DEliTOUR: Vilcabamba´s serene valley

Via Loja and a suitably extensive bus journey we arrived at Vilcabamba and the Izchayluma hostel; probably the best market place in the whole of Ecuador. There were flyers for it everywhere we went and everyone on the bus was going there - and luckily we had reserved. If we had described the place to ourselves we would have probably hated it but in reality it was a real triumph, definately in amongst the best places we have stayed and probably a hostel-of-the-year contender. German owned, Izchayluma has a great location looking down the valley above the village of Vilcabamba; the massage/healing and horse riding town of southern Ecuador, and a neat tourist trap on the way to Peru. The village itself is charming and not too dusty, and the hills around are dotted with the homes of the wealthy (a famous, as yet un-named, Spanish tennis star) and tourist lodgings. Izchayluma pitches itself as a spa at hostel prices. It is big, has a pool, has a big restarant, has a bar and has a lot of locals popping in for afternoon snacks on their tourist trails - but somehow it retains some charm - even though it is a mega-hostel. All with gorgeous views down the valley.

Unfortunately Anna really didn´t get to enjoy it so much as she was ill with some kind of stomach infection and maybe flu. While she was laid up I was able to take full advantage of the facilities, and enjoy the company of some of the lovely people we met there. The food was also ace. I will never forget the that I ended up rep-eating it was so good. Vilcabamba is known as the valley of longevity as, apparently, residents live to unfeasible ages. To be honest we didn´t notice that at all - our impression was of a sweet village where every horse was for sale, rent or consumption.

Back at the palacial hostel someone had made a couple of mistakes. Firstly putting a table tennis table in the bar; and then allowing someone wearing an Arsenal shirt to play on it. This was like a red rag to me, and even given alcohol intake and low light, I set about dispatching a series of dirty Gooners. Secondly the owners arranged a pool tournament. After faltering through the early rounds I met the rather affable Charles in the final. He was on his way from Alaska to Antarctica, driving a Nissan Patrol, and was taking along all kinds strangers on the way. he very kindly offered to drive us into Peru and to see some otherwise less-travlled areas - we would have loved to take him up but our new (and daft schedule) meant that we had to decline that adventure. Back to the action; I reached the black but... just as I was lining up the stroke... on the random juke box comes... Bruce Springsteen´s The River. Regular fans of this column will know that last year at about this time, with the help of an old recording of my father´s voice, I performed (well stumbled through) this at my father´s wake. The song is not without emotional significance for me. So I crumbled. At the last hurdle... on the black... I faltered and missed. Smooth Charles however couldn´t finish so, in tears, I stepped back up and finshed off - trying to ramble to him about how I wasn´t just emotional at being hostel pool champion. The prize (of cooking rum) was duly shared amongst the gathered hoard of Gooners and Irish (if there is a hostel bar you can guarantee our cousins fro the sceptred isle will have sniffed it out).

In Vilcabamba I face one last test. The hostel had been designed, built and was run by Germans. The food was ace. And they had bred a champion. A ping pong champion. He appeared in the Deutschland world cup footy top - the one with three stars - for each of their spawny victories. If anything was going to incite me to a higher level of ping-consciousness this was it. 40 years of hurt. Jules Rimet´s still gleaming. It was close. And I had the shallow end. But I ended victorious over 3 sets. In the diming light. With the moths circling and the sweat pooling. There can be only one. Ask what you can do for your country... etc. etc.