It´s a public holiday today, so the hostel´s rag-tag group of travellers and I are all in Salto for the day. Everyone here is going upto the Iguazu Falls. Salto is a border town, but is famed (in Uruguay) for it´s hot springs.
We arrive at the one of the hot spring spas at midday, and that´s where the rest of the day is spent. It´s not hugely exciting, but there´s nothing else to do, so I´m forced to enjoy it. It´s a beautiful sunny day and I´m laying in or around a hot pool. I don´t have to force myself very, very hard. A thought of the possible alternative, my old office, comes to mind. As JJ would put it, yuck. In the afternoon, on a couple of lounge chairs, Jason, an American traveller, and I discuss Pale Ales. I´ve used my knowledge of mathematics and some few pesos to add beer to the equation. It´s not ale, but needs must. I fondly remember enjoying a half of Wychwood Hobgoblin in The Flying Horse at Gatwick Airport. The Flying Horse is a Cask Marque pub. Good to know, eh? Though, the other Wetherspoon´s pub in the Airport, The Beehive, is not.
This is also a chance to even out my Frankenstein tan - whereby it looks like the arms and legs of a low-latitude traveller have been grafted onto the torso of a guy who works in a bank in London.
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