Despite the literal translation of its name, I imagined Buenos Aires to be a torpid, oppressive city. Instead I found a lively, hedonistic metropolis with well-stocked marinas, open-air cafes and a chic night life that remained buoyant until breakfast.

I paused in the capital long enough to dip into the bohemian La Boca district — cradle of the tango. Stocky, swarthy men in black leather jackets escorted arrogantly provocative ladies, held aloof by stretched satin and lace that emphasised rather than concealed their wares. Everyone, except me, oozed strutting flamboyance. It was time to head south and join an advertising shoot I was covering for a photo magazine. At 3.30am, the height of the night’s revelries, I caught a plane to Patagonia at the sharp end of Argentina.

At Rio Gallegos airport, on the same latitude as the Falklands, the windsock stuck out horizontally. Coarse tufts of grass trembled maniacally, stationary cars rocked suggestively and my contact lenses were sand-blasted out of commission. Armed with a handful of Spanish, I gesticulated my way onto the lnteriagos Turismo bus heading for the small frontier town of Calafate, 192 miles, or five hours, away.

The largely featureless landscape was punctuated with occasional granite rocks and windmills pumping water on isolated farms which somehow scratched a living from this howling wilderness. An ostrich lifted its head as we passed, an armadillo waddled across the road and two llama-like guanacos stared at us.

Much is made by the British about the Welsh community in Patagonia, descended from 153 separatists who landed in 1865. Today, their incongruous and anachronistic echoes of a bygone Wales occupy a five mile irrigated valley centred on Gaiman. Here stand old red-brick sash-windowed houses with names such as Nith-y-dryw (Wren’s Nest) and the Bryn-Crwm Chapel, built in 1896.

No doubt, similar attention is paid by the Germans to the German settlements, by the South Africans to the Boers and by the Americans to Butch Cassidy and Sundance, who lived here after escaping from the law back home. Near Calafate, distant mountains knuckled towards the clear sky with unlikely outlines reminiscent of a child’s drawing. A single tarmac road formed the backbone of the dusty town. A short strip of modern shops sold pottery, leather goods and bric-a-brac while people selling chunky pullovers made from local wool enjoyed a brisk trade.

Beyond this commercial hub, lawn sprinklers sprayed drooping lupins and struggling roses and farm houses cowered beneath shrouds of poplars. In this bleak outpost I met Jean Lariviere and his team of models, assistants and lavish luggage. They were recovering from a punishing week in some desert to the north.

Jean spent several days at the hotel in Calafate preparing for the shoot. When he was happy with the composition, we set off to look for the ideal location. Our party of nine approached the Parque Nacional los Glaciares: Jean, two assistants, two models, a doctor/advisor, a co-ordinator/advisor, a local organiser and myself.

“Today we have the bribing of the guards,” said Alain, the co-ordinator. We needed the freedom to ignore designated trails and the park ranger was amazingly co-operative. With a backdrop of glaciers and snow-capped mountains I played with my cameras as the props were assembled — a horse, two models, bags and a host of accessories.

The service of a local senor were enlisted as a prop. He wore a beret, a colourful necktie and black baggy pants tucked into calf-length brown boots creased like concertinas. His face was tarnished by the elements and lined by time. The rugged stubble on his chin was there by default, not by design.

One of the guides was sucking tea from a cup-sized gourd through a metal straw. He offered me some, but I decided that drinking yerba mate leaves was an acquired taste that I had no chance of acquiring. But it was marginally better than the liquid charcoal they call cafe solo. He talked of the ponchoed gaucho on horseback turning and rearing as a single centaur. But, he assured me, the Indians rode even better. The native Indians were nicknamed Patagones, or “people with big feet”, and the name stuck.

That evening we ate at a restaurant where the chef did things with lamb that would cost 10 times as much in London. Vegetarians can expect to have a lean time in this land built on beef and lamb. Next morning I borrowed a horse. Astride a saddle covered with a thick quilt of wool, I cantered up to a vantage point overlooking Lago Argendno. A row of sheep skins were hanging over the fence like washing, a dozen flamingos sifted the shallows of the lake and, overhead, a condor passed.

With my photo shoot done I set off on my own for Punta Sandera, where I joined a group of tourists on a cruise to the glaciers. As we cut through the icy water, brilliant views drifted past every window.

Next day I moved on to Perito Moreno glacier — a white tongue stretching down from the mountain, 20 miles long, 80 metres thick and nearly four miles across at its mouth. Pinnacles of tortured ice broke off with no warning and crashed into the water with explosions like cannon fire and drawn out into thundering grumbles. The icebergs plunged into the lake, then re-emerged like blanched wreckage, radiating great circular waves.

Memories of the round-the-clock buzz of the country’s capital faded completely, eclipsed by the expansive grandeur of nature flexing her majestic muscles. I breathed deeply. I had found the real “Buenos Aires”.