On the outskirts of Cajabamba, terracotta tile-making was in full swing.

And traditional brick making too, lying out like giant pieces of lego in the sun.

The bruisers of the road.

Heading home after market day.

Another fresh trout feast at Laguna Sausacocha, on the approach to Huamacucho. The juice was so thick you could stand a spoon in it.

My character abode in Huamachuco, where I decided to rest up for half a day. I’d planned to research the route ahead online – but the signal was down, leaving me to mooch about this strange mining town for a few hours.

The corridor was just ride enough for my handlebars. Squeezing my bike into my room required a three-point turn.

Go faster faring on one of the Bajaj rickshaws that buzz around town, like annoying hornets.

Back up in the peace and quiet of the high elevations. Again, I heard that phrase: Mas arriba, no hay nada. Solo silencio. ‘There’s nothing else further on. Just silence.’ Peru is a noisy nation, which is perhaps part of the reason why a lack of it is treated with distrust…

There are two routes to Mollepata, a town I was aiming for. One runs the gauntlet through a string of gold mine villages, the other strikes high, up in the silencio… A little later in the day, and this lake would have made the perfect camping spot.

Had I had a fishing rod, I might even have caught myself some dinner…

4100m. Getting up there again.

I took a road peeled off higher still, away from one of the many gold mines pockmark these hills.

This one was looser and rougher, and I bounced my way round one ridge after the next.

I couldn’t quite understand the details, but this white, powdered lime – cal, I think it was called –  is added to the coca leaves chewed by locals. I was told it was strictly for ‘men’.

I’d planned on staying high up in the mountains and emerging in Mollepata, but ended up being sucked down this grassy chute into the bowels of the Comarsa gold mine.

Beyond the mine, I was invited to camp behind this sprawling, mansion of a dirt brick house. Using traditional techniques, it was built by the community in two months.

Children, both shy and gregarious, ran amok and met my arrival with much glee.

They followed me about…

… tripping on shoe laces as they vied for attention.

They also insisted that I photograph all the animals in their kingdom – pigs, goats, chickens and cows.

Finally, I escaped their clutches and took to the road, enjoying the morning sun.

I’m a sucker for those green doors and faded, sun bleached walls.

Moyebamba, a picture-perfect interlude along a road inches thick in dust.

About ready for a scrub… Like me.

The surprisingly well-stocked store in Yeguada. Note super juicy tangerines.

Bags of coco leaves, at 10 sol each, chewed until teeth are green and eyes are bloodshot…

Idyllic rural settings – with so much dirt road potential.

Peru shuts down on Sundays and the settlement of Mollepata, where I’d planned to resupply, was like a ghost town.

From there, the road plummeted downwards to the Tablacacha river, before drunkenly zig-zagging straight back up on the other side to Pallasca.

However, to avoid the need for this herculean effort, an alternative route exists closer to the valley floor. The caveat? It’s currently minus a few crucial bridges…

I figured I’d give it a go, so set about following a rough dirt road, peppered with goathead thorns, that rippled its way along the mountainside. Far below lay the river that I’d need to ford several times.

The first crossing was easy enough, barely thigh high, from where a parched, cracked-dry track continued along the river bed.

Then the track came to an abrupt, potentially hazardous stop on a precariously high lip; the road ahead had literally been washed away by a landslide.

The river here far deeper. Leaving my bike, I attempted to cross it first and establish the best way through, only to lose my footing – thankfully, after a few frantic moments of flailing about, I was able to haul myself back out onto land. A little shaken and feeling very alone, I camped the night, readying myself for a second attempt in the morning. It was then that I realised I’d have to follow the very edge of the river, clinging to the rockface, rather than trying to cross it directly. It was waist-high in places, and the current was stronger than I’d have liked.

To help, I used a rope I’d spotted to deposit my kit beyond the water’s edge – meaning I just had to manhandle my unladen bike through the river. Thankfully, the final crossing was far more straightforward.

To my relief, the track continued on the other side was in far better condition. There, I was invited for breakfast by a group of local gold panners – a feast of bread, soup, sweetcorn and tangerines, which I gulped down hungrily. Various miners set up seasonal homes in this remote valley; the going rate for gold here is a 100 sol a gram – about $38.

Then began a series of dwarfian tunnels over a long, gentle descent to the junction settlement of Chiquicara.

As I dropped back down in elevation, strange hybrid cacti appeared…

These spiked-clubs stood sentinel to either side…

All the while the river frothed below, sculpting a path through the valley over the many years.

Finally, it was time to begin working my way back up once more, as I headed into a sheer-sided valley, propelled by a strong tailwind.

That night I camped beside the overland truck of a British couple, Mark and Sarah, and was invited in for dinner – very pleasantly washed down with a glass of red wine!

Onwards and inwards. Plunging into yet another unlit tunnels, one of dozens on the road to Caraz.

Within, I played dodge the truck as they rumbled through, kicking up great clouds of dust.

Eventually I emerged into sunlight beyond the Canyon Del Pato, to glimpse the Cordillera Blanca in the distance… A haven for climbers, this range is well known for both its dramatic, shark-toothed profile, and the easy access it offers to its high peaks – compared to the likes of the Himalayas.

Chaotic, scruffy Huaraz is the centre of all things outdoorsy, including mountain biking. A key word in the local vocabulary is chaquinan – the Quechua for singletrack…

My new/old Deore XT front derailleur had even made it through the Peruvian postal system. Look at all that mud clearance (-:

The next day, I had the chance to sample some local trails with Huaraz’ Mountain Bike Adventures.

Me ‘n Ogre, in mountain biking mode.

To a backdrop of craggy peaks, we dropped down into remote villages, where locals called out: Buenas tardes, gringo!

Techy climbs take on a whole different perspective at 3500m and more…

Following Incan pathways certainly adds some history to your singletrack.

And there’s plenty more to discover still… This area seems woven together with dirt roads and chaquinanes…

Finally… Hanging out to dry. Back to new after a good scrub.