Big Sur

Not many rides in Ecuador start like this: a smooth, fast descent from Quilotoa…

…past more of those classic patchwork fields of green…

..and towards Zumbahua, where we'd visited the market the day before. Today, the town feels sleepy, hungover even – but not enough to stop Sunday League football, which is in full swing against a looming Andean backdrop.

From Zumbahua, we wind our way slowly up on the paved road towards Quevedo, before turning off onto a dirt road across the páramo towards Angamarca – “Nido de Condores”, or “The Condors' Nest”.

As the road winds its way up past thatched shepherds' huts, the clouds close in, the rain begins to fall and we start to get that cold and wet páramo feeling. A bus driver stops to ask where we are headed. “Angamarca!” we reply. He bursts out laughing, and rolls on.

Eventually we hit the top of the pass and begin a freezing descent, pausing to defrost our fingers and admire this Superpig in his fertiliser bag cape. You know it's wet when even the pigs are wearing their rain gear…

…and we are truly sodden by the time we roll into Angamarca. We get lucky – it turns out the village is home to an Italian mission, and the priest takes pity on the two soggy cyclists asking for permission to camp on his very nicely-tended lawn. Within half an hour we are set up with bunk beds, sipping espresso and tucking into a pasta meal. Grazie mille Padre Bautista e Mario!

The next morning the sun is shining, revealing Angamarca in all its tumbledown, friendly charm.

We head for the village bakery to begin our daily search for cheap, filling calories. To our delight, Ecuador seems to have far more sophisticated bakery tastes than Colombia. Baguettes, brown bread that's not sweet, and, best of all… croissants, or cachos as they are known here. We sit in the sunshine and devour a batch fresh out of the oven.

From Angamarca, the Cordillera begins to drop away towards the coast, and we descend – past sheep, cows and goats brought out to the roadside to graze, watched over by young children and old ladies…

…and past farmers working the impossibly steep fields. Before reaching the town of El Corazón, we turn off in Pinllopata onto a seasonal track which should lead us towards Simiátug.

Just as the now regular afternoon deluge begins, we make it to Quishpe, a sorry cluster of houses draped in plastic sheeting for the rainy season. We shelter in the porch of Maria's shop, and watch as the basketball court where we are planning to camp begins to fill up like a swimming pool…

…and so when Maria offers us a spare room to roll out our mats, we are quick to accept.

The next morning the rain is still falling, and even the donkeys are refusing to budge. Gradually though, the downpour eases and we set off nervously, expecting a mud-bath…

…and we're not disappointed. Luckily though, most of the route is still rideable…

…give or take the odd minor landslide, which calls for a bit of push and shove. Somewhere under here, there is a track.

By mid-morning the clouds begin to disperse, breaking the misty bubble we have been riding in, and revealing the road snaking ahead, ever upwards.

By Mindina, a calorie crisis is looming and we set about finding the village shop. It's dusty and half-empty, but with the stove on hand you can always rely on bread and eggs to plug the gap. Possibly the yellowest eggs I have ever eaten – somehow I think they may have been free-range.

We had been warned that this leg to Simiátug had a sting in the tail, and so it proves. Some very thoughtful, very un-Ecuadorian switchbacks provide the warm up; followed by a far more typical, brutally steep and direct last few km into Simiátug.

The scenery as ever does its best to distract, as we crawl our way up through a beautiful lush valley peppered with wild flowers. Not for the first time in Ecuador, it feels like we had been transported back to Scotland or the Lake District.

Gourmet street food, Ecuadorian style. After days of fantasising about chips (our food fantasies go through these phases), we make it to Simiátug and Sarah finally gets to indulge. It definitely feels like we've earned them.

After a night snoring peacefully on the floor of the office of the Ministry of Agriculture (long story), we set out to explore Simiátug in the morning sunshine. It's a friendly, well-worn place – all ramshackle wooden balconies…

…peeling walls and intriguing doorways.

By pure luck, we've managed to coincide with the town's weekly market. It's by far the least touristy and most interesting we've seen so far – piles of fresh veg laid out on simple wooden tables…

…and the effortlessly cool Ecuadorian felt hats. Gringos need not apply.

Forget poncy cycle tourists, these guys are the real heroes of the Latin American cycling world. They spend all day every day hauling massive loads on their cargo bikes – and still manage a friendly grin.

We come across a guy who must be in his seventies struggling to push his bike loaded with chairs, tables and salted fish up the slope into the market place, and so I offer to lend a hand. Don't worry, I say, I've had a bit of practice at pushing heavy bikes up hills around here.

Back in the main square, the local volleyball tournament is in full swing as the mist rolls in. This seems to be Ecuador's national sport, with courts squeezed into flat spaces in even the most tiny of villages.

The next morning, we set off towards Chimborazo and Riobamba, hoping to make it in time for Easter. In accordance with Bolívar's First Law of Andean Town Placement, Simiatúg is conveniently nestled halfway up the mountainside – meaning that as well as a climb into the town, we are treated to a climb out of it as well…

…up towards the distant radio masts.

Even on rested legs, it's not easy, gaining 1,000m over just 14km into a vicious headwind…

…but by the top, we really are up above the clouds. At least, you'd think, we'd be rewarded with a decent descent…which we are – except it's cobbled. And so after 10km of truly unsatisfying, bone-rattling descent, we pop out onto the Vía Flores, feeling like we've just stepped out of a blender.

However, this is where we do get our reward – a first view of the snow-capped Volcán Chimborazo, the highest point in Ecuador's chain of volcanoes at 6,310m.

With time running short, we decide to take the paved loop around Chimborazo instead of the tempting dirt option through the middle. It turns out to be a good decision, as we are treated to spectacular views of the mountain in the evening light…

…with herds of beautiful vicuñas (a wild, more athletic type of llama) grazing on the lower slopes.

Surely we're allowed at least one cheesy “girl conquers volcano” shot, right? Go Bedders!

After probably our most freezing night to date sleeping in the half-constructed Chimborazo visitor centre at 4,350m, all that's left the next morning is an easy coast down towards Riobamba – but not before Chimborazo allows us a sneaky summit glimpse in the early morning light.

We roll into Riobamba on Good Friday, hoping to sample the traditional Ecuadorian Easter dish of fanesca – a soup made with 12 different grains and topped with cheese, salted fish and boiled egg. Within minutes of arriving, Ecuadorian hospitality strikes again – we are adopted by Ruperto, and spend a brilliant afternoon with his family of 40 sampling the fanesca they have spent the last two days preparing.

Appetites still raging, on Easter Sunday we head to the market to experience another Ecuadorian culinary tradition: chancho horneado, or roast pig. It's like a scene from a vegetarian horror film – imagine a room with wall-to-wall pig heads and parts, presided over by ladies in blue surgeons' uniforms wielding huge carving knives. Now I know what happens to all those roadside pigs – but it has to be said: the crackling is to die for.

Finally sated, we head back to our characterful hotel room, which – in keeping with the Easter theme – is presided over by a beautifully coiffeured Jesus. “Please Lord,” he seemed to be saying…”Just spare them the cobbled descents.”