chance to get up close to sea lions cohabiting peacefully with comorants on a rock before mooring at a restricted island where we could get within touching distance of the birds.
At one point, our guide noted the wind picking up and said we might see some albatrosses.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a pair of the great birds came gliding in.
It was also fantastic to get some rough weather on the way back and stand on the deck of the little boat in waterproofs, sipping at coffee with a nip of liquor, as we appreciated the power of the sea.
An even better treat was awaiting us on our next trip to a penguin colony.
Getting so close to these comical creatures - at times within a couple of feet - was magical.
However, at one stage I was so entranced by a little fellow hiding under a bush behind me that I blundered on top of another penguin´s burrow.
I don´t think I caused any damage but I was glad the guide didn´t spot me - I might have had my RSPB membership withdrawn.
Also on the island were some powerful turkey vultures. They didn´t bother the birds but probably feasted on the carcasses of pesky muskrats, an alien species that are damaging the habitat. More power to their beaks, I say.
A really special moment for us came about by chance when, crossing to the island, we saw hundreds of seabirds picking off fish from a shoal of sardines. Among them were several huge albatross, some which flew right past the boat.

A little of our slightly tragic passion for birds had evidently rubbed off on our Swedish friends, The Two Anders.
One day they proudly brought their camera to show The Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie a snap of a "parrot" they had seen during a coastal walk.
Unfortunately their identification skills didn´t match their enthusiasm, as a closer look at the photo revealed it to be one of the area´s many powerful hawks.
Still, they had the last laugh by snapping a kingfisher - something we missed on our trip.
To celebrate Tall Anders´ birthday, the lads cooked up a delicious meal of Swedish meatballs and mash - they could certainly teach Ikea a thing or two.
However, the high spirits brought on by the flowing beer and malbec led us to get a telling off (and not the only one) for being too noisy after hours, much to the chagrin of the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie who seems to prefer more of a party hostel.
Ushuaia also saw a sort of "breaking of the fellowship" as our Finnish friend Hanna left our six-strong group, who had inadvertently travelled the length of Patagonia together, for Chile.
We marked the occasion with an all-you-can-eat parilla, which involved whole animals being cooked, spreadeagled, over a barbecue.
We were served just about the best lamb I´ve ever tasted along with chicken and delicious blood sausage - I even managed not to make myself feel sick by eating too much.

The further south we travelled through Argentina, the more evident was the ill-feeling over the status of the Falkland Islands.
At various points, we´d seen official road signs reading "Los Malvinas son Argentinas" - meaning The Falklands are Argentine.
That seems a bit odd - like the Highways Agency informing motorists on the M6 that Gibraltar is just damn well staying British, whether those pesky Spaniards like it or not.
However, feelings obviously run high in Ushuaia where I suspect many of those killed in the 1982 conflict were based.
The town was awash with car stickers and memorial notices in windows to the fallen combatants.
As we left from the town´s airport, I noticed a glass case containing an Argentinian Air Force flag which is being kept until the day it can be raised over the Malvinas.
It´s obviously not an issue that going away any time soon but I´m happy to say I´ve not experienced any antagonism in connection with my nationality.
In fact, the locals have been quick to offer help when you´re puzzling over a map or simply have a chat when you´re in a shop or on a bus.
Here´s hoping our respective governments take a similarly friendly approach in future.