Mind you, my talking was nothing compared with the snoring that came regularly from one or two of the other tents. Out of politeness I will not say who was the worst offender, except that it was a woman. However, I made myself very unpopular by picking up her tent and moving it away from mine one day.

With no way of communicating with the outside world — no e-mail, no mobile phones — the priorities of life rapidly changed. Clean clothes became a very occasional luxury, as did any sort of shower. Baby wipes were a must if you wanted to make any attempt to stay reasonably clean, although most people simply gave up.

In the first week the biggest luxury was a wonderful invention called Sudocrem, which is normally used for nappy rash but in this case was great for saddle sores. We had only one pot between us and its owner was in great demand.

After a few days we crossed into Argentina, where the landscape gradually changed from mountains to plains and then desert, and with the changes came incredible winds which, thankfully, were behind us, blowing from west to east. They were so strong that I doubt that we could have ridden the trip the other way.

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Gradually we all got used to the daily routine: out of the tent at about 7am, on the horses by 9.30am, lunch at about 2pm (if we were lucky) and then back on the horses for another three or four hours before camp and great chunks of lamb, beef or goat barbecued over the campfire — although one night we had the delight of llama and ostrich stew.

The campfire chat was great. While we watched Sarah from Hampshire sitting cleaning her riding boots, as she did every night, we discovered that Pilar, a 35-year-old woman from New York, had a list of 100 qualities that she wanted in a man.

We were all experienced riders and when possible we cantered for up to two or three miles at a time, with even a race or two to break up the routine. These were the high points of my day.

Most of the time life was fine. One night we even camped next to a bizarre bar miles from anywhere in the middle of the desert. But there were the odd days that were very demanding (a polite way of saying bloody awful). The worst, when we got totally lost, we called black Monday.

At one time we even lost Jane and her son Tristian and reckoned that we might have to spend the night in a barn that we found. We sent those of the group who spoke pidgin Spanish off to negotiate with the local farmer, who was very friendly but didn’t understand a word that they were saying.

It was just as well that we didn’t have to stay because we had no food — we discovered all we had was four mints and two lip balms between all the guests.

We ended that day riding the last three hours in pitch dark and freezing cold before reaching the campsite at 11pm to find that the cook was out looking for us so there was no hot food. And to think that I sacrificed a week in Barbados for this!

Finally, after 19 days in the saddle, we came over a hill and there was the town of Puerto Madryn and the Atlantic Ocean. The elation was incredible. The following morning we were wading in the sea having already raced the horses along the beach, a competition won by Sadie, from Buckinghamshire, who didn’t let a bad knee and a painful back slow her down. She didn’t only beat all of us — she also beat all the “macho” gauchos.

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