A town called Casablanca

Less than an hour's drive from Santiago and you're in the vines surrounding the small town of Casablanca. If you haven't been to Chile's famous Casablanca valley, chances are you'll have tasted some of its wines. I set off for a couple of days to take a look.

The bus drops me on the wrong side of the motorway and, after negotiating a bridge and walking down the main street, it's soon apparent I'm the only tourist in town. There's no real reason for tourists to come here - there's nothing much to see or do. Just local people getting on with local jobs. Fixing windows, selling fruit and veg, working as butchers or in general stores.

Besides, if you're on an organised trip and fancied a spot of wine-tasting, chances are you'd book onto a wine tour for the day - or maybe even stay in a swanky boutique hotel at a winery.

But I wanted to go for two days. And I didn't want to pay for a SBH. Not even one at a winery.

It also becomes pretty clear that there's not much in the way of hotels in Casablanca. In fact, there aren't any. Why would there be? The locals live in their own homes. I go to one of the few cafés to enquire.

There's talk of a residencia called Leon. No one is sure whether it's open, though. Or quite where it is. A woman walks me down the road she thinks it's on, but she's mistaken. A cab swings by and before I know it, she's pushed me in and told him where to take me.

Less than five minutes later, we pull into a dirt track and up to a small bungalow. Residencia Leon belongs to an old lady called Guana and her extended family. I'm not sure how the family-tree works, but they're all very welcoming. Don't speak a word of English - there's never any need to.

Across the road is the family's general store with adjoining café. It's all very basic. I dump my bag in my new room and Guana calls a cab from the payphone outside the shop to take me into the valley.

I don't get back until dark as I stop off in the town for a pizza and a beer.

When I arrive back at Leon, the house is dark and locked up - I wasn't given a key. The dogs start barking. As I walk down the path to try the backdoor that was open earlier, I hear footsteps behind me. Suddenly I feel like an intruder. The footsteps belong to a man I vaguely recognise, possibly one of Guana's sons. He saw me from the café and wondered who I was. It's okay though, he recognises me and beckons me towards the café.

There I find Guana and her friend, delighted to see me - they were wondering where I was. She sits me down and pours me a glass of red wine. Grateful, I sip the dark curranty liquid, the long day and the sun catching up with me. Guana and her friend return to the kitchen to chop vegetables. A chicken leg, deep golden, with mashed potato is wheeled out to a guy on the next table. It looks amazing.

I stare, dazed, at the huge hi-fi on the bar in front of me. Next to it is a small fire extinguisher and a bottle of shampoo, Fructis. Guana brings me a cup of tea and a homemade chocolate truffle coated in chocolate strands. It tastes like the ones I used to make at Christmas when I was little and suddenly I remember it's December.

I'm falling asleep in the smoky haze, so Guana takes me home and I crawl into a solid bed in my sparse room. She wouldn't take any money for the wine ("a la casa").

The bed is comfy and I'm exhausted but the dogs bark most of the night. Then the cockerels start up at dawn. It's a nice place to be though, even if there's no hot water for a shower in the morning.