unbelievable Uruguay
There was a deliciously cool night, where the breeze whipped up over the Pacific and blew in, rinsing the day's sharp heat away. We were sitting with our feet in the sand, wool throws wrapped around our knees, glasses of deep red local Tannat wine in our hands and Leonard Cohen growling away in the background in duet with the crash of the surf.
Inside, a log fire crackled. The asado grill fizzed and sizzled with entrecôte and whole butterflied corvina. Above, the stars pinpricked an inky blue sky. It felt like we were having the best dinner in the best beach restaurant, right at the end of the earth. La Huella in José Ignacio seared itself deep in my travel memories.
Years ago, on my first trip to South America, I discussed my travel plans with my father: "I'm going to meet the girls in Buenos Aires, and then we'll head straight into Uruguay to do a road trip." He shook his head and listed off all the things I should do and places I should be going to in Argentina instead—trekking the wildly coloured canyons of Salta in the foothills of the Andes, tasting my way around the winelands of Mendoza, riding and ranching in the estancias of Cordoba. "It's like someone from South America visiting Europe for the first time and only going to Belgium," he sighed.
Everyone travelling from Buenos Aires to Uruguay pours off the ferry into Colonia del Sacramento. The UNESCO World Heritage cobble-streeted, bougainvillea-draped town has both an immediate film-set facade of prettiness and the slight air of decay that often surfaces in a transitory spot. We picked up a battered car and headed west, inland, following the wide, mud-brown Rio de La Plata. The drive, through farmland and rolling green pastures, felt almost British (not helped by the signposts to Fray Bentos, the town where the famed tinned steak and kidney pies originated). I wondered if my father had had a point...
Highway 1 motors straight to the soaring blast of Montevideo, but we kept on going. Past Punta Ballena, where the whitewashed architect's fantasy of Casapueblo punctuates the skyline like a trippy dream, past the flash brashness of Punta del Este, a kind of Miami of the South, and over the wavy, wondrous Leonel Viera Bridge. On and on until the road began to peter out. When we arrived at José Ignacio, we had one of those tellingly brilliant "Is this it?" moments. The tiny fishing village was barely six streets wide, surrounded on both sides by the playa and the roar of the ocean. The lighthouse was the only building of note; everything else was low-slung, weather-beaten little cottages behind rickety fences. It felt like the Wild West. We loved it.
We crashed in an old posada, for there were no hotels. It was at mealtimes that people emerged to gather and feast. These were not bleached and battered cottages, it turns out, but second homes and beach houses for scores of Argentine families and Uruguayan polo players. They all knew each other, had been coming here for years. There was that inner-circle vibe of Eleuthera or Mustique, The Hamptons, Rock in Cornwall. But it still felt remarkably under-the-radar.
Now the hotels have arrived—entrepreneur Alex Vik has opened three in the past decade—but it has been sensitive and considered. Uruguay remains somewhat off the grand tour, without the global pulling power of Argentina or Brazil. For that, I'm glad. It keeps my South American Belgium safe and means I might still be able to get a table at La Huella.
Issy von Simson
Still strongly tethered to her hometown London, Issy certainly knows what’s groovy in the UK capital. But, lucky for us, her knowledge extends far beyond the reaches of Zone 6. Perpetually drawn to the coast – the brinier the better when it comes to the air – Issy is our go-to for seaside getaways. Opinionated and organised, she’s pretty much our ideal travel companion; you know you’re going to get a perfectly planned trip when Issy’s in charge. So, follow her tips and do as Issy does. You’ll end up in the most gloriously unexpected of places.
