while out riding

Our backcountry ride started with a trip to the bakery in Giron, for a local pastry and a cup of invigorating Colombian coffee.

The venerable Bunuelo, a fried ball stuffed with cheese. The other day, I saw a local supping an early morning beer with his...

Within a few kilometres, we'd left both the pollution and the incessant noise of the main highway behind. I much prefer the quiet solitude of Colombia's network of dirt tracks. The communities that are dotted around are more relaxed too.

This was pineapple country, with plenty of opportunities for natural refreshments en route. A cut and prepped pineapple set us back 1000 pesos, a little over 50c.

Smoke-friendly too: tobacco leaves drying by the roadside. This area is also know for its cigars.

Not much traffic on the road, just old Dodges and farm pickups carrying payloads of pineapple and coffee.

After leaving Giron far behind, our road plummeted down to a bridge at the very bottom of a deep canyon, a lowly 400m in altitude. Then began a daunting 24km climb back up to Zapoteca, perched at a lofty 1700m. This area is known to be the amongst the hottest in Colombia. Timing our departure perfectly with the midday heat, we melted in temperatures close to 40c.

It was overwhelmingly, stiflingly hot. We struggled our way up, seeking refuge in occasional spots of shade. A crisp wind was gusting at this surreally parked car we'd spotted from far below. It was hard to move on...

Heading back up into the folds of the Andean foothills, the longest mountain range in the world. The riding in Colombia is said to be the hardest in South America.

Most of the climb was on pavement, with steep switchbacks to contend with. The odd dirt stretch added to the challenge.

Colombian hills are peppered with roadside shrines - this one was protected by perspex and housed in an old truck tyre.

The views were epic - we could clearly see our descent to the river on the other side of the valley, and the long, looping climb back up again.

Zapatoca, home to a clutch of bakeries that filled our empty bellies, after an impromptu night camping when light and energy levels ran out.

Colombians love nothing more than chat. Our bikes caused quite a stir, and we were quizzed over their every detail. One of the locals insisted we take our steeds to his workshop and weigh them.

We were all worrying close to the 50kg mark... And I thought I was travelling light these days. Some of this is accounted for by the winter gear I've been gathering for the high altitude months ahead.

Bear in mind too that Lorely weighs 52kg. We reckon her fully laden Surly Long Haul Trucker accounts for about 90 per cent of her body weight...

Then it was back to dirt, following a stunning, shaded track along the ridgetop.

The occasional back-of-beyond 'cantina' (a shack with a pool table, killer views and cold beer) offered a chance to break from the heat.

We kept to soft drinks though. Something of an acquired taste, these malt numbers hit the spot.

Then began a massive, rough and tumble descent back down into the belly of the valley.

Down, down, down. All that hard work the day before was paying off. For now at least.

Despite a prediction of rain, dry weather kept mud at bay too.

Incidentally, I'm digging the Troll. It's been handling these rough roads really well, especially considering it has close to 35kg on board. No wallow in the frame at all and precise steering.

Our eventual destination was a bridge that crossed the river, seen far off to the right. This was real up/down/up/down (and up) country, in the style of Mexico's Sierra Madre.

La Fuente, still some way below...

Like most of the settlements around here, it was picture perfect, and completely bereft of any other tourists.

Our descent was broken only by a hiccup around a mountainous headland, following beautiful stone walls.

When we did eventually hit the river, down at 600m, it was hot and balmy. We camped for the night on a ledge by the Casa Comunal, offering great views across the valley and the thunderstorm sweeping through, Then it was straight back up again...

After climbing a mere 700m, we emerged in Barichara, touted to be the most beautiful colonial village in Colombia.

Lorely, and the 90 percent of her bodyweight she pedalled up the hill.

And indeed it was idyllic. Best of all, it was without the expected sheen of an overly renovated tourist honeypot.

Barichara was established in the 18 century, and decreed a National Monument in 1978. It was easy to see why, with its maze of immaculate, multi-coloured streets draped across the steep hillside.

First stop in town? The bakery, of course. Alluring aromas wafted out of this doorway.

Another doorway. Perfect for nosy photography.

Note colour co-ordinated bucket.

Fittingly, Barichara has a artistic, bohemian air.

Undoubtedly touristy at weekends, Barichara is quiet on weekdays, and real and lived in too.

Splashes of colour.

Each side street was a beautiful and proudly kept as the next.

I'd thought I was nearing picture-perfect colonial town saturation point. But Barichara had set a new standard.

Lots of lovely details, like this clothes hanging rack in the bathroom.

In the absence of old Ford F series trucks to photograph, I've spotted these colourful Daihatsus, suitably sized for the narrow, stone streets.

There were a few old Chevies too. We might have stepped back in time...

Always a sucker for American memorabilia.

Meet the frogspawn-like granadilla, a species of passionflower, and my current favourite fruit. Just a few hundred pesos each - about 25c.

This is one tasty treat I have yet to sample. Toasted, large bottomed ants, a specialty of the region. Could make a good addition to a trail mix...