|Lance Hattatt and Rafael González Paz: the gateway of Colonia del Sacramento|
Had there been a railway, then we should have travelled to Colonia del Sacramento by train. But, alas, the Central Uruguay Railway, in British control from 1878 until Nationalisation in 1948, is no more and so, per force, we resorted to the bus.
|a woman seen through an open doorway sits patiently beside her Christmas Tree|
|a cobbled street within the Old Town leads down towards the River Plate and the sea|
Some three hours later, our route having taken us along avenues of palm trees, we alighted in the old quarter, designated a World Heritage Site, of this historic town where shady squares, cobbled streets and quiet alleys gave voice to a time having stood still.
|the vibrancy and colour of South America is reflected in the interior of this small café|
A set of tickets, purchased to give entrance to all museums, proved an unwise buy. Firmly closed for the summer holidays, we could only speculate as to what lay behind those locked doors. From the top of a lighthouse we wished ourselves across the still waters of the River Plate to where the distant spires of Buenos Aires rose visible through the haze of heat.
|foiled once more as yet another museum advertises itself closed for the summer holidays|
|snapshots taken in the restaurant after a long lunch - a welcome respite from the heat|
Once more on terra firma we lingered over lunch, befriended stray cats, pressed our noses to the glass of unshuttered windows, wrote on picture postcards, scorned souvenirs, snapped snapshots and painted our lips red. Later, as the shadows of the day lengthened, we clambered over rocks, hunted for sea shells and, as all travellers do, dreamt dreams.
|looking out to sea from the shore but, in fact, at the very edge of the River Plate|