The eight hour flight with my two work colleagues to Washington DC flies by as Panos and I gulp down mini bottles of wine like they are shots of tequila. The British Airways crew are quite keen to join in the fun. When we’re discussing the potential problems of driving in the snow, we say that an extra inch is going to make all the difference. “I couldn’t agree more!” Quips the air hostess as she scuttles past…

Of the six British Airways flights to DC in the next 48 hours, ours is the only one which isn’t cancelled. The snow storms on the east coast are raging, but we seem to have slipped in before it really starts to pelt it down with snow. The three of us find the hotel and from the bar window we watch the layers of snow build up, lowering the chances of leaving the hotel tomorrow. It turns out to be a hugely relaxing weekend. Despite the roads being completely blocked (and the weather channel being the only tv station working), we take advantage of pool, jacuzzi, gym, bar, movies and restaurant for the next two days, before our three hour drive to Harrisonburg, Virginia.

Day 7 – 11 February 2010 – Virginia, New York

Following the crazy drive to Virginia, a few days of work, a few too many beers and winning over $100 on the Super Bowl, we hit the road again for the six hour drive to New York City. I pass through Maryland and Pennsylvania before seeing the skyline of my favourite city outside of Europe. It’s always a jaw dropping site and I’ve got to give full marks to my mate Alex, who drives the final few kilometres into central Manhattan.

Days 8-11 – 12-15 February 2010 – New York, London

I discover a drink called “5 Hour Energy”. It’s supposed to give a fast-acting, longer-lasting energy boost. Oh boy does it work. Unfortunately, its claim that it gives you ‘No Crash’ is rather misleading. What I didn’t spot was the asterisk next to this claim. It goes on to say (in ridiculously small font) that ‘”No Crash” means no sugar crash. 5-Hour Energy contains no sugar’. Hmmm.

Anyway, I spend the rest of the weekend peaking and crashing, whilst shovelling surplus amounts of cheese, beer and steak into my highly confused stomach. It’s fun to drink with mates at Times Square, and incredible to meet up with my girlfriend at a top hotel overlooking SoHo and the Financial District.

It’s a slightly unorthodox trip of New York this time and I try to explore the lesser well known parts of this enormous city. Fortunately, Susanne used to live in New York, so she takes me to some great cafes, restaurants and bars that only a true New Yorker would know. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I also take her around Central Park, which is absolutely gorgeous, especially following the heavy snowfall. It’s a city that never fails to impress and I know there’s still so much more to explore for my next visit.

My four day weekend of trekking started yesterday evening with the hardest bit: Squeezing past the thousands of other rush-hour Londoners who were equally desperate to get out of the city for the Easter break. A six hour bus, tube, train and car-hire journey later, Susanne and I arrived in Llanberis, the gateway to Snowdonian mountains in Wales.

We wake to find the overnight showers gone, and a mix of sunshine and clouds covering the mountain peaks at each side of the valley. It’s Easter Friday and we visit the impressive (disused) slate quarries and climb up the north side of the valley, giving a great view of Llanberis, our home for the next few days. It’s a relaxing day, walking around Dolbadarn Castle and Llyn Padarn, warming up our muscles for tomorrow’s trek, the first since I was in Chile in November.

Day 3 – 3 April 2010 – Llanberis, Mount Snowdon

An Austrian alarm wakes me at 07.30 and after a greasy breakfast we jump in the car and park it 10km away in Pen-y-Gwryd. The journey back is the long way: We start by trekking up the rocky path towards Crib Goch. This is the more challenging walk to the peak of Mount Snowdon, but it’s actually quite straightforward.

There is the option to go via summit of Crib Goch, but with the deep snow, it’s considered highly dangerous without the right climbing gear. In fact, whilst walking around the valley of the beautiful Llyn Llydaw, a rescue helicopter hovers beside the top of Crib Goch, where some climbers appear to have become stuck.

I’m always going on about how lucky I am with weather, but this trip seems to take the cake. The forecast was four days of rain, yet the sun in shining and there are even times when we stop to take in the view and the rays of Vitamin D that I’ve missed so much.

Only near the top does the weather change; and boy how it does! The falling snow slices my face from a horizontal angle and my feet sink deeper into the ground. Despite being the tallest mountain in Wales, it’s not actually that high at just 1,085m. However, the strong wind and snow makes it feel four times as high. It makes the final climb a real slog, but hugely satisfying and memorable.

I’m truly shocked at the beauty of this part of the UK. The mountains really live up to their name, with jagged peaks and cliff-edges everywhere to be seen. The only disappointment is the number of people on the mountain. The peak is truly packed and feels just as busy as a London Underground platform.

We don’t stay long as it’s a complete whiteout, so I do my obligatory ‘jump’ photo before heading back down the north side of the mountain. The path is so smooth that it’s just as easy to sit on your backside and slide down the mountain! It’s a total of 14km and on our return in Llanberis, we grab a bus, pick up the car and return to the hotel for a celebration wine and dinner.

Days 4-5 – 4-5 April 2010 – Llanberis, Mount Tryfan

Another early start and another calorie-filled breakfast before we head towards Llyn Ogwen. It’s a 20 minute drive and once again the sun in shining, allowing a great view of the dramatic Mount Tryfan. It’s a really unusual shape with rugged crags and various routes to its three peaks.

We’re advised to stay clear of the north face. The recent heavy snowfall means it’s particularly dangerous, especially without ice-axes and crampons. It’s good advice; the walk around the west of the mountain takes us past Llyn Bochlwyd, a lake which resembles the shape of Australia and is a beautiful spot for sipping whiskey and relaxing in this mainly undisturbed part of the world.

My new boots carry me through the streams and deep snow up the south face of Mount Tryfan. We take a slight wrong turn which means there’s a slightly challenging climb up a narrow stretch of rock, right next to a cliff-edge. Whilst I’m not exactly dangling from a rock like Stallone, my heart is still pumping as we successfully reach the first peak unscathed!

The scramble to the highest peak is fun, especially as the sun is really strong and you can’t help but love the views in every direction. The contrasts of colour, from dark rock and white snow to the green and yellow plants and grass, it’s a truly gorgeous location.

At its peak, Mount Tryfan is famous for two large rocks, nicknamed Adam and Eve. The tradition is to jump from one to the other, gaining ‘Freedom of Tryfan’. I was well and truly up for it, but the wind is strong, the sheer drop would be fatal and my tail is well and truly tucked between my legs!

I settle for a jump in a slightly less dangerous spot, before working my way through the maze-like route back down the mountain.

It’s a much shorter trek today, but even more enjoyable since the mountain was practically deserted, the views were even more spectacular and the terrain more challenging. We reward ourselves with our second enormous indian dinner and rest up before the morning’s six hour journey back to London.

I’ve got that airport feeling again! I’m in an unusually quiet Heathrow Terminal Five and British Airways is offering me €600 and a free night in an airport, to fly tomorrow instead of this evening. The thought doesn’t even cross my mind: In 15 hours I simply have to be in Buenos Aires, the starting point of my adventure to Patagonia.

I’m in for a surprise as my supposedly direct flight stops in São Paulo and refuels before the last few hours to Argentina. It’s not quite another pin in the map, but I can’t complain about an unexpected stop in Brazil when I only left my office a few hours ago!

Buenos Aires is exactly as it’s described in my guidebook; it’s big, European-looking and clearly brimming with life. I didn’t expect so many skyscrapers and I’m also pleasantly surprised by the amount of green.

I take a taxi along the widest road in the world and dump my 90 litres of luggage at the hotel. It’s time for lunch so it’s great to meet three separate guys who are doing a different trip from me, starting in Buenos Aires and then heading north towards Rio. They’re a good bunch and we see some main sites such as Plaza de Mayo, Florida and Casa Rosada (not forgetting accidentally walking into a huge gay parade!) before finding a restaurant and my first Argentine steak and beers.

It’s a city that impresses and one that I immediately add to my very short list of ‘places I could see myself living’.

Back at the hotel, I meet my 15 new travel companions; everyone is lively and friendly so it bodes well for the next two weeks. It’s suggested we go to Estancia restaurant, with great local food (including an absolutely gigantic steak that I devour) served by men who are so old that it makes me wonder if the place was at all different in the 1950s!

8th November 2009 – Day 3 – Buenos Aires, El Chaltén

Five hours on a plane, three more hours on a bus and I’m finally in El Chaltén. I’m well and truly in Patagonia and the glaciers, snow-peaked mountains, crystal blue lakes and biting cold wind is all around me.

Despite the long day of travelling, it has been really enjoyable, getting to know the group and seeing the huge variety of landscapes fly by the window.

El Chaltén isn’t the prettiest town in the world, but the surrounding mountains are gorgeous, even if there’s a looming cloud, covering the jagged peaks in the distance. It’s another steak and some great local wine to knock me out before tomorrow’s long hike.

9th November 2009 – Day 4 – El Chaltén

It’s a long hike lasting nine hours, covering twenty-six kilometres of hugely varying geography. Apparently the weather has been horrendous recently, with violent winds, rain and snow preventing hikers from reaching the Laguna de Los Tres viewpoint at 1,400m. However, we’re insanely lucky; the clouds break and the wind is almost non-existent, giving an outstanding view of the Fitz Roy (El Chaltén) peak, screaming up to the bright blue sky. Deep into Patagonia, it feels like I’m a million miles away from home and it’s nature at its best.

It also is a great reminder of how fragile humans can be on earth; despite the lucky weather, occasionally the wind picks up or the sun gets hidden by clouds and it suddenly feels 30 degrees colder.

Back in the town, after a quick visit to the local chocolatier, it’s pisco sours all around and so much steak that I wonder if there are any cows left in Patagonia!

10th November 2009 – Day 5 – El Chaltén, Lago Viedma

The view from the bedroom window is even more beautiful this morning. The few clouds in the sky shift and leave a breathtaking mountain range all around El Chaltén. A short bus takes us to Lago Viedma, where a boat awaits. Despite the boat zipping through the freezing cold lake like a jumping dolphin, it takes an hour to reach the far west side. Yet it feels like so much less, as condors fly overhead, guanacos wander on the hillside and crystal-blue icebergs float around the shores of the lake.

When we reach the westside, the stunning Viedma Glacier appears, towering over the lake and rising back up into the distance. It’s a majestic sight and even more exciting since the next five hours will be spent trekking across it!

The rock beside the glacier is formed of vastly different colours and the contrast with the turquoise lake and deep blue sky is perfect for photos. With crampons attached to my foot, I start spiking my way across the glacier. It’s a strange feeling as I can hear the ice and water moving beneath me, and the constantly changing lanscape means the guides have to pick a route carefully around the deep crevasses.

There’s a short section of vertical ice that we practise climbing which is great fun, but surprisingly tiring, clinging to the wall of ice with axes and just a couple of spikes from my shoes.

As we approach a higher point of the glacier, we’re in for a treat: One guide starts hacking the ice with his axe and puts the chunks into some plastic glasses. Another then pulls out a bottle of Bailey’s! We salute and celebrate in style and I’ve another memory that will last me a lifetime, which can now be recaptured with a single shot!

There’s pizza and drinks before the three hour journey back to El Calafate, where a quaint wooden lodge awaits.

11th November 2009 – Day 6 – El Calafate, Perito Moreno Glacier

A greasy breakfast sets me up for what was to be one of the highlights of the trip: The Perito Moreno glacier. One of the few glaciers in the world that is still advancing, it splits Lago Argentino in half and every few years breaks and crashes into the water, connecting the two sides of the lake.

We approach the glacier on the winding mountain roads and suddenly it appears in the distance; the atmosphere and excitement is heightened even more by the Star Wars themes music played over the bus’ speakers! It’s truly apt, since the glacier spans kilometres into the distance and once again I feel like I’m on another world.

We stay a few hours and despite the average weather (it’s very cloudy and windy) I’m still enjoying every second, the dearth of photographs substituted by listening to the glacier creak and stir like the belly of a volcano. It’s truly alive and makes for an incredible acoustic experience as much as a visual one.

I could watch all day, eagerly anticipating each mountain of ice that breaks off into the lake, but our boat is waiting to take us near to its cliff-like walls. Only from the water level does the sheer size of it truly hit home. At 60m tall and with gigantic sheets of interconnected ice, it reminds me of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude!

There’s time to check out El Calafate, but unlike El Chaltén which is pretty desolate, this town is designed like it’s trying to make Americans feel more at home. However, the restaurant choice is great; we’re driven high above the town where the table-view is fantastic, the wine goes down well and I’m force-fed a few more Argentine herds. The night doesn’t end there though; Susanne, Sandra, Barry, Matt, Dana, Dom, Hannah and I decide to relive our Bailey’s moment and order a bottle to ourselves. That quickly disappears, then whiskey and cocktails come and go, Barry seemingly downs a bottle of wine and we all temporarily forget about the pending long journey to Chile tomorrow morning…

12th November 2009 – Day 7 – El Calafate, Puerto Natale

A few people look worse for wear, but fortunately it’s a comfy bus ride across the Andes. However, it is a long one, at around six hours, including a ridiculously long wait at the Chilean border as they inspect every single bag for fruit, vegetables or any other illegal items. Although the pace is slow, it’s all very friendly. In fact, it gets a bit too relaxed the guards start to play around with my camera-cleaning air-blower. They inspect my documents and say “Carlo!! Es Español?”

I naïvely reply with “No – soy Italiano!”, as he smiles and hands me back my British passport…!

A few hours of driving through horizontal snow and rain and we finally arrive in Puerto Natales. It well and truly feels like South America. This Chilean town is full of multi-coloured houses covered with sheets of metal, short locals wrapped up warm from the bitingly cold wind and plenty of authentic, local shops with only a few backpacking tourists stores in the very centre.

Matt and I find an indoor greenhouse of local shops, with hundreds of souvenir items being hand-crafted in front of our eyes. We stock up on supplies for the forthcoming days and then meet the others for dinner at Angelica’s. I’m all steaked out, so I choose a soup, followed by a salmon dish that turns out to be the best meal of the trip to date. It’s then time for bed before the real Chilean adventure begins!

13th November 2009 – Day 8 – Puerto Natale, Torres del Paine

This trip was always going to be about the hiking and the drive to Torres del Paine raises my already high expectations for one of the world’s best trekking destinations.

The snow-topped mountains are simply gorgeous, but the jagged Torres peaks live up to their name, towering over the huge national park. On the way we stop for guanacos, dozens of condors and landscape views of the mountain range with the indescribably blue lakes in the foreground.

Today is a 19km hike along the Rio Ascensio, the right-hand part of the famous ‘W’ route. The landscape changes around every corner as the steady uphill climb takes us through woods, alongside the freezing cold river (from which I adore being able to drink!) and over all types of rocky terrain.

According to the weather forecast, it was supposed to rain, but it turns out to be another stunningly clear day, meaning the contrast of cold, pure Patagonian air is cancelled out by the strong bronzing sun. I feel I’m always writing about how lucky I am with weather, but even the locals are shocked by our fortune; they tell me that since September there has been just one day as clear as today. It means the final, steep climb over the boulders to the base of the Torres is perfect. The towers stand invitingly at the top and every step takes me closer to one of the world’s most stunning locations. However, nothing prepares me or how amazing it is at the top: It’s simply spectacular and is an instant favourite amongst the greatest moments of my life.

The towers at the top of the climb would be impressive enough themselves, but the addition of the lake is just surreal. It’s in the perfect location and I can’t imagine a painter making up a more beautiful mountain scene. I’ve become rather friendly (!) with Susanne from our group, so it’s even more wonderful to sit with her and share such a wonderful view.

It’s mid-afternoon, so the shadows of the towers are creeping across the lake. I can imagine that at the right times of day, it could be an even more unbelievable visual treat, but I’m just thanking the heavens for such great weather. It’s a shame we can’t stay longer, but there’s the hike back to tackle, so we set off, hopping down to our starting point.

There’s a nice lodge at the base, with a bar that has great views across the hike we’ve just completed, so spirits are high as we celebrate with drinks.

An already wonderful day gets even better as we’re driven a few kilometres to a private campsite. We’ve got it all to ourselves and the view is sensational. We sit in a small cabin, with a wood-fire and some excellent food and drink, watching the sun set behind the mountains. The group has bonded so well and we laugh away the evening to an unforgettable day.

14th November 2009 – Day 9 – Torres del Paine

Nearly everyone slept badly. It was insanely cold at night and most people’s sleeping bags only keep you warm down to around -5 degree Celsius. I’m an idiot as my sleeping bag is suitable down to just +9 degrees!

However, the 05.45 sunrise is worth the cold night; the warm sunlight creates a magical red tint on the mountains. It only lasts a few minutes, but I snap away with my cold, numb hands before returning to the tent, with two thermal trousers, a pair of linen trousers, gloves, hat, two pairs of socks and four layers on my top-half. Finally, I get some sleep!

A couple of hours and a warm shower (!) later, I’m ready for another hike. Since sunrise, the clouds have covered the mountain tops and there’s even a dash of snow as we quickly visit the Salto Grande waterfall.

Next is the boat ride across Lago Pehoé. I’d love a photo of this stunningly blue lake with the mountains in the distance, but there’s not enough time on this three day visit.

From our second campsite, we hike an easier 15km along the Valley of the Río Francés. Occasionally the clouds shift and give a glimpse of the incredible scenery, but it’s less of a photographic treat than yesterday.

Nonetheless, it’s still impressive at the base of the Paine Grande, Torres del Paine’s tallest mountain, with glaciers melting into a fast-flowing river back to our starting point. It suggests that the weather can make such an enormous difference on the landscape. Walking back, the blue sky makes an appearance and although we’re retracing our steps, it sometimes feels like a totally different hike.

At the campsite, there’s more fun and drinking; I’m absolutely exhausted from my lack of sleep, so I don’t stay up too late and rest up.

15th November 2009 – Day 10 – Torres del Paine

Some of the group have picked up injuries and others wanted a warm room; it means I get to borrow a (decent!) sleeping bag and I get a much better night’s sleep.

I unzip my one-man tent and it’s like someone has moved me in the middle of the night; the visibility is much better and I realise what a great spot I’m in. After breakfast it’s a much gentler hike of 11km to the Grey Glacier. It’s another day of hugely varying landscapes. I particularly like Lago Grey; it looks so inviting for a pleasant swim, but its numerous floating icebergs say otherwise! There’s a windy peak where we get a great view of the glacier, before returning back to Lago Pehoé for our afternoon boat ride.

It’s a treat to stand on the upper deck of the boat with the sunshine in full force. Yet again the landscape changes with brilliant greens and blues contrasting against the majestic mountain range. I feel there’s so much more to see and I certainly don’t rule out a return to Torres del Paine.

Back in Puerto Natales, I’m amongst a few who opt for a full body deep massage. It’s insanely relaxing and sets me up nicely for another enjoyable dinner. The group really has bonded well and I laugh so much that my sides end up hurting more than my hiking legs!

16th November 2009 – Day 11 – Puerto Natales, Punto Arenas

A four-hour drive and I’m in Punta Arenas. Still on the Pacific coast, it’s cold and windy, yet the sun continues to ignore the weather forecast, so the horizon glistens in the distance. Out hotel is the best so far, but there’s no time to relax as it’s straight for lunch and another steak before our afternoon trip to see penguins!

Our guide is a strange chap who talks in the most monotone voice I’ve ever heard in my life. He waddles along and you could be forgiven for mistaking him for one of the penguins.

Guide aside, it’s a worthwhile trip as the actual penguins are gorgeous. They are frighteningly cute and I have to resist the temptation to take one back with me!

Punta Arenas actually seems like a nice place, but the lack of sleep in Torres del Paine has caught up with me, so in the evening I stay at the hotel with Susanne and we take advantage of the luxuries such as swimming pool and sauna. It’s the perfect way to unwind after an eventful few days and the forthcoming long journey tomorrow.

17th November 2009 – Day 12 – Punta Arenas, Ushuaia

Today was never meant to be a good day. A 12-hour bus ride, including another border crossing, doesn’t exactly jump out of the page as a highlight of the trip. However, it turns into a classic. Sitting at the front of an immensely comfortable double decker coach, with sublime southern Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego views, makes the journey absolutely fly by. Oh, and the beer, bottle of wine and the 500 ml of whiskey helped too…

Matt and I get suitably tipsy whilst the crazy driver slowly makes his way down to the southernmost city in the world. Along the way, there are plenty of events: Crossing the Strait of Magellan and seeing the jumping dolphins, the hilarious two hour wait as the coach gets lodged trying to descend from the ferry ramp and the nearby minefield, which is just begging to be jumped..!

The final few hundred kilometres are stunning. I’m literally at the end of the world and surrounded by gorgeous snow-topped mountains and sea views in nearly every direction.

Ushuaia is also impressive and although it’s one of few departure points to Antarctica, I’m pleased that apart from the main street, it hasn’t lost its “middle of nowhere” town atmosphere. It’s also surrounded by huge mountains and holds a very pleasant port, full of well-travelled ships.

It’s a late and very tasty Italian meal, before my first night at the end of the world.

18th November 2009 – Day 13 – Ushuaia

I’ve no hangover but I’m exhausted from the shortage of sleep, which makes it hard work walking north-west to the viewpoints over Ushuaia. However, it’s a fascinating troll with such variety in building designs, from cute wooden cottages to crumbling shacks that barely look habitable. The stray dogs are everywhere, barking and growling at my every step, but the view at the end is worth it, looking over the town and into the horizon, as I long for the ship that will one day take me to Antarctica.

Back in town, the museums don’t look too inviting, so Susanne and I have a pit-stop drink before meeting our guide, Cynthia, for lunch. She’s awesome and has been so influential in making this trips so special, and it’s wonderful to have a real friend as our tour leader. After lunch, we’ve a journey that involves a four hour boat ride around the islands south of Ushuaia. There are hundreds of tire-looking sea lions and more types of birds than I can possibly imagine, yet the most shocking beast was the grossly overweight five year old kid on the boat who didn’t stop stuffing his face with cookies for the whole journey. He must have had at least four coffees, each with a frightening amount of sugar, as his ignorant mother looked on adoringly. The fat little bugger wouldn’t have looked out of place with the sea-lions…

Once again we’re overwhelmed by the good weather, and the cameras are out for group photos as we all know our holiday is rapidly approaching its end. It’s yet another Italian meal for dinner (I’ve serious withdrawal symptoms from eating so many cows!) as we plan our final day at South America’s southern tip.

19th November 2009 – Day 14 – Ushuaia

It’s raining as we’re driven east of Ushuaia, so I’m wondering whether I’ve made the right choice in opting for the full day of activities. Unbelievably, the moment we arrive, the rain stops and the clouds disappear. Once again I’m thanking Zeus. Susanne, Cynthia, Matt, Dom and I start with some relatively gentle canoeing (although they may argue that I was the only one doing anything ‘gentle’). Again, I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of this part of the world, with rising mountains in every direction, some in Argentina, others on the small Chilean islands south of Tierra del Fuego.

We’re treated to hot pumpkin soup and after we remove our fisherman-like waterproof clothing, walk to a nearby village port. It’s quaint and picturesque, more so now that the sun is in full force. Better still, there’s a lovely local stopping point selling delicious cookies, which I devour like a deprived cookie monster.

A boat takes us to an inhabited island which has two types of penguins, which are cautious when we approach, but it’s still surprising how close I can get without them hobbling away from me amusingly.

We’re sharing the boat with a few others, including some Americans who start talking about the fishy beavers we’ve just seen/ Our group is in a stupidly childish mood and we exchange humorous glances ad the American girls continue to talk about how much they like beavers. I simply can’t control myself when one of them then announces, “All this talk really makes me want to eat beaver!”

We stop at another island, for another relatively short walk before finding a wooden shack that half looks like it’s about to collapse. It all adds to the atmosphere as inside there’s food aplenty and litres of wine.

The beautiful surrounding area is hugely inviting, so with a belly full of cheese and wine, we set off across the island. Our friendly Argentine guide leads us across the island (with Cynthia swooning!), along the woody tracks and varied shores. It’s not a hard walk, but it’s really warm due to the strong sun, so the occasional cool Pacific wind is a welcome relief. It’s a truly great day and I’ll never forget walking on the incredible purple shells that litter the beach on the final few hundred metres back to the boat.

It’s a huge final night at a restaurant that overlooks Ushuaia’s bay. Amanda and Dana provide a hilarious reward ceremony that really summarises how well the group has bonded. The drinking then continues in an Irish bar packed with young backpackers and I’m temporarily chuffed to know I’m in the southernmost Irish bar in the world, only to realise I’ve been stumped by another Irish bar that’s just 100m down the road!

20th November 2009 – Day 15 – Ushuaia, Buenos Aires

Surprisingly, I don’t feel too bad, despite just having four hours of sleep. Some of the group look like Death, so I count myself lucky for the flight back to Buenos Aires. It’s a roller coaster of emotions as I leave Ushuaia’s airport (I can’t imagine a more beautiful location for an airport) and wave goodbye to Southern Argentina.

Buenos Aires’ city buzz and modern liveliness feels like I’m already home and my thoughts immediately return to the surreal memories that I’ve collected over the past two weeks.

In the afternoon, Matt, Susanne and I explore the area around the president’s building where there’s another demonstration; this time it’s political flags everywhere, with countless references to Che Guevara. We play frogger to get across the busy road the separates the centre from the Puerta Madero and it’s like the road has separated two entirely different cities. The marine is full of modern bars, restaurants and incredibly trendy high rise apartment buildings. It reminds me of Canary Wharf in London and it’s good to stop for a quick beer in the sun.

Even more out of place than the modern buildings is the natural reserve, which sits east of the city. Its swamp-like features feel like I’ve just travelled 200 years into the future to find a flooded city.

A taxi takes us back through the skyscrapers and American company logos and back to the hotel just in time to catch the rest of the group. It’s our final night together so we return to the Puerto Madero and find the Cabaña Las Lilas restaurant. Despite it being full of businessmen, the staff are surprisingly unpretentious and the food excellent.

21st November 2009 – Day 16 – Buenos Aires

Most of the group has left and I’ve missed the chance to say goodbye. It’s a real shame as it has been an outstanding group and I certainly want for us all to keep in touch.

Susanne and I head towards Palermo Viejo, which is a cool area full of independent shops. It’s finally raining today (after waiting two weeks for rain in Patagonia, it’s a bit strange to find it here!) so we chill in a nice little bar with freshly made fruit cocktails.

It’s great to then meet up with a friend who has moved here from Brooklyn and we catch up over beers in an area littered with lively bars amongst all the young locals. In fact, it’s such a great area that I return with Matt and Dom for my final evening in Buenos Aires.

It turns out to be a hilarious end to an unforgetful trip. After all, Argentines are famous for their late-nights, so it’s only right that we don’t get back to the hotel until 05.30; I forget to set my alarm, temporarily lose my passport and then have a last minute panic for my 13 hour flight home!

This trip starts with a disappointment; my Indiana Jones hat hasn’t arrived through the post on time and that doesn’t bode well for my search for the Holy Grail… Nonetheless, my mood lifts sitting at Heathrow in front of the departure board. There’s something about being in an airport, seeing all the destinations and watching all the Chinese tourists with their medical face masks, which makes me feel like I’m living another life. In this episode, the destination is Amman and I’ve nine days to explore western Jordan.

The check-in lady seems pleased with herself, having found me a seat near the front of the plane. I smile and ask if that will get me there faster and she looks at me like I’m a complete moron. She then shakes her head and gives me a serious, “er, no….”

Fortunately, the Jordanians seem friendlier; the flight is great (with metal cutlery!) and I’m particularly impressed seeing how they cater for those still on Ramadan. I’m even more impressed with the bloke at Amman airport with a ‘Carlo Bezoari’ sign, even if it does seem a bit daft to get excited about reading your own name…

My Jordanian driver (who likes to be called Bill) is a great chap and that makes the 45 minute drive to the city absolutely fly by. At 02.00 local time, I settle down for my first night’s sleep in the Middle East and I can’t wait for the exploring to begin.

19th September 2009 – Day 2 – Amman

It turns out that my hotel is far from the city centre. Armed with a map and a piece of paper with the name of the Citadel ruins (both in Arabic) I head for the streets and catch a cab. Despite the driver’s compulsive need to cough up phlegm into a tissue every two minutes, the drive is easier than expected and I soon arrive in the Jebel el-Qalaa region of Amman. Thousands of years old, it’s clear why this has always been the city centre; 360 degree views are impressive and one can relax in near-silence above the bustling market streets.

I’m soon approached by a friendly guide who takes me around and gives me more information about Jordan than I can possibly digest. The Temple of Hercules, the Omayyad Palace and the Archaeological Museum (containing parts of the actual Dead Sea scrolls) are the stand out features and the lack of many tourists means I can totally immerse myself in history.

Below the Citadel, the downtown area contains further Roman ruins and thousands of market stalls. My guide seems to think I’ve never seen herbs before and shows great delight in showing me fresh thyme and rocket leaves, before stopping and buying about 20 tomatoes (examining each one meticulously) from whom he claims is the best tomato grower in Amman! These comments would be charming, if he didn’t keep coughing up phlegm into a tissue and then putting it in his pocket…

He also insists on taking photos of me everywhere; I’m tempted to do a couple of jumping photos, but I’m not sure he’ll get it, so I save them for later on.

Next is the Roman Theatre, which can hold 6,000 people and has been maintained fantastically . The acoustics are sublime; I’m told to stand on stage and shout like an opera singer and my voice echoes around the theatre like I’ve never heard before. However, the locals must have high standards, as I don’t get so much as a whisper of an applause.

I’m absolutely starving, since I’ve had no breakfast or lunch, so I wander the streets to find some food. Two hours later and all I’ve found is a garage of kids putting coal into hundreds of bags and a row of shops with tightly-caged animals (who look hungrier than I am). I keep searching but since it’s Ramadan, I have absolutely no luck. I catch a cab back to the hotel area and this driver’s phlegm coughing really takes the cake; it sounds like he’s coughing up a lung and each time he does it, his car swerves across the road. After he tries to rip me off, I spot a row of fast-food chains, but fortunately resist the sinful temptation to have a Whopper meal. Completely desperate for food, I finally find a modern coffee shop (that even has an apt poem about how magical food is!) and persuade them to make me a sandwich.

In the hotel I’m transferred to another room where I’m introduced to the guy who’ll be my room-mate for the next eight days. Unbelievably, it’s the Danish guy from the Roman Theatre who asked me to a take a photo for him! We share a couple of beers before meeting the rest of the group; half of them are from various locations around the US, there’s also a French couple, a Swiss girl and two girls from the Netherlands. We find a local restaurant serving simple food, so with a non-alcoholic beer and whilst smoking a shisha (which gives me an unbelievable head rush like being back in Amsterdam!) I have a great time getting to know my new travel buddies.

20th September 2009 – Day 3 – Jerash, El-Azraq, El Uman, Amman

It’s about an hour’s drive to Jerash, 31 miles north of Amman. I’ve seen Roman cities several times, yet this is still an incredible site. From Hadrian’s Arch, the Oval Plaza to the numerous theatres, it oozes with history and its remains (only discovered in the 1920s) really give a sense of the size and significance it must have had in the first few centuries AD. The Cardo, a 600m paved street is the city’s “Broadway”, and the chariot tracks are still visible in the 2000 year old stones.

The original plan was to head back to Amman, but all 15 of us (three Canadians joined overnight) agree to see the desert castles, east of Amman. The five hour round trip is worth it; all three castles are unique (I particularly like the one-tonne stone doors that you can still push open and closed) and the desert views give a scale of the vast emptiness in the Middle East.

At the furthest point from Amman, we’re 30km from Saudi Arabia and just 200km from Iraq! We stop for photos of the road signs and a group of curious local kids come over and watch my jumping photos. I try to get them to jump with me (especially as one of them has a toy gun, that looks frighteningly real!) but they don’t understand and just stare and laugh at me instead!

The beautiful sunset makes it an enjoyable drive back to Amman and thanks to the French couple’s fantastic guidebook, we find an excellent restaurant with real, traditional, local food. However, it’s in a posh area of the capital and seems like a million miles away from Downtown, which clearly goes to show the dramatic divide between rich and poor.

21st September 2009 – Day 4 – Dead Sea, Amman

As we cross the mountains I catch my first glimpse of the Dead Sea. I’m not sure what I was expecting (perhaps for it to look more like a lake since it’s not actually a sea), but it just looks exactly like any other sea.

At 411m below sea-level, the lowest place on earth, the sun is blisteringly hot. The Dead Sea is famous for its very high concentration of salt (so much so that the water is so full of minerals that it’s actually 26% solid), yet there’s not even a sniff of salt in the air.

I wade into the sea and the moment I try to swim, I feel the difference; you float without trying and submerging yourself is near impossible. Not that you’d want to; the water is so salty that it stings your lips and eyes. That said, it’s supposed to be wonderful for your skin, so I bob around in my natural health spa.

There’s also the option to cover every inch of your body with Dead Sea mud. It’s great fun and makes for some fun photos. Even more photogenic are the number of local women still dressed in Burqas, whilst covering their hands and feet in mud and sitting on the shoreline.

After lunch, I ask about the huge salt rocks along the coastline, so we make a detour to see them. The views are spectacular and Israel is clearly visible across the Dead Sea.

Our guide, Riad, seems to be in a chirpy mood today and tells us story after story along the route back to Amman. We all quiz him on rules around the number of wives a man can have in Jordan and he shows a real humorous side of his character. One tale is of some men who were offered a choice of many women, only for them to say that they would prefer some men. We’re both amused and speechless as he shakes his head in disgust and with utmost sincerity he says, “Yes, these men were SICK”!

Surprisingly, most of the group are happy to eat at a local fast-food joint near the hotel. I’m pleased that Tonny and the Dutch girls (Eline and Desirée) are keen to see more of Amman, so we take another crazy taxi ride to Rainbow Street, a nice area of the centre where a lot of the wealthier young locals seem to spend their evenings.

It’s on a hillside, looking west across the city centre and the rooftop terrace makes for a gorgeous view whilst dining the evening away.

22nd September 2009 – Day 5 – Amman, Mount Nebo, Madaba, Wadi Mujib, Karak, Petra

There were always going to be a couple of days of long travelling and today was one. We stop plenty of times, but after an awful night’s sleep (I can only blame myself and the 10pm Turkish coffee for that) I’m quite pleased to sit back and see the desert scenery from the bus window.

The day’s highlights were Mount Nebo (with great views across the Dead Sea into Israel, made more impressive with the knowledge that it was the very place Moses saw the Promised Land before he died) and further south, Wadi Mujib, an enormous valley that reminds me of the Grand Canyon and also offers some stunning panoramic views with winding roads through the mountains.

Madaba was less impressive. I’m not a fan of mosaics and although it was interesting to see how they are made, the Madaba Mosaic map (showing the Palestine/Egypt region) was slightly under-whelming, evening if what it depicts was actually quite interesting.

Karak is a town on the top of a hill with great 360 degree views. However, the castle is less exciting than my guidebook indicates and I’m quite pleased to hit the road for the final 130km to Petra.

23rd September 2009 – Day 6 – Petra

Today was arguably the best day of my life. Petra is simply gob smacking and I lost count the number of times I was left speechless in awe. The entrance opens at 06.00 and the original plan was to leave the hotel at 07.30. I don’t want to lose a single minute and once again it’s Tonny and the Dutch girls who feel the same, so we leave at 05.45 to arrive on the dot.

It’s a decision none of us regret. We walk along the 1.5km Siq and there’s total silence. The huge walls that lead to one of the world’s most famous sites is completely empty and it’s an absolute privilege to have it to ourselves. Each step takes us closer to the Treasury and it’s like a little teaser around each bend of the Siq.

Finally, I see it: the photo I’ve been dreaming of is before my eyes and there’s not a single person in sight. I take my obligatory jump photo and then walk the final steps of the Siq as the Treasury opens up in front of me.

Of course, the direct sunlight is still hidden from the huge mountain walls, but nothing can beat standing alone in front of one of the new Seven Wonders of the World.

A camel owner soon arrives and lets us know that there’s a short climb that gives us a higher view of the Treasury. The ‘no climbing’ signs don’t stop us (after all, there’s no one to tell us off!) and the view from the top is sublime.

Other tourists start arriving and we move further into Petra. Around every corner there’s another stunning building, carved out of the mountain itself and each time it takes my breath away. Each one is unique so it’s an absolute photography heaven.

I never did get my Indian Jones hat, so after a quick coffee near the Roman Theatre, I settle for a keffiyeh, which I desperately need to keep me cool in the strong sun. We quickly head back to the Treasury, to see what it’s like with the sun shining perfectly on the rock walls and the number of tourists shocks me; it makes my early start feel even more rewarding.

The walk to the High Place of Sacrifice is a winding climb to 1,035m, with beautiful rock formations everywhere to be seen along the route. From the peak, where animal and human sacrifices were carried out, the view of the city of Petra is breathtaking. The cliff-edges hang over the canyons invitingly and I can almost hear my mother’s disapproval as I sit over the edge and stare down into the abyss.

Further tombs are scattered along the rest of the walk and as we descend from the mountain, the fantastic Royal Tombs appear before our eyes.

There’s a fun incident with a young boy who helps tie my keffiyeh and then follows us for ages offering us his ‘air-conditioned taxi’ (camel!) and after a late lunch we head to the Monastery. It’s a Petra highlight and once again we’ve timed it to perfection: Most people are leaving (which is surprising in itself since it’s only 16.00) and our 30 minute climb takes us to the unbelievably well-preserved Monastery at the top, where we once again can take pictures without another tourist in sight. A further climb gives some great views across the canyons to the west.

The sun is low in the sky, which means time is running out, but the light makes the ruins even more beautiful. A quick descent past the closing stalls (with shouts of ‘happy hour’ prices!) and a walk through the city of Petra takes us to the Royal Tombs. By this time, sunset is nearing and the warm colours of the rock are stunning on this stretch of wind-eroded tombs.

The final walk past the treasury and through the Siq is tiring, but we’ve packed two days worth of sights into just over 12 hours and I couldn’t have dreamed of a better day. Yet the best was still to come: Three nights a week, the Siq and Treasury are opened at night and we’re lucky enough that tonight is one.

After dinner we return to the Siq and about 300 people are ready for the night walk to the Treasury. With tripod in hand, I set up for a night shot and everyone streams ahead. Within moments, I’m completely alone without a sound in the air and the mysterious Siq all to myself. It’s quite simply one of the most magical moments of my life. That said, some travel advice if you ever find yourself alone in the Siq: Don’t fart! It echoes around like a volcano eruption!

The candle-lit view of the Treasury is just as special as when I first saw it in the morning and for the remainder of the evening I sit in front of it with the others, listen to the local live music, seemingly transported thousands of years back in time.

24th September 2009 – Day 7 – Petra, Wadi Rum

A couple of hours drive and it feels like I’m in a different part of the world. Gone is the endless mountainous terrain, replaced by a flat, sandy landscape with large rocks screaming 600m out of the floor like they are lost in the desert.

Wadi Rum is a mix of yellows, reds and browns, contrasting wildly and I can’t wait to explore. We arrive at our desert lodge and after a quick bite, jump into the two 4×4s. We’re completely baffled and amused by our shockingly young driver (I don’t exaggerate when I say he looks no older than 10 years old!) Nevertheless, we start our adventure bouncing our way through the sandy desert.

We fly up and down the sand dunes and occasionally stop for photos, although the heat is intense, hinting how dangerous and remote this area really is.

At one steep, sandy-covered hill, we’re in hysterics as we attempt to race up and down it on foot. Tonny looks like he was born in the desert as he flies up and down. Then in the race down, I fall flat on my face in a cloud of sand which makes for some amusing photos.

The Jebel Umm Fruth Rock Bridge is one of two natural bridges, eroded through time and offering breathtaking panoramas. We then move to an elevated rock, sipping tea and watching the beautiful desert sunset.

In the evening, we experience a Bedouin Barbeque, which involves the food being cooked over several hours in a zerb oven, buried into the sand. We sit around a fire, smoking water pipes, listening to the local Bedouin music (and not forgetting 10% Petra beer!) It’s the end of two incredible (and wildly different) days, yet tomorrow at the Red Sea has the potential for another just as good.

25th September 2009 – Day 8 – Wadi Rum, Aqaba, Red Sea

I decide against the early morning camel ride since I’ve done that before and I needed a good night’s sleep. I’m pleased I did, since it’s another energetic day when we arrive in Aqaba, the only access point Jordan has to the sea.

After dropping things off at the hotel, the French couple, Dutch pair, Tonny and I opt for scuba diving whilst the rest of the group go snorkelling with a glass bottom boat.

We’re just 3km away from the Saudi border as we take our fast-track scuba lessons and jump into the Red Sea. It’s fun, but the time flies by and only once I’m used to the equipment do I start to really enjoy it, but by then the time is nearly up.

We chill on the beach and it’s strange to see girls in bikinis drinking beers and western music pumping, which is a complete contrast to the strict Islamic lifestyle I’ve see everywhere else.

Stranger still, is swimming in the sea knowing that I could go in any of four directions, reaching Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Israel or Egypt!

It’s a blisteringly hot evening in Aqaba and the five of us (Tonny went out with the others) drink tea on a table by the beach (with the waves gently reaching our feet) before an enjoyable meal in the bustling centre of Aqaba.

26th September 2009 – Day 9 – Aqaba, Red Sea, Amman

I go scuba diving again in the morning and now I’ve finally figured out to stop bobbing up and down like a yoyo, I really enjoy the experience. I go deeper too, and at around 20m it’s like being on another planet to spin under water and look up to the sky, seeing the water surface so far away.

The corals are beautiful and the fish unbelievably varied. I try some photos with a disposable camera and I’m eager to see how many times I’ve caught Nemo on film!

I snorkel for the remainder of the morning and get a nice sunburned back in the process, but it’s a truly relaxing way to end such a varied and energetic few days.

We drive along the King’s Highway back to Amman. It was Saddam Hussein who paid for this long road that stretches the length of Jordan and he even gave the country free oil in return for Jordan’s alliance. Interestingly, Jordan was the first Middle Eastern country to oppose Iraq when the international conflicts grew!

We quiz Riad on his religious beliefs and it’s interesting to learn more about Islam and the views on the western world from a first hand perspective.

Our final evening is another is another restaurant with local food and yet another that the king himself has visited. Afterwards, there are goodbyes, although some amusingly awkward; we’ve all got on well, but with such a large group, it’s hard to get to know everyone well.

Since it’s still not late, Eline, Desirée, Tonny and I share some beers on the hotel patio (plus a few tokes of a ridiculously strong Egyptial shisha) and so ends an unforgettable first trip to the Middle East.

It’s a little strange to finish work on a Friday and then find myself in a coffeeshop in Amsterdam five hours later! Despite visiting Amsterdam a few times for work, I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing this iconic city as a tourist. My first impressions are positive: It reminds me of Bruges and it brims with history, even though nothing actually looks very old.

My first Amsterdam joint hits me like a ten tonne hammer; it’s insanely strong and leaves me completely conscious that I’m absolutely wasted! It’s fun to wander around the beautiful canals at night and although it’s probably a good idea that I left my camera at the hotel, I am slightly curious about what photos I might have taken in such a state!

11 July 2009 – Day 2 – Amsterdam

Amsterdam is tiny. Fewer than 800,000 people live here and the whole city is within walking distance. So I stuff my face with stroopwafels (munchies!) and head straight to the red light district. At this time of the morning, it’s pretty empty and most windows have the curtains closed; no doubt the ladies are getting their beauty sleep. That being said, I do find one street with the doors clearly open. With cigarettes in hand, these middle-aged prostitutes hardly look in the mood for work. Some look bored, some look depressed and they all look like they’ve just run a marathon… it’s not the Amsterdam I was expecting.

I move on quickly and meander my way south, through the Dam Square with the relatively impressive Koninkliljk Paleis, and past the flower market on the southern edge of the city centre. It’s picturesque but I still can’t get over how small the city is. If you take away the bars and coffeeshops, there really doesn’t seem to be much else to do. That being said, the Heineken brewery is a worthwhile visit and when the sun really starts to shine, the area around the Rijksmuseum is beautiful. Slightly further east, on Albert Cuypstraat, there’s a great little market which sells everything from fake designer products to household furniture. I’m not even surprised to see some chocolate penises for sale (this is Amsterdam, after all) but I am a little taken aback at the sight of chocolate vaginas…!

In the evening it’s back to the red light district: It’s heaving now, with bright lights and enormous groups of rowdy and horny stag dos. There must be 20 guys for every female tourist and I’m surprised that the guide book can say it’s not seedy. Watching filthy old men staring at these girls, some of whom are very young, and then march in like it’s a Starbucks is really weird.

After a few beers it’s time for another coffeeshop. Half an hour of smoking and a space cake later, I remember why I don’t normally take weed; I’m knackered and all I want is my hotel bed!

12-13 July 2009 – Days 3-4 – Amsterdam

It’s chucking it down so I head straight for the Anne Frank museum. Having read her diary, it’s daunting to creep around her house, knowing the events that unfolded 65 years ago. Just like when I visited Auschwitz, it’s a powerful reminder and really hits home.

Like turning off a shower tap, the rain just stops and the clouds clear making it another beautiful sunny day. It means it’s worth visiting the large Vondelpark in the southwest of the city; it’s truly relaxing as live bands play music, cyclists whizz by and the locals stroll around the park’s lakes. Furthermore, the surrounding canals are much more quiet than in the city centre and it finally feels like I’ve found the Netherlands. The “I amsterdam” sign is absolutely enormous and definitely worth the long search to find it. I’m not in the mood for more museums as the weather is still glorious, so the rest of the day is spent walking around and stopping occasionally for beers and a tan.

After an average evening meal (I really could have done with a local to point out the decent restaurants – where the hell are they!?), I avoid the coffeeshops and finally take some night photography. By Monday morning I feel I’ve ‘done’ Amsterdam and bearing in mind how much walking I’ve done, I feel like I’m one of the only blokes in the world to have gone to this capital city and had a healthy weekend!

Less than a month ago I went to Scotland for a weekend of highly-energetic mountain biking. I love Scotland; it’s one of my favourite countries. Better still, when the sun is strong, the amazing history and architecture is impossible to ignore. However, this weekend’s trip is slightly different: It’s my mate’s stag-do and the best man doesn’t have much sight-seeing on the agenda.

It’s entertaining watching the stag get completely hammered: The highlights being when he threw his pint of beer on the floor “when no one was looking”, his pathetic attempts to act sober when getting into clubs, stumbling into the staff room of a bar (thinking it was a toilet) and (best of all) trying to open a door which turned out to be a mirror.

The next morning we soak up the alcohol with a Scottish breaky and then head 90 minutes north to Ballinluig for some white-water rafting along the River Tummel. It’s all good and Tom even manages to raise a smile when I drag him into the river…

The day ends with more drinking and the ‘obligatory’ visit to a strip bar. Tom seems to enjoy his private dance but then two girls start doing some ’stuff’ on the bar, which I can’t even begin to describe; we don’t know whether to be turned on or throw up!

The following photos are from the white-water rafting official photographer, including Rob’s awesome leap (4th photo), me showing how not to hold a paddle (3rd photo) and my skull-crushing headbutt on the Grade 4 rapid (10th photo)!!

Half an hour on the tube, over three hours on a train and two hours in a car, yet the journey had only just begun. I’m in Scotland for a long weekend with a mate from school and we’re tackling two of the 7stanes.

I ride to work nearly every day nowadays, which is an 18km round trip through the busy streets of London. I’ve learned to become fearless of bendy buses and zombie pedestrians stepping out into the middle of the road, whilst weaving through the traffic, in order to dart through the amber lights in the morning rush hour.

However, London isn’t renowned for its mountainous terrain, so when we arrive at Mabie, in Southwest Scotland, I’m surprised how much of a challenge mountain biking can really be. Sharpy, my drinking buddy and teacher for the weekend, ignores the fact I’ve never done this before and immediately takes me to a ‘Red grade’ trail. The description on my map says red trails are suitable for ‘proficient mountain bikers with good off-roading skills’ – a higher level of fitness and stamina is required’!

Surprisingly, after a few wobbles, I don’t do that badly. It’s hard work but incredibly good fun. The steep climbs are worth the effort, as the descents are even more satisfying than flying down a black piste on skis.

Dalbeattie is a relatively small village and yet it’s frightening how many barrels of beer the locals must go through each week. We spend the first evening mixing with them and I’ve never seen people give themselves such a liver pounding. There are women who look double their age and men who are double the size they should be, and it’s not hard to see why; everyone is completely trashed! It is entertaining though, and the Scottish friendliness throughout the day continuously reminds me why Scotland is one of my favourite countries.

31 May 2009 – Day 3 – Dalbeattie

An enormous Scottish breakfast keeps the hangover at bay and we head straight back to the trails for more biking. Today it’s the Dalbeattie Stane and at over 30km, it doesn’t sound like very far. However, the ascents are long and the downhill sections are steep and technical, meaning it’s an absolute killer on the legs.

As always, I refuse to go anywhere without my camera gear; it’s an extra 10km on my back that I could do without, but there are photo opportunities everywhere, especially as the weather this weekend has been simply outstanding – you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d gone over a mountain and found yourself in southern Europe!

It’s another red trail, but we try a few of the black ‘trick’ sections as I slowly build more confidence. However, Dalbeattie’s infamous ’slab’ is a well beyond my comfort zone; it’s a long, steep and rocky descent that practically screams at me, “pain and blood”!!

My legs are exhausted but there’s still enough light to explore the coast. With the sun low in the sky, the views are outstanding, especially on foot along the footpaths over Rockcliffe. I particularly like the pier at Rough Firth.

The beaches are extraordinary: I’ve never seen such flat plains of sand and apparently the tide comes in faster than you can run, catching out many tourists. In the end, we settle for a seaside restaurant and a relatively early night, preparing ourselves for tomorrow’s final biking effort.

01 June 2009 – Day 4 – Dalbeattie, Mabie

The massaging beds in the bed & breakfast are a Godsend! I really thought I’d struggle to move today but as we head back to Mabie, I’m excited to test my skills and see if I can do better than my first attempt two days ago.

Being more familiar with the route, we go a lot faster and it’s a great way to end the long weekend; and although it’s a shame that it’s over so quickly, I’m actually rather relieved that I’m still in one piece! Even more surprising, despite the shaking, vibrating and alien-like sounds that Sharpy’s car made on the journey back to England, it too managed to stay intact!

I force myself to down a truly repulsive Gatwick airport coffee knowing that for the next six days I’ll be treated to the best of the best. The destination is Catania, where my father grew up, and we’re taking this pilgrimage to explore the east coast of Sicily.

As we approach the island, I know I’m in for a treat. The glorious weather gives a sublime view, practically into the mouth of the ever-volatile Mount Etna.

My memories of Palermo return as soon as we hit the roads, with the sounds of horns blasting, the scooters zipping in and out of traffic and the carefree attitude of pedestrians walking across the busy roads as if it were a catwalk.

The only difference with Palermo is the road, cut out of black, solidified lava, making a great contrast against the old building architecture.

It’s a great hotel but we head off immediately for food, finding a famous little bar with stereotypical Italian service. The arancino goes down well whilst we meander around the streets of central Catania. I’m filled with stories of what things used to be like in the 50s, and it’s like having my own personal guide, boiling with enthusiasm and reliving his youth with me; the only thing is that the guide is my father!

Along the coast, we visit two of the Aci: Aci Castello and Acitrezza. The old photos of Aci Castello make it look like a classic painting; nowadays it’s full of buildings and busy roads. The castle itself doesn’t lose its appeal. The views down the coast are great and I see the old men sitting around and watching the world go by.

Acitrezza, where my father was born, is even better. The town itself is typically Sicilian, but the ‘beach’ is the difference. It’s full of solid lava, including some enormous boulders that look entirely out of place, prodding out of the sea. Legend says that Cyclops threw these enormous rocks at Odysseus, but this is almost more believable than the truth: They were actually launched (20km across Sicily) in one of Etna’s violent eruptions!

I can’t help but feel like I’m finally on holiday: The sun is strong and on the promenade the local teenage couples show (a little too much) affection for each other, as tanned, camp-looking men roller-skate around them. It’s no-holds-barred Italy at its best.

Dinner is a reunion with a distant relative who my father hasn’t seen in half a century. I ask for food that isn’t easily found in London and I’m treated to some Sicilian antipastos followed by squid ink pasta. We then stroll around the Piazza del Teatro, which seems to be the local hangout for all the beautiful people; it’s like being backstage at a fashion show!

01 May 2009 – Day 2 – Catania, Mount Etna

After a poor night’s sleep (even my earplugs can’t muffle the sound of my father’s snoring), I’m heading towards another beast: Mount Etna. Like my father, it too rumbles through the night (no doubt much more quietly) at over 3,300m.

We drive north through the suburbs of Catania, spoiled by a surplus number of buildings and cars everywhere trying to escape the city for the 1st May national holiday. The Highway Code should be re-written for Sicilians: It seems there’s a well-followed, controlled chaos that rules the land, even if it does entirely defy logic. However, since in Italy you give way to those joining on the right, the system falls to pieces and confusion prevails when you get to a roundabout; Sicilians are baffled and it reverts back to ‘first come, first served’!

Mount Etna (or Muncibeddu/Mongibello in Sicilian/Italian) looms over Catania quite beautifully. It’s as if the mountain is totally lost and just settled itself next to a coastline city. It makes for a fantastic landscape and it’s almost confusing having left the city and suddenly being at 1,000m and heading towards the snowy peaks. The higher we climb, the more the landscape changes; from concrete buildings, to green pastures and then finally to black rock, as all signs of life disappear under the layers of lava built up over centuries of eruptions.

The contrast of snow and black lava is picturesque in itself, but the mix of cloud and steam filter the strong sunshine and create a unique environment, making it seem like a totally foreign planet.

The funivia takes us high above the clouds and a jeep completes the climb to 2,920m. The sun is still strong but the bitterly cold wind half makes me forget I’m a short distance away from a volcano crater. I take a few photos and my hands are totally numb through cold. Fortunately, Mother Nature comes in handy when you’re on a volcano and all you have to do to warm up is lie down on the ground!

We opt for the hour walk back to the funivia and after I steal a couple of rocks of lava, we quickly return to Catania as another of my father’s long-lost friends is waiting to join us for dinner.

02 May 2009 – Day 3 – Catania, Siracusa

The first stop before Siracusa is to visit my grandfather’s grave in Catania’s main cemetery. It was nearly 20 years ago when I last stood in front of his grave and even though I never met him (he died in 1971) it still has a profound effect on me. I was named after him and to see my name written on a gravestone is still as moving as it was when I saw it as a 10-year-old. The cemetery itself is beautiful, or it would be if they banned cars and motorbikes. You could really spend hours lost in the maze of graves, fantastically built. Some are huge (nearly as big as my home!) and contain the remains of entire families. Unfortunately the noise of the traffic speeding by is ridiculous, and destroys any sense of peacefulness.

We take a wrong turn and end up on a quiet country road near Lentini. As we search for the road bearing south, we drive along one stretch of road which is dotted with African women standing by the side of the road, each about 200m from the last, as if waiting for the bus to Siracusa. It seems they have all been waiting a while for the bus and have got a little hot in the Sicilian sun; they’re all practically stripped down to the underwear and some even bend over their chairs, unable to stand up straight any longer. However, the non-existent bus doesn’t lower their spirits; some even smile and wave as we drive by…

Siracusa is impressive and I’m pleasantly surprised that although it’s more Greek ruins (that I’ve previously seen in Agrigento), it’s totally different and full of history. Unfortunately, the Teatro Greco is being set up for a forthcoming play, which means that the beautiful architecture is covered with modern seating and means a panoramic photo is out of the question. They have “ruined” the ruins!

The Orecchio di Dionisio is an enormous cave around the corner from the amphitheatre. It’s hugely impressive both visually and acoustically, and its shape, similar to an ear, makes for some fantastic echoes. Supposedly, Dionisio left his prisoners in the cave, so he could listen to their secrets from afar! We’re treated to something else, as we’re lucky enough to enter at a time when a Dutch opera singer starts singing! The strong sunshine disappears around the corners of the cave, which also allows me to try some unusual “jumping” photos.

We drive across the bridge to the island of Ortigia, which is the touristy part of Siracusa. That said, it’s relatively quiet, especially along the backstreets surrounding the Piazza del Duomo. At the most southern point of the island is the Castel Maniace. As a military base, it’s normally closed to tourists, but following a recent G8 summit, they have opened it specially. I wish they hadn’t! I’m left rather unimpressed and return to the narrow streets which seem to have a million stories to tell.

We end the day with dinner with more distant relatives in Nicolosi, a relatively quiet town between Etna and Catania.

03 May 2009 – Day 4 – Catania, Forza d’Agrò, Gole di Alcantara

Today was always the odd number: It’s a six day trip and it would mean travelling quite far from Catania to see another “major” site. So it’s lucky my father was born here, as we head north and explore some of the lesser well known sites, which is great as the lack of tourists means it’s like being a fly on the wall to Sicilian life.

We go to Forza d’Agrò, following the river from the coastline, which takes us through some small villages. There are markets on the streets and it’s the first glimpse of what life may have been like for my father back in the 1950s. Shockingly, however small the villages, they all seem to have fantastic sporting facilities. One village has a high quality football field surrounded by a running track and even has stands for the crowd! It does make you wonder where the money came from to pay for it..!

I paddle across part of the river to get some photos and further upstream, when we arrive at Basilica SS Pietro & Paolo, my father starts speaking with a local and discovers that he actually knew my uncle!

Forza d’Agrò is a pleasant little town high into the mountains and despite the mass of construction, it still retains its village feel at the peak, upon which the (unfortunately closed) castle sits. Back at the coast, views from Capo S’Alessio are splendid, along the coast and across the sea to Italy.

There’s still time to kill, so we search for the Gole Alcantara, which (bizarrely) isn’t even in my guide book: It’s fantastic; a winding series of rapids, carving away at the unique rock formations which makes for some great photos. You can even wade up the rapids, but following a lot of rain in April, the current is too strong for that today.

04 May 2009 – Day 5 – Catania, Taormina, Castelmola, Mazzarò, Isola Bella

Taormina is one of Sicily’s most popular destinations. I had been looking forward to today and unfortunately it has left a rather bitter taste in my mouth, and that wasn’t because of the horrible arancino that I was served in one of the central piazzas.

It’s absolutely packed full of tourists and I can’t bear to imagine how busy it is in the summer months. This I could accept, if it wasn’t for the fact that all activity revolves around commerce and taking advantage of all the tourists. It means that this lovely mountaintop town has been transformed into nothing less than an outdoor shopping mall.

The Teatro Greco is slightly better. However, even though I don’t mind the fact that they still use the theatre for shows (after all, its position with dramatic views of Mount Etna in the horizon is absolutely awesome), but they replace the broken, ancient seats with wooden and metallic benches. It makes absolutely no sense and completely ruins the possibility of imagining what it looked like over 1,000 years ago. That being said, sitting in the amphitheatre and writing my journal in the sun, with the panoramic views of Calabria, Etna and the Jonio Sea is almost unbeatable.

Further up the mountain, is a smaller village called Castelmola. It’s quieter than Taormina and for this I prefer it. The castle at the top also gives a view inland as well, and is well worth the steep drive from Taormina.

Back at the coast, we visit Mazzarò, where my father learned to swim, and the beautiful beach at Isola Bella, which certainly lives up to its name! In fact, only at high tide does it actually become an island. Therefore, being low tide, we cross the path and I jump around in the shallow water as the sun disappears into the mountains behind us.

05 May 2009 – Day 6 – Catania

I still haven’t seen Catania, despite staying here nearly a week. Fortunately, there’s enough time before our flight to visit the Piazza del Duomo and the local “Pescheria” fish market. It’s a lovely way to end the trip, surrounded by life as it probably was centuries ago, with the incomprehensible Sicilian cries still ringing in my ears.

18 years ago, at the age of ten, I had my first holiday memory: I was standing on the top of the Empire State Building and I couldn’t believe how small all the cars and people looked on the road far below. It affected me and I remember it like it was yesterday. Sure, I have glimpses of holidays at a younger age, but this moment really stuck in my mind. I’ve always promised to return, especially to see what parallels and differences there are between two of the greatest cities in the world.

The flight from Heathrow Terminal 5 to JFK Terminal 7 was a pleasure. British Airways clearly still know how to train their staff and (unlike American Airlines) the air hostesses constantly smile, they are only too happy to help and they don’t charge $6 if you want an alcoholic drink! Three films later and I’m staring out of the window as we descent over Long Island. The view is fantastic and really shows off the wonderful geography, especially with the sun low in the sky.

I find myself on the metro to Manhattan and it feels like I know this place. The train carriages look familiar and I’m even expecting to recognise locals on the train. It’s only because I’ve seen so many films set in New York, but it’s a strange feeling nonetheless. I snap out of it when a rat the size of a small dog, looks up at me and then darts across my path. Soon afterwards, I’m in a queue and the guy in front of me reaches the cashier and says, “How yoo doin’?” I couldn’t have planned this ‘welcome to New York’ any better!

It’s a relatively long metro journey to 103rd St in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I’m in New York because I have a work conference from Tuesday to Friday in Virginia, and rather than spend two weekends in Washington DC, I thought I’d snap up the chance of a weekend in New York. Unfortunately, last minute planning means I picked a real shithole of a hotel.

Fortunately, the area doesn’t look too bad. Unfortunately, the shithole of a hotel double-booked my room. However, nearly an hour later and I’ve been relocated to a glorious hotel near 79th St and I’ve even been upgraded to a superior double for the hassle caused. I can’t really complain!!

I head out and find Times Square. I can hardly miss it: This ridiculous interchange on Broadway makes Leicester Square look about as entertaining as a single LED in a muddy field. It seems ridiculous to read all the ‘save by using energy efficient light bulbs‘ tips on the metro, when you’re practically blinded by the lights on the streets above. It’s an epileptic fit, waiting to happen.

I walk for what seems like miles and the temperature is dropping by the minute. It starts to snow just as I catch my first view of the Chrysler Building. A few steps later, the Empire State Building shows its peak over the other skyscrapers. It doesn’t seem as overwhelmingly huge as when I was 10 years old, but it seems to grow every step I take towards it.

It becomes overbearingly cold, so I jump back on the metro and show my head at Union Square, but it’s still freezing, so I warm up in a Vietnamese restaurant and then head back to the hotel. It’s nearly 04.00 UK time; it may be the City That Never Sleeps, but Carlo most certainly does.

7th December 2008 – Day 2 – New York

I wake early and head for the financial district. I immediately locate the World Trade Center site and am rather disappointed at the lack of memorials; it’s basically a huge building site. Nearby, the streets around Wall Street remind me of the City of London, with impressive company names and uniquely designed buildings. The New York Stock Exchange is particularly impressive and my only complaint is that I’m here on a Sunday, when most of the streets are empty.

Heading south, I find the port that has ferry rides to Liberty Island. It’s something I never did back in 1990, so I jump on and see the monumental copper statue get closer and closer. The weather has been poor, with bitingly cold winds (not helped by skyscrapers creating wind tunnels on every street) and a photographers worst enemy – a thick, cloudy, white sky. Fortunately, as I approach the Statue of Liberty, the clouds break a little and the statue appears to be reaching towards the sun. The wind is still painfully bitter, but a few ‘Project Jump’ photos warm me up. I’m happy taking photos for ages, but strangers keep seeing my camera and asking me to help them with their family portraits. After the fourth request, I decide to get out of there. I don’t enter the statue; the head has been closed for a while for safety reasons and I’m not too fussed about a close-up of her feet. Furthermore, despite all baggage going through an x-ray, they still require you to hand in bags before going inside the statute, which all seems rather backwards.

Ellis Island is next; it was the arrival point for millions of immigrants and has a relatively impressive museum detailing its history. The experience is made more realistic by the fact I’m sitting on a ferry to Ellis Island, surrounded by foreigners yapping away in Italian and Chinese! However, as I’m checking some of my Liberty photos, one Italian peers over my shoulder and says, “bellissima, questa foto.” He makes my day!

Back on Manhattan, the wind is worse than ever, so I jump back into the subway. The subway is ridiculously cheap: It explains the lack of electronic displays and the woeful attempt to cater for disabled, but it does seem to work quite efficiently. Furthermore, it’s a huge relief to know that the trains are always at the right temperature, something hugely missing from London’s underground. I exit at 14th Street and find “Cozy”; it’s famous for its soups and burgers, so I order exactly those.

I spend the next couple of hours with some friends I met when I visited Washington DC in January. It’s great to see them but when we go into Saks on Fifth Avenue, I’m tired of seeing $2,000 price tags on every item of clothing so I decide to visit the Rockefeller building instead. I’m delighted I do, since I was seriously considering a helicopter flight tomorrow just so I could get a decent picture of the Empire State Building. However, I think I capture exactly that on the 69th floor of the Rockefeller, standing for about an hour in the blistering cold winds.

I avoid catching pneumonia, but unfortunately I’ve missed the meeting point for dinner, so after a few night shots of the Flatiron building, it’s time to head back to the hotel.

8th December – Day 3 – New York

The day starts with an omelette sandwich and a dunkin donut. Well, I’m in the US after all! It’s an early walk across Brooklyn Bridge and today’s weather makes yesterday feel like a day on an African beach. As I cross the enormous bridge, it feels like half the wind from the Atlantic Ocean has blown past my face. It’s worth it though, as the views are exceptional and the bridge incredible.

I stop at a coffee shop, only in order to defrost, but I’m tempted to have a huge slice of chocolate cake and I can’t help adore the fantastic change in accents. The waiter sounds like he has stepped off a 1930s gangster movie set and I don’t dare short-change him!

On the Brooklyn’s promenade, I get an outstanding view of Manhattan. The sun has yet to emerge from the clouds, but that doesn’t stop me trying a Project Jump photo that I thought of yesterday. It’s quite an ambitious photo, that I struggle to get right, but the 73 attempts certainly help warm me up! Typically, the moment I get the photo I want, it’s like The Big Apple flicks a switch and the sun magically lights up the city. I know further photos will look better, but I’m also quite fond of my fingers and they are moments from completely snapping off. A park ranger then approaches me, as he has seen me jumping towards a camera on a tripod. I try to convince him that I’m not a professional, but my face is numb from cold and I can barely get the words out. He asks further questions: “Hoos gonna see these photos?” He backs off when I tell him I’ll show the photos my mother and father..!

I get the subway back to Manhattan and exit at Penn Station. After booking my ticket to Washington DC, I enter Macy’s and manage about half an hour of shopping, but give up and walk down the road to the tallest building in New York. I’m pleased to see that it’s just how I remember it. I was concerned that the Empire State Building was only “special” to me because I saw it when I was ten years old, but the views from the top are just as awesome to a 28-year-old. I don’t remember the heavy security to get in, but what really makes an impression is the attitude of the staff. I have found staff in New York (everywhere – not just the Empire State Building) to be incredibly welcoming and friendly. I guess it’s that American attitude towards work and pride in their work; it really rubs off and makes the experience (whether on a tour or ordering a coffee) so much better. The English should take note.

Next on my packed itinerary is a close-up of the Chrysler building and a wander around Grand Central Station. I can’t quite capture a photo as good as the wonderful “light through the window” famous photo of Grand Central, but I’m impressed nonetheless, especially as police are everywhere and they aren’t anal about people taking photos as they are back in the UK. I particularly like the group of art students sitting on the stairs, sketching scenes from around the main hall.

The sun is now pretty low in the sky and I promised myself I’d take photos from the Brooklyn promenade at sunset, so I catch a train back to Brooklyn. I end up going too far into Brooklyn and it’s a long walk to the river. Strangely, I get asked for directions by so many people, despite the fact I just can’t look more like a tourist (backpack, camera, tripod, map!) I can’t miss the spot I was this morning; there are photographers everywhere, waiting for the right moment during the sunset to capture Manhattan at its finest. It’s a truly gorgeous view and I forget about the cold, lying on the rocks and taking probably my best photos of the trip.

There are so many things I’ve failed to see, but there’s only so much I can pack into the day. I’m pleased that I stop at Times Square at night, as it looks so much better against the dark sky. I’d love to get photos of Little Italy and Chinatown, but when I’m invited to dinner at a French restaurant on the edge of SoHo, I decide to leave my camera at the hotel. I feel naked without my backpack; but it’s pleasant to wander around and feel like a local, with no one staring at me. Incredibly, a guy on the subway starts a conversation with me and we end up talking about London. Then, just before I reach the restaurant, I walk down a quiet street and another pedestrian says hello as he walks by. It’s insane: New Yorkers have a terrible reputation but I’m overwhelmed by their friendliness. Dinner is fantastic and we follow it with drinks (a Long Island Iced Tea!) in Little Italy.

Tomorrow I catch a train to Washington DC before heading west into Virginia. My New York adventure is over and I’ve barely scraped the surface of this great city; I’ve not even seen Central Park. So, it’s an excuse to come back and I’ve confirmed what I feared would not be the case: I most certainly could convert from Londoner to New Yorker.

I wake at 05.00 to the sound of three alarms. Twenty-five hours later I am crashing in a bed on the other side of the world. It’s the furthest I’ve ever travelled and I’ve finally made it to South America!

I’ve already had a few moment of panic; my cards don’t work in Miami International Airport and I’ve completely forgotten to bring documentation that proves I’ve had the yellow fever inoculation. HSBC sort me out with some dollars and soles (I dread to think how much that’s gonna cost me) but my calls to the NHS are fruitless; there is no way of accessing my records until Monday, so I need to keep my fingers crossed until then.

The flights are easy; despite being surrounded by dozens of Orlando-bound families and screaming kids, I block them out with a trio of films; Hancock, Get Smart and (ashamedly) Sex and the City.

I’ve already surprised myself with my Spanish. I can understand a lot and I’ve gaining confidence speaking which is helpful, as even Miami feels like South America; everyone there (staff included) is speaking Spanish as their first language. It’s crazy that as an American, you’d actually feel like you’re in a foreign country!

A shockingly cheap taxi ride and my driver finds my hotel in the Miraflores area of Lima, despite him having what I’m convinced is a severe case of short-sightedness. Nonetheless, I’m safely here, in the capital of Perú and I’m raring to explore.

19th October – Day 2 – Lima

I wake in the City of Kings and I have a day to cram this capital city intro my memory. I’m in Miraflores, the commercial hub which is littered with parks, sports grounds and the main beaches of Lima.

I walk southbound through Parque Kennedy and I’m surprised how quiet it is. I reach the coast by about 08.00 and discover the Parque del Amor. The mosaic wall follows the coastline but is dominated by the huge (’El Beso’) sculpture, of a couple kissing. There is a single couple replicating the sculpture but after a quick exploration of the craggy coast, the park is soon being invaded by tourists.

It’s a three kilometre walk back north before I reach the pyramids of Huaca Pucllana. It’s a huge shrine built with adobe bricks whose Wari architecture has outlasted centuries of erosion and earthquakes. It was used as a religious site and 1,500 years ago was host to human sacrifices and as a cemetery for the ‘lucky’ chosen ones. It’s very impressive and the tour also includes a walk through a small farming area, which is home to hairless dogs, vibrant guinea pigs (which I hope to eat later on this trip) and a pair of mating llamas. The female looks unimpressed and the male is hardly playing up for the cameras; in fact, they look rather bored.

I’m shown some local varieties of plant, including one which has hallucinogenic pins. Hmm… perhaps it’s a little early on the trip for that, but I think it would go down a treat for the two llamas!

It’s about 8km to the centre of Lima, so I hail a cab who drives like a lunatic to get me there for the haggled price. Taxis are in abundance; you can’t walk a block without a taxi honking its horn at you to see if you want a lift. Either that, or they just all fancy me.

I arrive in Plaza de Armas just in time for the changing of the guards. I’m only here for a day so I’m extremely luck to witness this long and brilliantly choreographed display. The Palacia de Gobierno is armed by guards with machine guns and on every corner there is a huge tank with armed soldiers on the alert.

After lunch and a delicious ice cream, I wander around the streets aimlessly, taking in the buzzing area. It feels like a European city centre and it’s only the strong October sun and dry Rio Rimac that reminds me I’m south of the equator.

The Covent San Francisco is an enormous complex which combines a church, courtyard, library and fantastic catacombs. The only disappointment is the ban on photography, especially as the dusty light spilling through the library skylight would have been a keeper. The catacombs were very impressive too, especially the 10m deep well, full of skulls and bones with an artistic symmetrical shape of remains at the top.

My next Peruvian taxi driver is pretty crazy. He wants to talk all the way, which is great Spanish practice, but when he has difficulty explaining the meaning of a word, he shows me with hand movements; as the car starts swerving across the lanes of traffic, I have to quickly reassure him that I understand! So far, I’ve found the locals warm and friendly. I don’t know if that’s because I’m trying in Spanish or whether they really embrace tourism, but I’m happy either way.

I meet an English girl who has just finished the two week trip that I’m about to start and she was unfortunate to have rain at Machu Picchu, but despite this she said that every second was unforgettable. So, it’s good to meet my new friends as our guide introduces himself and talks us through the plan for the forthcoming adventure.

We’re a group of nine; a couple from Vancouver, another from Cork, two girls from Gothenborg, a lady from Stockholm and a girl from Australia. Our guide, Jose, takes us for dinner to get to know each other. It’s a great evening in a restaurant overlooking the choppy-looking Pacific and after stuffing myself with the largest chocolate cake in the world, we make our way back to the hotel.

20th October – Day 3 – Lima, Cusco, Juliaca, Puno

Today was the day I was dreading; I suffer from some serious altitude sickness and all that’s going through my mind is that I’m ruining my trip and missing things I’ll never get to see again. It starts with a bus to the airport to catch our flight to Juliaca, stopping at Cusco on the way. Cusco is around 3,200m and I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but the moment they open the cabin doors I feel short of breath. The pain kicks in about half way to Juliaca and I’m covered in a freezing cold sweat and I’m absolutely convinced I’m going to be sick. The others say turbulence was bad, but I don’t remember that, I just rush for the airport toilet on our arrival.

Our next mode of transport is a small bus and I’m now starting to feel really nauseous. Even though I’m longing to look out of the window to see the Peruvian landscape, I lie down and suffer in silence. We stop once and I force myself outside for fresh air and a photo but despite the stunning view (with llama!) it doesn’t help me at all.

We’re at around 3,800m in this town, the highest I’ve ever been in my life and my body just doesn’t know how to cope. We’re meeting at 19.00 to go through tomorrow’s agenda so I crawl out of bed and with head in hands I listen to all the unbelievable things I know I’m going to miss tomorrow.

The others are great; all of them are sympathetic and offering me drugs left right and centre. However, I fell even worse and I run to the toilet and projectile vomit all over the place. It’s like the world’s worst hangover and the flu all at once.

It’s about 16.00 and I’m straight to bed in our hotel in Puno. I’m told that Coca Tea and five minutes with an oxygen tank will help, so I force the tea down but I’ve absolutely no appetite and I’m sure that I’m instigating a second vomiting session. Fortunately, the oxygen is a treat; every breath clears my head and I’m practically begging the staff to let me keep it!

I’m straight back to bed and despite a few visits from my drug fairies, I’m a shivering wreck alone in bed for the rest of the night.

21st October – Day 4 – Puno, Isla Taquile, Isla Amantani

What a difference a day makes! I have an awful night’s sleep and I feel like I’ve been on an all night bender, but I’m feeling much better. I’ve a cracking headache but that’s probably due to a lack of food and water.

Breakfast is good and every bite I take is a tiny cure. The others all slept badly too, some feel like they have a cold, others are short of breath and most also have this splitting headache. I’m incredibly lucky; it seems that I missed some trips to the pharmacy, a brief tour around Puno (which we also have time for on Day 5) and a meal in the evening. I’m literally praying that I have no more severe symptoms and I wouldn’t wish my experience on anyone else, so I stock up on drugs and set off with the others.

We’re in for a treat; a frantic pedal powered taxi ride to the port is so much fun; we’re weaving in and out of the traffic as our drivers practically race us to the docks of Lake Titicaca.

It’s a four hour boat ride to Isla Taquile. The scenery is sublime and sitting on the roof of the boat is fantastic, with the strong sunshine and the strong rush of air blowing into my lungs, it’s like I’m making up for the shortage of oxygen for the past 24 hours.

It’s a relatively steep ascent to the top of the island and it’s my first taste of the stereotypical Peruvian locals. Loud colour and faces that must have years of stories look perfect with the stunning Lake Titicaca in the backdrop.

I’m feeling better by the minute and despite some stomach issues (which really isn’t pleasant when there is no flush and you have to put used paper in a bin next to the toilet…) I feel good at the 4,000m summit.

We have a great lunch of soup then fresh fish from the lake and after another dash to the toilet, we climb down the other side of the island where our boat is waiting. We’re all absolutely exhausted and we’ve only walked about 1km! We’re all saying the same thing: How the hell are we going to manage the 40km Inca Trek!?

Another hour on the lake and our enthusiastic guide tells us that Lake Titicaca (Titi Q’aqa) means Puma Stone in the local Quechua language. He jokes that the Spanish speaking Peruvians say that the Peruvian side of the lake is called Titi and Bolivian side is called Caca! Of course, the Bolivians say the opposite!

On the next island we will meet some locals who will be our families for the night. A large group of young girls, with brightly coloured clothes, welcome us to Isla Amantani. We are soon paired up and since I’m the odd one out on this tour, I get to join our guide, Jose, with Rosita, who takes us up the hill to meet the Familia Flores. The house is big and I even get my own room with a concrete hard bed and a mountain of locally made blankets which should help through the cold night. After all, at around 4,000m this is the highest point at which I’ll sleep on this trip.

We’re quickly taken to the top of the island at around 4,100m. All the locals gather here each evening and there’s a small, concrete football pitch surrounded by cafe bars and the local primary school.

It’s a daily ritual for the locals to challenge all the tourists and I can barely believe how different I feel to last night, so I’m quick to volunteer. The locals are on man short, so I join the Peruvians and run around (albeit very slowly!) at 4,100m. It’s an experience I’ll never forget.

We relax with teas and hot chocolates (some are mad enough to have alcohol!) before the descent back to our adopted families.

I join the Familia Flores for dinner, which comprises of a pretty good soup starter followed by a bland stew and rice main course. The family is made up of the father (a carpenter), the mother, grandmother (who is about 65 and doesn’t speak Spanish) and Rosita who is 15 years old. The other three daughters are studying in Puno, which is where the father lives most of the time. The kitchen is simple and the family sit on stools eating their food with smiles on their faces. It’s a unique experience.

Before I know it, I’m dragged back up the hill (I can’t begin to describe how quickly you get out of breath at this altitude) and our group all meet up for an evening fiesta. The island is pitch black and it allows a stunning view of the stars, something I’m determined to capture on film before the end of the trip.

We dance with the locals and the songs seem to last forever as we struggle to breath and keep up with the young locals! Once again it’s a fabulous moment and my prayers were answered that I recovered so quickly to experience such a great day.

22nd October – Day 5 – Isla Amantani, Islas Uros, Puno

I wake up and can barely believe I’ve been sleeping on an island at 4,000m on the other side of the world. Once again I’m sitting in my adopted family’s kitchen and I watch the mother prepare pancakes using a fire and simple utensils that could have been used hundreds of years ago. They only make pancakes for the tourists and normally live off the garden for themselves. I drink loads of Coca tea; even though I feel fine, I want to minimise any chances of further altitude sickness.

I give the family a couple of presents as a thank you and I also buy the chullo that they lent me for last night’s fiesta. I’ve seen better (and cheaper) ones elsewhere, but it means more to me to have this one.

I’ve taken photos of the family and I’d love for them to have copies. They have practically no ‘unnecessay’ possessions and I would hope that they would like them. Since there’s obviously no post, Jose says that if I send them to him, he can ensure they reach them.

After goodbyes, I meet the rest of the group by the lakeside, where there are dozens of locals trading food which has just arrived from Puno by boat. It’s unbelievable to watch such simple lifestyles when not far away is a town with all the modern conveniences. The population of such communities is diminishing; children go to secondary school in Puno and then never want to return. Fortunately for these islands, there are enough people who like the idea of no taxes, no crime and living by the three rules: “Do not steal, do not be idle, do not lie.”

We’re back on the boat for three hours to reach Islas Uros. Once again, the views are amazing, especially as we approach these unreal man-made floating islands.

As I take my first step on one of the islands, my feet sink a few centimetres. The water is about 30m deep and I’m standing on 2m of reed branches. The ‘ground’ must constantly be relayed as the old branches rot into the river. It’s unthinkable that these people live in huts made of branches when they know what other options there are in life. Saying that, ever single local seems happy. From children playing with sticks to elders comfortably watching the world go by.

Declan and Tiff row us to another island and there’s even a chance to stroke a pet condor; Declan and I are the only ones to volunteer and we’re blown away by its huge wingspan and strong beak.

We jump back in our boat which quickly gets use back to Puno and I get to do all the things I missed on Day 3. The markets are fun, especially the haggling and watching Aileen in action. Most store owners are old women and they knit away whilst their children play around with random objects. It’s all so simple and yet so normal to them.

Puno itself is quite nice in the very centre and the streets are crammed with school kids in the their military-looking uniforms. Later, we have dinner and a few of us stay on for a quick Pisco Sour, which would be massively tempting as the beginning of a big session, if it wasn’t for the fact we’re still at 3,800m. Tomorrow is another early start so it’s yet another early bed time.

23rd October – Day 6 – Puno, Cusco

Today was always going to be a day of travelling. It’s about a six hour bus drive from Puno to Cusco but it’s confirmed what we were warned about last night: The farmers near Cusco are striking and have blocked the main road. Anyone who tries to pass will be attacked with rocks and stones.

It means a detour that lasts around 10 hours. Fortunately the detour is a cross-country, gravel track through the mountains proving beautiful views and a chance to see the real Peru. The difference between the lives of the town and country Peruvians is stark. Locals watch in awe as a busload of tourists drive by and children wave and run alongside the bus.

The route also takes us higher that anywhere I’ll be on this trip at over 4,300m at Lake Layo. Strangely, much of the landscape actually looks like Scotland’s Highlands; just a lot bigger! Some mountains have snow and there are others that remind me of the red, wavy-looking Atlas Mountains in Morocco. One ascent is particularly fun; the road is throwing the bus all over the place and the cliff edge is becoming ever so much closer to our tyres. But it’s worth it as the view from the top is outstanding and it turns a long bus trip into a bus adventure, especially on the few occasions we get stuck in the road.

Nonetheless, 10 hours in 10 hours and I’m grateful for my ipod as we crawl northbound towards Cusco. We finally arrive and I’m impressed with Cusco’s centre. It’s incredibly touristy, but the huge square and Spanish-looking buildings give it lots of character.

We visit the great cathedral before going for dinner, by which time I’m exhausted so I’m pleased to hit the sack in what is probably our best hotel yet.

24th October – Day 7 – Cusco, Saqsaywaman, Pisaq, Urubamba, Ollantaytambo

Two days in a row I’ve woken without a headache so I hope this means I’m finally used to this altitude. First thing I need to do is pack a maximum of 6kg for the porters to carry on the Inca Trek. This includes my mattress and sleeping bag, so it looks like I’m gonna absolutely stink over the next few days! The porters carry 25kg (including my 6kg) so I feel I’ll do well if I cope with my 12kg of camera gear: I’d better get some good shots!

First stop today us a bus ride up the valley hills which gives a fantastic view of Cusco. The next thing to see is Saqsaywaman, which means Satiate Falcon in Quechua, but I prefer to say it with a Jamaican accent.

Pisaq is the next destination for lunch but the road travels through the Sacred Valley, which offers stunning scenery and is the agricultural hub for the Cusco region.

The restaurant seems out of place; it’s a great buffet but the place is full of tourists. I think we’ve eaten relatively well but I guess travelling with a group hardly means we’ve going to be trying local eateries. Mind you, in this restaurant we’re kept entertained by the miserable bastard who serves the puddings, who we nickname “Asshole”.

Urubamba is the next small town and we stop for a demonstration of how Chicha is prepared and, more importantly, how it is drunk! The traditional Chicha is disgusting, we all agree on that; but the strawberry one goes down a treat and it’s only the knowledge of being at 3,800m that stops me drinking more!

Arriving in Ollantaytambo, I cant help but see the enormous Inca ruins. I’ve seen a few already but this is so well preserved that you can really appreciate the amazing architecture. We climb it in the blistering sun and from the top we can see a film crew filming a new tv series (”Eldorado”). After exploring the ruins, conquered so easily by the Spanish, we approach the crew and I’m shocked how close we get. I’m a couple of steps away from the main cast, including Shane West who apparently is well known, but I’ve never heard of him!

It’s dinner, then back to the hotel in Ollantytambo, for my last night’s sleep before the adventure I’ve been looking forward to more than anything else in my life.

25th October – Day 8 – Ollantaytambo, Piskacuchu, Yunkachimpa

It’s tough. I’ve completed the first day of the four day Inca Trek, from Piskacuchu (”Point 82km”) to the campsite at Yunkachimpa. It’s not too far and there are only a few steep ascents bu the weight of my camera gear is obscene. The porters somehow carry double and used to carry around 70kg before restrictions and regulations came to force six years ago, so I count myself lucky.

We’ve hiked for six hours and the scenery is very impressive. Our starting point was at 2,500m and we’re now camping at (a very cold) 3,100m, so although we’re high, we’ve only at what seems like the base of the Andes.

There are checkpoints throughout the trek where we all meet and locals (I must admit I didn’t think anyone lived in this are) sell chocolates, soft drinks and alcohol for the brave!

We’re also spoilt; for the 11 hikers (Dan and Anna from England have joined us), we have over 20 porters, Breakfast, lunch and dinner is served and although it’s welcome, it feels a bit of a cheat.

Nonetheless, we’re all exhausted, so when it starts to absolutely chuck it down with deafening thunder, we call it a night.

26th October – Day 9 – Yunkachimpa, Dead Woman’s Pass, Paqaymayo

It’s a dreadful start to the day as Declan and Aileen must return to Cusco. Dec has been sick all night needs a horse to take him back. He’s pale as a sheet and understandably gutted. He either has experience some awful altitude sickness or, more likely, got food poisoning.

It serves as a reminder to the rest of us that this could happen to anyone and we need to everything possible to minimise such bad luck. So, we head off slowly and get even slower, as we meander up the mountains, between the wooded areas and through the clouds. It’s a real killer day and I cant describe the satisfaction in reaching the 4,200m summit, with glorious views at Dead Woman’s Pass.

It took five hours to reach the top so it’s an enormous relief that the last two hours is a (steep) descent to our second campsite, Paqaymayo. Here, there are even shower facilities, but since we’re up at 3,700m, they are obscenely cold. It’s a refreshing way to end the day and relax in the campsite, surrounded by the enormous Andes and listening to the waterfalls in the distance.

27th October – Day 10 – Paqaymayo, Runkuraway, Sayacmarca, Phuyupatamarca

I sleep fantastically and wake at 06.00 in my solo tent. I’m very lucky to have a tent to myself as a solo traveller should be sharing, but I’m the spare one in an odd-numbered group.

Today is a day of ups and downs, bizarre weather, diverse geography and another injury. It starts with a steep ascent, but I’m full of energy today and I find it considerably easier than yesterday so I reach the Runkuraqay High Pass quite quickly. Still, it’s steep ascents like this that make the Inca Marathon story even more impressive: Every year the porters race across the full length of the Inca Trek, which is the same distance as a marathon. Incredibly, the record is 3h15m! It still baffles me now to think about it.

The next section is downhill, passing the impressive Sayacmarca Inca site and down towards our lunch meeting point. The diversity is unreal. It rained from 17.00 yesterday, all night and was still raining up to the 3,900m peak today. The other side of the mountain is called Cloud Forrest and it’s obvious why. The landscape is suddenly jungle-like and the clouds hover over the entire route, with mountains eerily disappearing and reappearing within a matter of seconds.

Just a kilometre or so later, we emerge from the jungle and the sun hits like a burning furnace. The weather is so unpredictable and so random, it means two people travelling 30 minutes apart would have an entirely different experience.

However, disaster strikes our group again as on the descent from the Runkuraqay High Pass, behind me I hear a scream of pain from Mathilda and the few of us near her rush to help. Fortunately, Dan and Anna are doctors and they are confident that it is just a sprain, but she’s in agony and has to reach the meeting point with the help of others. News travels fast and the porters react quickly: She has no choice as they prepare to actually carry her to the next camping point! It’s a few kilometres of undulating, rocky ground, much of which around narrow paths with sheer cliff drops and yet the two porters who take turns carrying her are practically jogging all the way! It’s unbelievable how strong they are and how sure they are of their own footing.

The views today are the best yet. I feel like we’re deep in the mountains especially looking across the jungle landscape from the Saqyacmarca Inca ruins. The last few kilometres were absolutely breathtaking. The narrow undulating path is easy to walk but I’m stopping every few steps for photos.

The campsite is also on a spectacular mountain peak and you can see for miles in all directions and it’s today that makes the trek worth it.

It’s Leah’s birthday and the porters have a surprise; as we sit in our cold communal tent, they bring out a huge birthday cake! The food the chefs have prepares has been amazing, but to manage to bake a cake with utensils they have carried for 35km is nothing short of brilliant! At 19.30 it’s time for an extremely early night. We’re still at 3,600m and there’s a long descent to 2,500m tomorrow.

28th October РDay 11 РPhuyupatamarca, Wi̱aywayna, Machupicchu, Waynapicchu, Cusco

It’s an incredibly early 02.45 wake-up. We leave at 03.00 in the pitch blackness and some people aren’t too happy about it. It’s mainly my fault as when we were told that we were staying in a campsite two hours behind most other trekkers, I was gutted and asked if we could leave earlier to catch up. No one complained then but nearly everyone is annoyed now.

I actually find walking in the dark quite easy; my torch lights the next couple of steps I need to take and it’s all downhill. Unfortunately, not everyone has a torch so the pace is painfully slow. Furthermore, we have two more injuries: Kim’s knees are shot to pieces and Tiff has pain in one knee as well. Since we’ve only one guide, Victor refuses to let me walk ahead. It’0s understandable but so frustrating as the two hour hike to Wiñaywayna ends up taking four hours. It’s therefore 07.00 and we’re at the point at which most trekkers left two hours ago. I’m livid but there’s nothing that can be done, but what doesn’t help is that despite the fact we are just 6km away from Machu Picchu, people are happy to stop and have breakfast. Our guide, Victor, says it’s the strangest thing he’s seen in the 500 times he has done this trek.

We finally set off at 07.30 and finally we’re allowed to go at our own pace. I can hear the train at the bottom of the valley and it pains me to know that I’ll arrive when hundreds of people are already there. We’re told it’s an hour and half to reach the Sun Date of Machu Picchu but I’m determined to get there as quickly as possible. It takes me just 40 minutes. Words can’t describe my feelings as I climb the final few steps, walk through the Sun Gate and get my first view of Machu Picchu. I’m overwhelmed with emotion and burst into tears. It’s the happiest moment of my life.

I’ve really enjoyed travelling with the group and I wouldn’t change that at all, but to travel the last part on my own means I’m left with my own thoughts and makes the experience so much more personal. I’m blessed with great weather and I make my way down the mountain, unable to keep my eyes off this unbelievable site.

Inevitably, there are tourists everywhere, including those non-trekkers who just stay in hotels just a 30 minute drive away. It’s a strange feeling as I resent them being here and I don’t feel they deserve to be. However, I’m confident there is no way in the world they would have the same joy has those who have done the trek.

Of course, it’s time for photos and after the obvious postcard shots, I take some of my ‘Project Jump’ photos. I’m wearing my Superman t-shirt (I couldn’t resist!) and some Americans cheer me with each jump, asking for more and more! It’s very funny but inevitable attracts the wrong attention. A security guard isn’t impressed and tells me off, but as he approaches, he notices my tripod and camera lenses. He immediately assumes I’m not just a tourist and says I need a permit to take photos. He says I need to go to the main entrance and get a professional photo permit: It costs $7,000!!

My rusty Spanish gets me out of trouble and I keep a low profile until the rest of the group arrive, just before 10.00. Group shots over, we’re told we only have enough time for a two hour tour, or to climb the dauntingly-looking Waynapicchu. Everyone chooses the tour except me. It’s a shame I miss the tour but the view from the peak of Waynapicchu is stunning and the best of the hike. The climb is tough; nearly all steep steps on narrow paths on cliff edges. It even involves crawling through a small cave, dragging my camera bag behind me. The top is full of photographers, standing precariously on the huge rocks that seem to defy gravity. I stay for 20 minute before meeting the group back near the train station, at the base of the mountain.

The journey home involves a train and a bus and my first view of Machu Picchu keeps running through my mind. I don’t know why it has affected me so much; I’m just so joyful that I’ve seen the site that I’ve wanted to see more than anything else in the world.

29th October – Day 12 – Cusco

Most people today have stomach problems. I’ve pretty much been like that the whole trip, but last night’s guinea pig seems to have solidified a few things!

It’s a day of relaxation, following the 45km Inca trek. Some sleep, some go shopping and I join a few at a local Cusco market, which sells everything under the sun. Some people don’t like to be photographed, whilst others lap it up, including the lady who arranges the pig heads symmetrically for me! Everything is cheap, from freshly made pineapple juice (delicious) to the lamb being skinned in front of my eyes.

I spend much of the rest of the day in bars and restaurants. Cusco is pretty, in particular the main square, but I’m constantly approached by people selling things, from finger puppets to hats and jumpers, and from massages to weed and cocaine (”no problemo amigo – la policía no está aquí!”)

The massage sounds just like what I need and I search around for a deal. However, I need to be careful; if the massage price is too good it means it’s not actually a massage! I haggle one price down for an hour’s full body massage. It’s frighteningly cheap and if it was any cheaper I think she would “massage me long time”!

We have a few drinks in the evening accompanied by pizza and live Peruvian music and also check out the highest Irish bar in the world. It’s then a slightly more respectful 23.00 bedtime to prepare for tomorrow’s flight to the Amazon jungle!

30th October – Day 13 – Cusco, Tambopata National Reserve

Landing in Puerto Maldonado is like being in a different country on the other side of the world. It’s 34 degrees Celsius and the humidity makes me sweat like a pig within minutes.

It’s not long before I see my first tarantula; there are two of them on the ceiling, motionless and looking evil!

It’s an hour by bus on a dusty track surrounded by thick jungle, until we reach the Rio Tambopata in a village called Infierno (so-called due to the ridiculous heat and surplus number of mosquitoes!) at which point we take a canoe-style boat for another hour southbound. Climbing the river banks and walking ten minutes through the jungle, the narrow path guides us to the Posada Amazonas Lodge. It’s quite a large complex, built from wood and ropes and it’s truly impressive. Rooms are open to the wild with just net curtains protecting the beds at night. We’re not just open to the wild either; since rooms are built with bamboo, you can hear every sound form the neighbours as if the walls were non-existent. It makes for some interesting toilet trips!

Dusk is approaching so we trek for 20 minutes through the jungle, spotting giant ants, butterflies everywhere and listen to the sound of monkeys echoing through the trees. Even the trees themselves are amazing; my favourite being the walking (yes – walking!) trees that look like they are upside down with dozens of trunks, new ones growing all the time allowing it to move up to 10cm every year!

We reach the viewing tower, which shakes like crazy as we climb nearly 40m, but the view above the canopy is sublime. It really hits home how deep and mysterious the jungle is. The sun dips behind the horizon and we climb down into darkness and find our way back to the lodge and sleep with nature all around.

31st October – Day 14 – Tambopata National Reserve

It stays warm throughout the night and I sleep very well, with the calming natural noises of the jungle in the background! Nonetheless, it’s a 04.00 start in order to make our way to some lakes nearby.

The jungle is all about seeing the wildlife and although we see five otters (of which you are normally lucky to see one), the birds just don’t show up. So it’s time to go piranha fishing instead!

The guides catch a few yellow-bellied ones but no one else has any luck. I’m determined and try again and again, but the little buggers keep eating all the steak I’m throwing at them without taking the hook!

At this point, the rain forest sticks by its name and it absolutely chucks it down. It means our visit to the clay licks is delayed and we can’t see the parrots and macaws that normally come in their hundreds.

Instead, back at the lodge, we chill and watch the brilliant dusty titi monkeys and the awesome howling monkeys, that sound like cheeky teenagers wetting themselves with laughter!

After dinner is our night walk. I’ve been looking forward to this but within two minutes I’m totally freaked out. It doesn’t help that it’s Halloween today! The jungle is like a completely different place at night; insects glow, the evil ones lurk and ever sound creeps me out! Furthermore, Keith and Naomi (another Canadian couple) find an enormous tarantula in their bathroom and it’s ridiculously fat, hairy and fast!

One the night walk, I like the sleepy-looking Phyllomedusa palliata frog, but apparently it is obscenely poisonous. The caiman is like a small crocodile but it’s super quick and looks like it could take your hand off – not good when it’s pitch black and they can grow as big as me! There’s a great wolf spiderweb, guarded by its creator, which yet again is poisonous and it’s at head height just one metre from the path, so one step in the wrong direction could cause all kinds of problems!

Other insects are enormous and look like made up creatures from sci-fi films. I even see glowing green eyes as an insect flies around me head; you just can’t make this stuff up!

Back in the lodge I have candles everywhere and check ever step to ensure I’m not barefoot treading on a fat, hairy tarantula! After double checking my bed (!) I settle down to my last night in the jungle.

1st November – Day 15 – Tambopata National Reserve, Cusco, Lima

At 04.00 there’s a tiny knock on my bamboo wall. It’s time for bird-watching and involves a 15 minute walk to the clay licks. Despite the lack of rain, it’s still wet from yesterday and totally the wrong conditions to see the hundreds of parrots. It’s a shame I’ve missed this spectacle, but worth the try.

A trek, boat ride ad bus journey later (I do like the sign that says buses are not permitted to cross the bridge with passengers as it may collapse!) and we’re back at Puerto Maldonado for the flight to Lima, stopping briefly at Cusco.

We’re in for a treat on the final evening. After all, a visit to South America isn’t complete without a football match! Jose’s Cusco-based team Cienciano is playing the league champions (Universitario) who are the richest team in Lima. The game doesn’t disappoint. Two goals, a yellow card every few minutes, two red cards (including one of Cienciano’s coach who is practically scrapping with the ref!) and of course, the mosh-pit style violence in the stands! We shelter in the “expensive” seats (30 soles which is about $10!) just metres away from camera crew and injured players. Despite the 80,000 seat stadium being half empty, the atmosphere is everything I hoped it would be, living up to the South American football reputation. It’s a good taster for my potential future visit to Boca versus River!

It’s all goodbyes at dinner and I settle down for my last night in Peru.

2nd November – Day 16 – Lima, Miami, London

I arrive at Lima’s airport and meet Mark, an Englishman who is part of the ‘other’ Gap Adventures group. There has been an unspoken rivalry between the two groups and it’s a great shame.

Over some beer, Mark tells me all about his group as we we sit in Miami airport. With 15 people in their three week trip, it was a great chance for more fun had we merged when we met in Puno. It also turns out that Jose (our guide) was even better than we thought. Theirs acted stoned all the time, tried to sleep with all the girls and even made them pay for airport taxes and other fees that were already part of the trip’s cost.

I then have further problems with the airport staff (seriously – what the hell is wrong with these people!?) as the waitress tries to rip me off with the beer prices. I complain to the manager and he says I don’t have to pay the bill. Free beer! What a way to end a holiday!

Our guide was fantastic; a great guy who turned our Peruvian trip into an adventure. My special thanks to Jose and all of the great people in our group for a journey I will never forget.

———————————
I’ve financed this trip, but taking the opportunity to raise some money for Parkinson’s Disease Society. I’m therefore hoping as many people as possible will sponsor the 45km Inca Trail hike (www.justgiving.com/carlobezoari). All money donated will go directly to Parkinson’s Disease Society. Please give generously!
———————————

13 months ago AC Milan became European Champions and I had just visited a rain-soaked Madrid, completely devoid of tourists. This weekend in Madrid was sunny, warm and full of young travellers taking in the sights.

It would have been great for photos, but apart from a brief tour of Parque del Buen Retiro and a couple of other of the capital’s attractions, I’ve managed to spend most of the weekend in restaurants and bars, stuffing my face with tapas and cañas. Vida difícil!

This school reunion doesn’t start off too well. Andy (who I’ve seen once in eight years) arrives at Gatwick and finds his ticket is for the Friday flight, not today’s (Thursday). A £75 upgrade, some wine and beer and a ridiculously short flight to Germany later, we’re wandering around Köln trying to find the tourist attractions.

Where. The. Hell. Are. They.

It could be the awful weather, but this city (bar the excellent Dom, which holds the largest free-swinging bell in the world) isn’t particularly inviting for the snappy happy tourist.

Of course, this trip was never really about photography, but all about experiencing some German culture… drinking.

4th April 2008 РK̦ln, Wuppertal

I can’t even kid myself that this holiday is about photography any more. Today I meet with Moritz, the German exchange student I last saw in 1997. Moritz gives Andy, Mark and me a mini-tour of Wuppertal before showing us where to buy pizza. He kindly then shows us the direction to a bar…

Things go a bit foggy as the night progresses and fortunately the camera brings back all the memories, so it turns out to be a photography trip after all!

My first experiences of this Eastern European country are mixed. I can’t miss the huge rich/poor divide; I’ve witnessed scenes that resemble what I have seen in Africa; I’ve also seen some beautiful landscapes and met some very friendly locals.

Firstly, everything seems to happen in slow motion. It takes two hours for me to collect my hire car, since there was no record of my payment and that led to a random trip across Bucharest with some non-English speaking bloke. My first petrol payment then took about 15 minutes. The credit card machine appeared to throw a fit at the thought of contacting a UK bank for payment. Yet, the locals are all delightfully friendly and this slow pace just seems to be part of every day life.

BraÅŸov is different. 150km north of Bucharest and it’s a lively place with tourism, commercialism and plenty to see. The trip took forever and I constantly panicked about driving straight past it, which is laughable now that I’ve seen the unmissable Hollywood-style “BraÅŸov” sign on the mountain beside it.

My trip was bizarre in itself. I’ve never seen so many new homes being built. In one area there must have been literally thousands of new houses. There’s clearly a market for those with money, but it’s shocking to see what only can be described as “shacks” just beside some of these expensive-looking buildings. About 50km north of Bucharest I hit some traffic. The road has suddenly turned into a field of potholes and I’m making about 1km every 10 minutes. One driver behind me isn’t prepared to wait any longer; he literally falls off the road onto the nearby field and bounces his way about 200m through the thick grass alongside the road. Having reached the front of the queue, he flies up the embankment and lands back on the road. I can’t help but laugh!

In BraÅŸov, although I only take my camera out for one photo, I can see I’ll have plenty to visit tomorrow. Tonight I settle for a nice meal and some local beers; my waiter also introduces me to Balinka – which could cause problems as it’s actually rather tasty.

15th March 2008 – BraÅŸov, SighiÅŸoara

The weather was warm and sunny yesterday from Bucharest, over the snow Carpathian Mountains and into BraÅŸov. It’s therefore disappointing that it’s cloudy and raining this morning. I wonder around and visit the (pretty awful) Historical Museum, hoping the clouds will clear. Looking north, it seems that the weather is better, so when the rain starts coming down harder, I jump in the car and head towards Sighisoara.

I wasn’t planning to visit the birthplace of Vlad Å¢epeÅŸ (aka Dracula), but I’m glad I do. The sun is out and it means I can climb the cobbled steps up the old town in SighiÅŸoara and get some great views. A few hours wandering and a large plate of pasta later, I’m back in the car heading back to BraÅŸov.

I’m making good progress on the 150km drive, until I suddenly spot a police car. Before I can utter a profanity, the policeman is pointing at me and telling me to pull over. I’m absolutely bricking it, since I left the paperwork in the hotel room. Worse still, the policeman doesn’t speak a word of English and using hand gestures he indicates that the speed limit is 50kph. Apparently I was doing 80. Shit.

In my defence, there are absolutely no signs but all I can do is point to my phrase guide and keep repeating that I’m sorry, “lertaÅ£i-mă, lertaÅ£i-mă, lertaÅ£i-mă…”

I have to sign a document that I’m sure says I’ve been given two points, but the policeman then keeps saying “kein problem” (!?) and that it’s just a warning. With a huge sigh of relief, I crawl back to BraÅŸov.

Being St. Patrick’s Day, I find an Irish bar and before I know it, I’m on a Guinness pub crawl with a couple of great Irish blokes who live in Romania. More locals join us and we end up in an absolutely lovely house with dozens of cats. There’s absolutely no way I’ll be in a good state tomorrow…

16th March 2008 – BraÅŸov, Râşnov, Bran, BucureÅŸti

The lack of food and surplus Guinness last night means I wake up feeling slightly worse for wear. I’ve also lost most of the morning which means I’ve a lot to cram into the day.

The weather in BraÅŸov is a little disappointing again so I decide against climbing the hill towards the Hollywood-style Brasov sign and instead follow Mark’s (one of the Irish chaps) advice to drive to Poiana BraÅŸov. He’s spot on as the view from the winding road is great. It’s a shame I didn’t get any close up shots of the square, but I guess that’ll teach me for going drinking with the locals!

Poiana BraÅŸov itself is a ski resort just south-west of BraÅŸov and it’s surprising how quickly the landscape changes. It’s as if I go around a corner from spring and find myself in winter. The snow-covered mountains are covered in green trees and it’s very pretty. There’s a buzzing atmosphere in the town too and I stop to watch the people sledging, take some photos and have a local dish in a restaurant.

Further west, I reach Râşnov, which is famous for its fortress. The town is actually like stepping into the past, as locals play in the streets with any random items (a small rock for a couple of kids) they can find. In the fields, people of all ages play football together and it suddenly feels a million miles away from home. There are huge potholes in the road so I’m weaving around them, with one eye looking for the fortress and one eye ensuring I don’t rip a wheel off my car.

The fortress is pretty funky and it’s like a mini-village at the top of a big rock. It’s also heavily damaged and floorboards creek and bend as I walk around. The fortress overlooks Râşnov and the surrounding area and after I have a go at archery (I’m not sure if it’s shockingly difficult or whether I’m just totally crap at it), it makes me realise how hard it must have been for archers to defend themselves from the tiny view-holes in the fortress.

Another 20km away lies Bran. It’s one of Romania’s top tourist spots as the castle is the one in which Dracula (the fictional one) lived. Apparently Dracula (the real one) only ever went there once. That doesn’t stop the locals from celebrating this little town. There are people selling “Dracula Blood” wine, there’s a campsite called “Vampire Camping” and everywhere you look there is lettering that drips with red paint!

The castle had just closed by the time I get there, but I’ve been told a few times that inside is nothing special. I take a few shots and I consider staying until sunset so that I can see how it looks at night – but I’ve a long journey so decide against it and jump back in the car.

It’s lucky I do, since the journey is knackering and it feels like half of Romania’s population seems to be heading back to Bucharest too. Worse still, after driving for about five hours today, I get completely lost in the capital. The traffic is unbelievable and it reminds me of driving in Paris; it’s every car for themselves. After aimlessly driving around for about an hour, I spot Steaua Bucharest’s football ground, fortunately all lit up since there’s a game on and I finally find my bearings (football – my constant saviour!) I had treated myself with fancy accommodation on the last night and I couldn’t be more grateful; the hotel is really gorgeous. I’d love to experience Bucharest nightlife but it’s already 9pm and I’m exhausted and starving, so I treat myself again and order a delicious room service.

17th March 2008 – BucureÅŸti

My alarm goes off and I jump back in the car. The hotel charged me for the internet access but they don’t have any record of the room service. I should have kept my mouth shut but, after all, there are two empty dishes in my room. After a few phone calls, they give up and say that no one knows anything about me ordering room service. It’s particularly good news since I thought I ate far too much, so I’m pleased to hear I didn’t have a meal after all…

The Lonely Planet guide book says “Forget Prague, forget Budapest: Bucharest is Eastern Europe’s secret.” I can’t help but disagree. To me, it’s just a very cosmopolitan city which is absolutely buzzing with rush hour traffic and littered with high rise buildings. It actually reminds me of Milan more than any other city. It’s a large city too, and since there’s little advice on what to see, I decide to tour by car and stop every time I see something interesting. First stop is the simply gigantic Casa Poporului parliament building. Apparently it’s the 15th largest building in the world, not far behind the Pentagon (although it looks much larger to me).

Back in the car I find a tranquil park, which is a pleasant relief between all the frantic driving. My flight is at three, so I decide to head back early in case I get lost again, but I easily (but slowly) make my way past the Piata Victoriei and the Arcul de Triumf (practically identical to the Paris one – but unfortunately covered in scaffolding as I go by) towards the airport.

In the airport, there’s another long wait while they check the condition of the car before I head to the departure board just before one o’clock. I’m scratching my head as I don’t see a three o’clock flight. Hmm. There is a 13.40 flight though. And it says “check-in closed”. Shiiiiit. I’m absolutely petrified of the thought of missing my flight so it’s a huge relief when I’m checked in by a trainee member of staff who simply says, “Be fast!”

With that, I say my (quick) goodbye to Romania.

The weather is chucking the plane around like a rag doll and it isn’t too long before the woman in the seat behind me starts throwing up. I hear another stewardess’ voice trying to console her: “Would you like another bag?”

A few minutes later and the same voice comes on the loudspeaker. “Due to the turbulent conditions, we will not be serving any hot drinks. We will continue to serve cold drinks… including alcohol.”

I can’t help but grin.

I’ve landed in Switzerland and unfortunately I’m three months too early to see Italy in the European Championships. So instead, I jump on train from Genève to Täsch.

The journey itself is easy and picturesque, in particular as the train works its way around Lake Genève. I can imagine that in summer, still with the snow-covered Alps in the distance, but with a greener landscape, it must be beautiful.

Täsch is the stopping point for vehicles before the ski resort of Zermatt. It’s not very exciting and the nightlife is hardly famous. In fact, the most exciting thing about the village is the cross high on the mountain, which is lit up at night. It’s an early night before my first day of skiing in nearly two years.

7th March 2008 – Day 2 – Zermatt

The train to Zermatt is quick and runs every 20 minutes. Despite my first view of the Matterhorn (I’ll call it Matterhorn, instead of Cervino since I’m on this side of the border), Zermatt doesn’t impress me at first sight. There is construction everywhere, which in itself is infuriating since the buildings are practically on top of each other already.

Nonetheless, it’s an absolute joy to actually take another train (with heating!) to 3089m and then jump off and start skiing straight away! The weather is pretty poor today and the clouds refuse to shift, but it’s fantastic to be back in the Alps.

8th March 2008 – Day 3 – Zermatt

The weather is better today, although it’s still not the clear blue sky that welcomed me on Thursday. However, the clouds don’t budge from around 2500m and it allows some great views across the mountain peaks. As the ski-lifts emerge from the clouds and the sun hits you like a burning furnace, it’s like everything below the clouds doesn’t exist anymore.

Although it’s wonderful for the train to take you from Zermatt directly to the ski-slopes, it’s bizarre that the actual ski region is seemingly so far from the resort itself. The geography of the area is such that it’s not easy to get from one ski zone to another. Worse still, is that you can’t actually ski down to the resort. It means you either have to time your runs in order to catch a train back, or you have a 2km walk home with skis on your back.

On closer inspection, Zermatt has got some stereotypical Swiss buildings. However, it’s so densely built up that it loses its attraction. I think it says everything when I realise I don’t have a single photo of the town itself.

9th March 2008 – Day 4 – Zermatt

Now that’s what skiing is all about! Today was by far the best day, with excellent weather, great skiing and by far the best mountain views I’ve ever seen in my life. I expected to see so many glorious views in Zermatt, but today surpassed anything I could have hoped for.

I’ve broken a few ‘firsts’; skiing at over 3800m, skiing on a glacier and standing at the peak of the Matterhorn Glacier Paradise at 3883m. As one person near me said, it’s like standing on top of the world. I can’t even imagine how they constructed this platform, as taking the lift through the clouds and hundreds of metres above the piercing glaciers was nerve-wrecking enough!

It’s an amazing ski down the mountain, with the Matterhorn at my side and the huge, open pistes covered in fantastic powder-covered snow. I take it all in, as tomorrow is another four hour train back to Genève for my flight home.

I’m sitting on a transatlantic flight reading American Psycho. Rather worryingly (and coincidentally), the fat American sitting next to me keeps speaking and grunting to himself and giving people aggressive stares. Fortunately, I survive the flight and land in Virginia. It’s my tenth state but the first time I’ve been to the US since 1991 so I’m looking forward expand my photography into a new continent. However, I’m only in Virginia for about an hour as my real destination is another new state for me – the District of Colombia. I’m swiftly processed through immigration, but only once I confirm that I haven’t got any terrorist links and I was not involved with the Nazi concentration camps between 1939 and 1945.

I arrive in Washington DC and the first thing that strikes me is how incredibly empty it is. I exit Foggy Bottom Metro and apart from a few stalls and students, the place looks deserted. It’s also very spacious and modern-looking but (with the USA’s short history) that doesn’t surprise me. It’s like a Disney film set as everything looks too clean and organised; it just looks completely fake. I mean, there are even hundreds of tame squirrels jumping around your feet!

I walk a few blocks (I’ve waited years to say that…) to find my hotel and I’m pleased to see that I’ve got the largest room I could ever dream of having. Although I really can’t think why I might need my own kitchen!

It was an early flight from Heathrow so with the time difference it’s now about 1pm and I’ve got half a day to explore Washington. I immediately head south towards The Mall. I’m overwhelmed by the size of everything and the whole area is littered with monuments and memorials. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial is particularly moving, with 1,421 names across a huge black wall. Apparently the designer, Maya Lin, was 21 when she won a competition for the design. Strangely, she only got a B-grade!

The Korean War Veterans Memorial, with the details of the number of dead, injured or missing fighters, is also shocking. I see a postcard of this memorial when the ground is covered in snow and it looks absolutely amazing. I can only hope that I’m lucky and the snow falls before I leave in eight days.

Next is the Lincoln Memorial; I actually feel nervous as I walk up the famous steps towards the statue. I’ve seen it in so many films and knowing that it means so much to Americans is very emotional. Abraham doesn’t disappoint; the statue is enormous, powerful and looks so pristine that it could have been made yesterday. Despite the hundreds of tourists, it doesn’t feel crowded and I’ve never seen such respect for other photographers as I have in Washington so far. Everyone appears to wait for their turn and avoid walking in front of each other.

Seeing the Washington Monument in the distance is great, especially with the lovely reflection in the water which reminds me of the scenes in Forrest Gump after the Vietnam War. Unfortunately the sun is already low in the sky and I’m losing the possibility of good shots. In any case, there are no more tickets to climb the Monument today, so I’m advised by a very friendly member of staff to come back tomorrow morning. The people who work or volunteer are all so incredibly pleasant that it really makes you feel welcome as a tourist. Saying that, when I ask her whether morning or evening is better for the view from the top, her enthusiastic answer isn’t exactly what I’m looking for: “Any time is great! As long as there’s sun!”

I make my way to the White House and I’m surprised how close the perimeter is to the building. The fence isn’t high and there are very few policemen around. Mind you, every single one of them carries a gun. It makes me wonder whether you could get closer to Buckingham Palace or the White House. I think you’d probably get closer to Mr Bush, but I reckon you’d likely get a bullet for your efforts. I’m tempted to ask one of the guards whether people have tried to climb over, but I don’t want to push my luck. After all, it is my first day…

13th January 2008 – Washington DC

At 8.30 I head straight to the Washington Monument. I thought the city was deserted yesterday but today it’s like a ghost town. The homeless are still wrapped up in their blankets and the only other people are the two policemen outside the White House. I’m in the first group to climb to the 555th foot viewpoint of the monument. Disappointingly, there are windows at the top which are filthy on both sides. Furthermore, the sun is still pretty low in the sky, so although the view is ideal for watching over Washington, it’s pretty hopeless for photos.

I walk along The Mall past the museums. The whole area is wonderfully designed and I particularly like the mark-points that represent the solar system on a scale from 12th Street to the US Capitol.

I enter the National Air and Space Museum and among the items on display are the Apollo 11 Command Module and the 1903 Wright Flyer. They have been preserved fantastically and it’s unbelievable that this fragile-looking module went to the moon and back.

The rest of the museum is interesting but unspectacular, however, just like the Washington Monument, it’s free so I don’t mind whizzing through. Just before I leave, I spot a flight simulator so I decide to have a go at being an air force pilot (this does cost me a few dollars). For the first few minutes I’m flying around trying to find the enemy plane. The simulator rocks about as you’d expect it to and just as I’ve locked onto the enemy plane, it screams by me. I turn the control to make a 180 turn and suddenly the whole simulator turns upside down! It’s absolutely great fun and I spend the next couple of minutes rocking about trying to find my target. Unfortunately my time runs out and I’ve failed to get a Medal of Honour, but I take some consolation that I survived my first mission…

I exit the museum and the sun makes a short appearance, just long enough to get a few shots of the Capitol building, which unfortunately is closed on Sundays. The Library of Congress is also closed today so I walk on towards the US Supreme Court which has some towering pillars holding up the entrance. I get told off for sitting on the floor (simply taking a photo) and then make my way to the Old Downtown. Pennsylvania Avenue links the White House to the US Capitol and apparently it used to be full of seedy shops, until John F Kennedy said, ‘It’s a disgrace – fix it.’

It did the job as it’s a wide, clean road that sums up the power that stands at each of its ends. I take 6th Street up towards the MCI Center and suddenly it feels like I’ve walked out of a theme park and into a real city. Finally there’s rubbish on the floor, cars everywhere and people buzzing around every street corner. It turns out there’s a big game about to start and I decide it’s worth a visit. I’m not sure whether to go for a $50 or $65 seat, so I ask the vendor which is best for someone who has never watched basketball before. She looks at me strangely and with a slight hint of humour she replies, ‘This is ice hockey, sir.’

I walk around the block into Chinatown, which is very small and then noticing the time I settle for the Green Turtle sports bar. My enthusiastic waiter asks me about 100 questions about which type of burger and which brand of beer I’d like. Looking around, everyone wears their team colours and they almost look ridiculous in their American Football shirts without any padding. However, despite the real sense of sporting pride, there’s a much calmer atmosphere than you’d find in any sports bar in London.

My meal is huge (although not as big as the half kilo burger you can order!) and I do enjoy watching the ice hockey, even if the random fights are entirely daft. Perhaps I’ll see a game next week.

The US Navy memorial is picturesque (although difficult to capture in a photo) and the FBI building is massively disappointing. It’s very ugly and I can’t imagine Mulder & Scully getting excited about going there every day…

On the other hand, the Old Post Office is a delight. The 12 storey building was nearly torn down in 1934, but has since been redesigned with shops and restaurants inside. The observation deck gives a fantastic view and the lack of glass means I can finally take some shots across the capital. I meet Chuck, an American who lives south of the river who is only too happy to tell me about how Washington has changed and the difference before and after 9/11. He also confirms my thought that you really can’t visit the White House any more unless you have a congressional or embassy invite. Crap.

It’s time to return to my hotel and head north-west to Virginia again, to officially begin my business trip. I’ll return to the capital on Friday and with a bit of luck, I’ll find it covered with a thick layer of snow…

18-19th January 2008 – Washington DC

This morning was tough. Three hours sleep and far too much to drink last night in Georgetown means I struggle to return to tourist mode. A big Thursday night with work colleagues doesn’t help matters either.

Friday evening was a little intense, mixing all kinds of drinks and food (apple crumble with melted cheese?!?) and things got silly when we tried to convince our waitress that there was a drink called a Purple Helmet! Undefeated, she returned to our table with a new American cocktail, which coagulated nicely in my stomach…

This morning, I show Chris and Dan around the main monuments before finding our way to the Spy Museum. The interactive museum even allows you to have your own secret identity as you wander around “completing tasks” but it’s lost on me as I can barely keep my eyes open. Mr Bond, I am not.

Hoping some calories will perk me up, I try a McDonalds (supersize of course!) It’s absolutely enormous – ridiculous in fact – and now I feel knackered and bloated. Last night our waitress told us about the reality of their salaries and how much they depend on tips. It has helped me avoid being the typical “10% British guy”, but Dan takes it to hilarious levels. He’s also so knackered that he can’t be arsed calculating the percentage and in one place he unknowingly tips 60%. The challenge begins to be the first to tip 100%…

My colleagues get themselves on a flight back to the UK, so I try a power nap to get me out of this daze. It does the trick and by sunset I’m out doing some evening photography. Strangely, the Reflecting Pool is practically empty and the only reason I can think why (other than to clean it) is that perhaps they don’t want it to ice over in case morons like me decide to slide across it…

It has become extremely cold since last week (the snow came and went unfortunately) and the freezing conditions totally wake me up. In fact, I’m so awake that I can’t resist another session in Georgetown with my newly found DC friends. Glug glug.

20th January 2008 – Washington DC

Washington has impressed me with its efficient city: Cleanliness, friendly locals, straightforward road layouts, maps everywhere, signs to help every tourist. It appears to be the epitome of efficiency.

However, I decide to find the Marine Corps War Memorial by foot and to say that was a bad idea would be the biggest understatement of the year… It appears to be the only area of Washington that doesn’t cater for pedestrians and I end up performing some of America’s best ever jaywalking. I’m skipping across four-lane speedways before I attempt to cross the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge (which has no proper pavement) struggling against a biting wind so strong that I would have been more comfortable in a wind tunnel. I cannot begin to describe how cold it is.

However, I don’t actually feel so bad, so I guess the two mile walk is possible the best hangover cure I could ever imagine. It’s worth the struggle across the bridge as the clear blue skies allow for some great shots of this Iwo Jima monument. Having recently seen Flags of our Fathers, it’s a touching monument that I’m pleased I’ve seen. Nearby, is the shocking Arlington Cemetery, which is worth a visit just in itself. The row upon row of headstones is a shocking reminder of recent history and further strengthens my confusion why there are no monuments in the UK such as those found in Washington DC.

Further south, is the disappointing Pentagon building. Photography is totally banned but it wouldn’t be worth it anyway. I catch the (nice and warm!) metro back to the Old Downtown and with a soup and pizza, I finally feel like I’m back to normal body temperature.

However, the lack of sleep finally hits home and I’m suddenly absolutely exhausted. In the Gordon Bierch bar, a Red Bull does nothing for me. And then a Red Bull with vodka doesn’t do me any favours. So I soak in the atmosphere and watch the American Football. I’ve been utterly impressed with Washington and cannot wait to return, so it’s with a little sadness that my trip is already over and I have to catch the red-eye home.

The echoes of horns and scooters are ringing in my head and the scents of spices and petrol still linger on my clothes. I’ve returned to Africa and this time I’m in Morocco. More precisely, I’m in a small riad just off Djemaa el-Fna in the central medina of Marrakech.

The accommodation is not quite what I expected, with no towels or toilet paper being the obvious missing items. There’s also no lock on the door, but the ‘hotel’ does have security in the form of an 80-year-old man who sits on the floor at the entrance of the building.

The huge square in the centre of the medina houses dozens of stalls with waiters trying their utmost to draw you in. Settling for one, I’m disappointed that any menu choices I make are ignored. Funnily enough, the only options available are the more expensive ones. It’s comical to see couple after couple sit down and look completely bewildered when random food is dumped in front of them!

Surrounding the food stalls are many musicians and acts to pull in the crowds. I was warned about the relentless demands for payment if you take someone’s photo but I can barely point my camera anywhere without someone jumping in front of me demanding money. One act catches my eye; a man is forcing a chicken to smoke a cigarette and a crowd of about 30 surround him. My shutter barely snaps shut before a ’spy’ in the crown tells the performer that a photo has been taken. Immediately he stops the show and suddenly he’s in my face asking for money. With everyone staring at me, I stutter to find the right response in French. He’s not dissuaded when I tell him that I didn’t even get a photo of him (which was true), so I tell him I’ve got no change anyway. However, his reply to that is that he’ll take my bag instead! He then touches my shoe and says that will also do! What’s crazy is that I’d be glad to give him money if I actually got a decent shot or if he finished his act, but his aggressive stance leaves my unsympathetic. I quickly walk away and disappear into the crowd.

I spend the next hour lost in the labyrinth of streets, shocked by the lack of civilisation and chaotic mix of tourism and poverty. It’s a shocking start to my journey and a mentally exhausting day comes to a close. I’m looking forward to tomorrow, but I can’t help but wonder how many packs of cigarettes the chicken has had…

14th October 2007 – Marrakech

The city guide is informative but reminds me of being in school. He starts every fact with a question, and only continues when I give him an ignorant blank stare. The tour starts south of the riad in the Jewish quarter. The Palais de la Bahia is impressive but just exaggerates the difference between rich and poor. However, I can’t help but smile as I imagine the prime minister lying in his room and demanding that one of his four wives come and entertain him!

Next I see where these men were laid to rest. The Saadian tombs are extravagantly decorated; in particular the men’s, which I think is well-deserved after such a tough life…

A taxi, without seatbelts, hurtles through the traffic and drops us off in the northern part of the old town. Similar to the bazaars in Istanbul, I’m guided through the maze of souqs, stopping occasionally for brief pleasantries with the locals.

Every small area has its own necessities, from butchers to bakers and opticians to dentists, everyone is catered for. It seems that the guide has his fingers in every business; he walks me to a rug-maker, a carpenter and a pharmacist and each one presents me with their best sales pitch (no doubt our guide gets some commission!) The carpenter is particularly impressive; he carves the wood using simple tools and his bare feet. After creating a fancy design on a kebab stick, he then holds his feet and chisel and with a wide grin he says, ‘My Black & Decker!’

The pharmacist is a pleasant coincidence; I woke up with an awful sore throat and the shop-keeper is only too keen to present me with a solution. Snorting this black powder (which also passes as a treatment for many other random symptoms), my nose feels like it’s on fire, but I’m told in good faith that it’ll work…

The tour ends in the Djemaa el-Fna square. It’s totally different to last night and with the bright, blue sky you can see how big it really is. My photography experiences this time are also better; the entertainers suggest I take photos and hold out a tray for their tips; much better than last night’s aggressiveness.

The huge Koutoubia Mosque towers over the square, but it’s behind this mosque that Marrakech shows its modern side. There’s a huge colourful park and the locals clearly gather here for a little tranquillity away from the buzzing atmosphere of the main square. Further west and outside the walls of Marrakech is the new town with wide and modern roads surrounded by fancy hotels.

It’s already time for dinner so after a quick shower, I head towards the Djemaa el-Fna. This time I get to enjoy the madness from a restaurant balcony. As the sun sets behind the Koutoubia Mosque, the scents and colours of the Central Medina come alive.

Gazing down onto the square, it’s the perfect spot to end the day, watching the mix of donkeys, cars, scooters and bikes, weaving their way around the pedestrians and snake charmers!

15th October 2007 – Aït Benhaddou, Ouarzazarte, Zagora

It’s a 6 o’clock start this morning and the new guide is already waiting. We jump into his huge 4×4 and within an hour we’re climbing the High Atlas mountains. The views are incredible, in particular the formations of the rock that look like they’ve been carved out purposely, like the carpenter we met yesterday. Although it’s very warm and there isn’t a cloud in the sky, there is still a tiny amount of snow on the highest peaks.

Aït Benhaddou is the first stopping point and we’re lucky to be there so early when this Kasbah is practically devoid of tourists. The view from the top is incredible but it’s the view from the river that really impresses. The buildings look like sandcastles and the whole town almost looks fake. Of course, the locals take advantage and get money out of me in every possible way, including holding my hand as I step across the stepping stones in the river. One young boy rides a donkey towards me and it’s a stereotypical photo opportunity. The boy is whacking the donkey with a huge stick and the poor animal doesn’t have a clue what it should do, so when the boy holds out his hand and says, ‘Money, money!’ I can’t help thinking the donkey deserves it more than him!

Halfway up the hill, I’m invited into a small house, built with mud and stone. Inside, there’s loads of memorabilia from Gladiator, and I’m told which scenes were filmed here.

Further south-east, we reach Ouazazarte, which is the film capital of Morocco. Lawrence of Arabia and Cleopatra were both filmed here. After a soup and Tajines lunch, I’m back on the road and heading further south-east down the Draa Valley. The valley looks totally out of place, with a luscious green centre, full of palm trees and the bright reflection of the river makes a pleasant change from the dry landscape of the High Atlas Mountains.

The destination is Zagora, the ‘door to the desert’. It’s the last place you’ll find shops, petrol stations or any other commercial activity. There’s a buzzing atmosphere with people everywhere, all getting from one place to another by foot, bike or donkey. In fact, it barely feels that on the other side of Zagora, begins the Sahara Desert.

However, that’s no journey for a 4×4; those steps will be taken by camel.

Before I mount the beast, I’m offered more Moroccan tea. These people have an obsession! To say the English like tea after being to Morocco is laughable. The Moroccans drink it around every corner! There’s even a procedure for pouring the stuff, repeatedly sloshing it back into the teapot until it’s fully brewed.

Anyway, tanked up on tea I prepare for my camel adventure. It doesn’t take me long before I name him ‘Hungry’. Hungry belches and burps throughout the whole 7km walk into the desert. If Hungry gets anywhere near anything that resembles shrubbery, he swings his neck towards it and snatches a mouthful. He’s taking dumps on the move and it’s at least a comfort that if we ever got lost in the desert we could follow the breadcrumbs back home…

Emma’s camel behind me is called ‘Sleepy’. Every time I turn around he looks like he’s got his eyes closed and he’s staggering around like he’s either sleepwalking or pissed.

Our guide is a pleasant chap who seems to live and breathe the desert. He only speaks about as much French as I do, but it’s enough to have a bit of a chat and keep asking ‘are we there yet?’

When we finally do arrive, the sun is setting and the mountains in the distance light up in a beautiful array of purples and oranges. The nomad tents are already set up. We’ve one huge tent just for relaxing and dinner and at 100 paces rests another for sleeping. Of course, before I’m allowed dinner, I’m treated to another session of Moroccan tea…

The only light is a gas-fired cylinder and although the sun has disappeared, it hasn’t got too cold. It has become dark though. Incredibly dark. In fact, I’ve never seen a landscape so dark and I only have to look up to the sky to see something else I’ve never before; so many stars. It’s like someone has shifted the earth into a different part of the universe, as the sky is littered with thousands and thousands of bright stars. There are so many more than I’ve ever seen before and it’s simply breathtaking.

After dinner (tajines again), I’m all ready for bed. My sore throat has turned into a bit of a cold and I’m cursing myself for being probably the only person who could ever catch a cold in the Sahara Desert! Mind you, it’s another early start tomorrow as I’m told the desert sunrises are something not to be missed.

16th October 2007 – Sahara Desert, Zagora, Tamgroute, Tamnougalte, Ouarzazarte

My first and last night in the Sahara Desert is superb. Surrounded by nothing but nature, it seems a little odd to wake to a mobile phone alarm clock in order to catch the sunrise. The sun is already trying to peak over the mountains in the horizon, but before it does I’m treated to more wonderful colours.

The camels are enjoying them too, although Hungry seems to be heading in the opposite direction. With one leg tied up, he’s hopping on three legs towards some shrubbery in the distance. Every few steps he slips and smashes his front knee on the ground, but he’s relentless, determined to reach his goal.

As Hungry disappears behind our tent, I go towards the sand dunes. It’s these that were probably the thing I was looking forward to most and although a lot smaller than I hoped, I’m like a school boy at playtime, launching myself up and down the dunes. As the sun rises, the contrasts of colour on the sand dunes are amazing. It’s exhausting walking along them and as the strength of the sun grows by the minute, it’s easy to see how unforgiving the desert can be.

After a simple breakfast, it’s time to leave. Our guide has found Hungry and before we know it we’re on our way back to Zagora. It’s a different route back, through a desert village. There are locals around, but it’s the children that shock. They are full of life and have so much energy (’Bonbon?’ They ask, again and again…); it’s crazy to think how different one person’s childhood can be from another.

I’m relieved to get back to Zagora as this time my arse has taken a beating! It was only a couple of hours of riding but desert travellers must have buns made of steel – it absolutely wrecks!

Next on the agenda is a village called Tamgroute. I’m taken to an Islamic Library that contains over 4,000 books, all written out by hand over hundreds of years. It’s impressive, but even more so is the Librarian as he has so much passion for his collection and yet he looks old enough to have written the first one.

It’s not just the library that Tamgroute has as its claim to fame. It’s also well-known for its pottery. I’m introduced to another guide who takes me around the village. Ducking and weaving through the streets, it’s another fictitious-looking town. The guide takes us through someone’s home just to get to another street and it’s absolutely pitch black as the guide holds our hands as we carefully tip-toe through the darkness. When I reach the other end, I turn and look back through the passage and take a photo of the entrance just as a woman walks past. The workers use holes in the ground to heat the pottery and simple tools to carve and create these items that will then be transported to the major towns for all the tourists to buy. Yet, half of the workers walk around with mobile phones! What is very interesting is how the colours are created. Each colour, from red to green, is created using different flowers, plants or other natural ingredients. He shows me one colour that he’s very proud of – they only discovered how to make it three years ago!

As we travel north-west up the Draa Valley the landscape turns from a monochrome brown to a mix of contrasts with green farmland and blue rivers. Ghost villages don’t appear that different to the inhabited ones nearby; they all look like sandcastles, strangely linked with telephone cables. The lucky ones also get electricity.

There’s one area that is made up of what looks like finely compressed sand and the way it bobbles up and down and forms row upon row of hills, it looks entirely man-made. Not that the dirt-bikers care. The quiet landscape is ripped apart by some tourists flying through on dirt-bikes, taking advantage of the dusty road and flying up and down on this alien-like terrain.

An average meal in a deserted (but incredibly unique) restaurant is followed by a tour in Tamnougalte. Here, the BBC is filming a new series based on the life of Jesus. It’s called ‘The Passion’ (which sounds awfully like a certain Mel Gibson film) and the film makers have turned this small village into a living example of village life 2000 years ago. There are dead animals hanging on a ‘market street’, pools of red and blue water to colour clothes and general props lying around – none of which are fake. The meat is practically cooking in the sun and the smells are absolutely real. The tour around the village is very interesting and our guide is brilliantly informed and has a cracking sense of humour. I particularly like the key and lock which opens the Kasbah – it’s made of wood and the way it has been finely carved seems like something you’d really find around the time of Christ. Incredibly, the key isn’t a prop; it’s the real way to unlock the Kasbah nowadays!

The next 75km brings us back to Ouazazarte and although it’s nice to be welcomed into a hotel, it was probably more comfortable in the desert last night! The hotel’s restaurant is pretty poor and a long and eventful day comes to an end.

17th October 2007 – Ouazazarte, Tamdakhte, Telouet, Marrakech

Breakfast is no better than last night’s dinner. I’m also starting to feel a little rough and it looks like the cold I’ve picked up is starting to get the better of me. Nonetheless it’s another active day which hopefully will keep me going.

Heading towards Aït Benhaddou, we pass many small villages. Occasionally they have electricity and some even have sporting facilities (well – a football pitch on a flat area of rock). Many look similar but it’s always interesting to see the locals go about their life. Time seems to stand still here. Most people live off their land or their local village and the lack of tourism means I get to see Moroccan rural life as it really is.

So it came as a bit of a shock when our guide takes us off-road to taste some of the real rural communities. The road steadily becomes more and more narrow, just as the drop at the edge of the road becomes bigger and bigger. Soon we’re climbing around the edge of the Ounila Valley with a sheer drop just centimetres away from out tyres. We crawl from village to village and in each one we see the hard working farmers in their fields and the small gangs of children who wave us hello and goodbye.

Out here you really see the true colour of Morocco. The earth is a striking red and it makes for some dramatic views alongside the harvested valley, despite the overcast weather. Some buildings are practically carved out the valley itself, supported by nature alone. The road itself brings some surprises. Occasionally there are locals walking or even cyclists braving this landscape, but there’s always the worrying thought of another vehicle coming the opposite direction. Fate showed its sense of humour when we approach a blind corner and suddenly a deafening roar brings us to a halt. I half expect a rockslide as an absolutely enormous tractor bellows around the corner and stops in front of us. I’m not so keen on us reversing along this narrow road, so I breathe a sigh of relief when it’s the tractor that squeezes past us on the outside!

Lunch is in Telouet and the food is another disappointment. I’ve heard so much about excellent Moroccan food but bar the odd meal, most have been quite average. Furthermore, the flies are so incredibly annoying and constantly land on your food; it’s a wonder I haven’t picked up a dodgy stomach.

Fortunately, Telouet is a great place at 1800m and it has been standing ever since the karavans made their long journeys between Marrakech and the Sahara. It houses the impressive Kasbah of el Glaoui, which unfortunately will not last much longer. Many parts have already fallen and what remains is practically ruined. The young guide for the palace is very knowledgeable and very witty. He obviously speaks Arabic, Berber and French, but his English is spot on too. He even uses slang expressions and continues to speak even when he has nothing to say; he practises words and pronunciation and then laughs at himself. We encounter some Germans and he then speaks German to them. To top it off, when he discovers I speak Italian, he’s proud to continue the tour in Italian!

There’s one area of the Kasbah which has been kept in very good condition, with marble that has been imported from Italy (traded with salt – the ‘gold’ of the time). It’s incredible to think that this crumbling building holds a floor of marble!

Climbing back into our 4×4, we relax for the drive back to Marrakech. I say ‘relax’, but the driver decides to put on a music tape; the five awful songs are repeated for the next two hours and by the end of it I’m convinced I know most of the Berber words… Fortunately, it does keep my mind off my dodgy cold that seems to have taken a turn for the worse.

My cold becomes even more of a problem after arriving back in Marrakech. It’s a slightly bigger, nicer riad that again is within a stone’s throw of Djemaa el-Fna, but I can barely bring myself to move, let alone mix with the crowds of the central medina so I go to bed at a ridiculous 7pm.

I wake up over 12 hours later and I’m dripping with sweat. It’s terrible to say but I’m grateful it’s the last day and even more grateful that this didn’t happen 2 nights ago in the Sahara Desert! Furthermore, I have picked up a bug from something I ate (damn those bloody flies!) and my whole immune system seems to be giving up the ghost. I drug myself up with anything and everything from the medical bag that looks like paracetamol and I force myself to wander around the souqs to try and find any hidden corner that was missed on the first couple of days.

If ever there was a sign that I wasn’t well, my camera doesn’t even leave my bag. So, as my shutter has a holiday of its own, the next stop is Marrakech airport to catch the flight home to London.

Cheddar Gorge makes for a fantastic walk. The views are good, although I was expecting the gorge to be a little bigger; maybe I was hoping for a mini-Grand Canyon…

Beneath the rock is more impressive. The caves are full of history and make for some great photos (although I’d advise people to get there first thing in the morning; the hoards of overweight tourists with their ice-creams and sweets don’t really add much to the creepy, dark environment). The Wookey Cave is even better, although you’re not free to wander around like in the Cheddar Caves.

Apart from the obligatory cider-drinking and cheese-tasting, there’s also time to visit Wells and even have a walk around Glastonbury. It’s not festival time but the city centre has an air of celebration – albeit most of them are homeless people drinking and smoking drugs on the streets. Saying that, the Tor is lovely and the 360 degree view from the top is spectacular and it gives a much better example of what the atmosphere would be like at Glastonbury Festival.

On the way back to London, I stop by Stonehenge. It’s an interesting tour, especially as it lasts about an hour and the ‘facts’ are thrown at you thick and fast: ‘We think that this was the sacrificial altar… we think that the stones were moved on rollers… we think, we think….’

I’d love to return for sunrise/sunset, as the colours must be gorgeous, but this time I settle for some silhouette shots and some, er… inventive ones…

This moment has inspired me to share a travel idea.

So I’m in Edinburgh today. A colleague of mine is in Edinburgh on Monday. Surely it would be possible to hide something today, so that they can discover it (with the aid of some Dan Brown style clues, of course)? We’ve started with something simple. It’s hidden in a graveyard just off Princes Street and all they need to do is find the right grave.

I’m sure this has probably been done, but I wonder if there’s a market for a holiday where you have to trek across Europe collecting all these clues? Or how about hiding your ticket home?

I quite like the idea of leaving a load of hidden “gems” across Europe and see who could find them. Or if other travellers could leave some hidden items and maybe I could capture a few..? Anyway, my flight is boarding so I had better be off.

Oh – and Natalie’s flight was delayed, so she made it after all…

I stepped off the plane in Palermo yesterday evening and the heat hit me like the blast of air you get when opening an oven. Temperatures have reached 47 degrees Celsius and the signs are everywhere. Sirens can be heard regularly and in the distance are rows of fires billowing smoke up into the air.

It doesn’t feel any cooler in the hotel either, since the air conditioning isn’t working, so it’s a tough start to the day. Nonetheless, it’s an excuse to get out early and see what this city has to offer.

I’ve twice missed the catacombs in Paris, so Palermo’s tombs are first on the agenda today. The maze of bodies is organised into different sections; men, women, priests and my favourite – ‘professionals’. It’s quite eerie, but very few are anything but clothes and bones. Those that have signs of ‘flesh’ or hair just don’t look real, even if they are over 100 years old.

The heat in Sicily has caused a number of power cuts, so it’s no surprise when the lights go out and the corridors of skeletons go pitch black. I half expect to hear the rattling of bones in the darkness! The last body to be placed in the tomb is of Rosalia Lombardo, a little girl whose face seems so real and delicate, that she could almost be sleeping.

Outside the catacombs, the heat is scorching and it seems ridiculous that no one has opened up a coffee shop or ice cream parlour; they’d make a killing!

About a kilometre east, I find a family run joint with air conditioning. The Sicilian language they use amongst themselves is fast and difficult to follow, although the general gist is about the constant power cuts due to the weather. Cue the power cut! Sitting in semi-darkness, drinking chilled ice-tea, the air conditioning grinds to a halt…

‘Volete un pò di pizza?’ The owner asks, taking a fresh pizza from the oven. I can’t hide my grin. La vita Siciliana è bella!

Palermo’s cathedral is grand, but it’s the Palazzo next to the Porta Nuova which supposedly attracts most of the tourists. It’s surprisingly quiet at this time of the morning and we’re escorted through the parliament rooms, occasionally bumping into the odd government official.

The hotel is just by the Quattro Canti, which is the point at which the main two roads cross through Palermo. Nearby, the Fontana Pretoria holds dozens of half naked statues and apparently unimpressed locals at the time nicknamed it the ‘Fountain of Shame’.

North up via Maqueda, I reach the Teatro Massimo. It’s a large theatre, which was used to film the ending in The Godfather: Part III.

The port area towards the east is unimpressive, so I head towards La Kalsa district, which was badly destroyed in the war. The effects are still evident as little has been reconstructed or repaired. Some narrow roads look seedy and there’s a curious (and even suspicious) stare from some of the locals. However, there are still friendly people around, including one elderly woman dropping a basket from her balcony to collect goods from the market below. She lets me take her photo and her husband, with a mouthful of ice-cream, says the photo will cost me 55 euros. He grins at me with his teeth full of chocolate!

Around the Piazza Magione, young children speed around the gravel tracks on motorbikes and gangs of teenagers loiter on corners. The area isn’t a complete write-off; there’s the fantastic Garibaldi park, which contains some of the most fascinating trees I’ve ever seen in my life. Branches spiral out from the tree and embed themselves into the ground. Others dangle for metres, tempting a Tarzan re-enactment!

The evening passes quickly, with walking, pizzas and some moonlit photography.

27th June 2007 – Corleone

The Carcere Ucciardone prison holds the most notorious mafia criminals in Sicily. I guess I was expecting guards everywhere, watchtowers and all the Alcatraz-style décor, but unsurprisingly, it’s just a huge plain wall. However, the mafia stories bring me nicely to the next destination: Corleone.

It’s a small town halfway between Palermo and Agrigento. Don Vito, from The Godfather, came from this town so I’ve keen to see what it looks like.

I’m so busy looking around that before I know it, my car is face to face with a carabinieri vehicle. He winds down his window and with a sturn voice, asks where I’m headed. I tell him I’m not really going anywhere; I’m here to see the town. He then asks whether I realise I’m driving down the wrong way down a one-way street! I’ve only just arrived in Corleone and already I’m in trouble with the carabinieri!

Fortunately, he sees me for the idiot tourist that I am and tells me to turn around and keep my eyes peeled; ‘occhio, occhio…’

It’s a charming little place but I’m surprised at the lack of Godfather mentions (bar a couple of Il Padrino posters in an ice-cream shop). There are a few other tourists, probably there for the same reason I am. I like Corleone, but not for the reasons I expected.

The twisting, hilly road leads south towards Agrigento. Arriving quite late, there’s enough time to soak up the old town and settle down in a popular enoteca.

28th June 2007 – Agrigento

The Valley of the Temples is “just down the road”, so I set off on foot to find this Unesco Heritage site. An hour later and I’m lost in Agrigento’s maze of high rise buildings. Fortunately, it’s hard to miss the temples and once there’s a gap between the building, I see the direction I should be headed.

Approaching the temples, after about a 5km walk, is an indescribable feeling. The surrounding area hasn’t been touched by anything “modern” (with the exception of roads), which means you see the temples as they were 2500 years ago (albeit a little more crumbled). It’s another hot day and the clear blue skies and intense sun creates some fabulous contrasts of colour. It’s truly one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen.

I also didn’t expect to see so much; from Tempio di Giunone on the eastern side all the way west to the Tempio di Castore e Polluce, there is over a kilometre of fascinating history and beauty.

It’s a photography heaven for me, but I’m also determined to get original angles and shots. With so many visitors, there must be a lot of similar photo collections around the world! Saying that, despite the gorgeous weather, there aren’t that many tourists and it only takes a bit of patience to get some shots sans personne.

The archaeological museum is average, but a (delicious) pit stop at the Promenade dei Templi restaurant refuels me to see the rest of the temples. Walking westbound, the temples become more and more ruined. However, even the huge Tempio di Giove (112m x 56m) is jaw-dropping, despite it being a mass of rubble. A copy of one of the massive statues has been laid in the centre, giving a breathtaking idea of how incredible this must have been.

Heading towards the exit, I notice a discreet sign pointing towards the Giardino di Kolymbetra. Climbing down, I feel like I’ve just discovered Frances Burnett’s Secret Garden!

There are flowers and fruit trees everywhere, streams of water and a winding pathway through this fairytale gem. Down at the bottom, there is a trio of tanned gardeners, one of whom is at least 80 years old and he immediately approaches. His name is Leonardo and he’s ever so keen to be a guide. He walks to what looks like an opening in the crag and says that it used to be a church where the locals got married. This was 2500 years ago! I ask him how long he has been here and he says he was brought here with his aunt in 1933!

Although he’s not supposed to, he takes a cutting from the garden and says it’s the flower that couples were given as a symbol of love. He says Emma can take this cutting since she’s English but she must keep it covered so no one sees it! Then he points up a stony path and says there is one more ruin to be seen.

Heeding his advice, I follow the path and cross the railtrack to find the final ruins in the Valley of the Temples. They are less dramatic than the others, but with not a single person in sight, it’s like a lost part of the ruins.

It’s a long (and steep) walk back to the town, but I’m rewarded with a number of cocktails back in Agrigento.

A friendly German couple from Arizona start chatting to us but then it becomes rather exhausting when they describe their three month European vacation (in full detail…) Fortunately, I’m saved when the piazza turns into a huge African party to celebrate unity and togetherness in Sicily!

29th June 2007 – Selinunte

The Valley of the Temples are famous across the world. Yet 100km up the coastline is a small town called Selinunte, which holds some of the best preserved Greek ruins in the world.

The road is winding and it seems to take forever to get there, but the regular moments of suicidal Sicilian driving always keep me amused. Cars overtake when in the opposite direction other vehicles are also overtaking. The roads are old but fortunately quite wide, although I do find myself sucking in air when we’re squeezing four cars across two lanes at 100kph… My favourite was whilst I was being overtaken, another driver decided to overtake the car that was overtaking me; all the worse when you consider there was even a car hurtling towards us in the other direction!

There’s a sigh of relief when I pull up to the entrance of the ruins in Selinunte. The weather is still outrageously hot but it makes a perfect setting for these ruins that sit upon a hill overlooking the sea. There are even fewer tourists here and it allows me to soak up the history surrounding this stunning place.

Selinunte is also famous for its beach, from which you can even see the ruins. It’s a surreal backdrop and allows me to cool off in the water whilst still admiring the views!

Back in Agrigento, the sun has gone to bed and the ruins are fantastically lit up. Unfortunately, the ruins aren’t open at night at this time of year, so I feel I’m going to lose the famous night time shot that I’ve been yearning. Never one to give up easily, I jump in the car and start driving down the country lanes around Agrigento. You simply can’t get anywhere near the ruins and I’m about to lose all hope when I spot a dirt track off the side of the road. I hit the breaks a little hard and quickly turn down the track. There appears to be a little drop from the main road and as the headlights swing across the fields, there’s a massive crunch as the car drops onto the side road. It doesn’t sound good so I spend the next 10 minutes ensuring the photo makes up for the potential damage to the car…

I hit the jackpot as I get one of my favourite photos, with a gorgeous blue, black and yellow contrast of the hillside. Furthermore, the car appears to be fine and with a bit of a “run up” I force the car back up onto the main road. I’m not the only one hitting a jackpot though, since I feel like I’ve lost of pint of blood to a thousand Sicilian mosquitos. Next, it’s my turn for dinner and a final night in Agrigento.

30th June 2007 – Monreale, Palermo

I’ve made it! 130km of “dodgecar” and I’ve returned the hire car to the centre of Palermo without a scratch! There were a few close calls and I nearly took out a moped at 40km/h, but my deposit is safe.

It has also been a successful day as I’ve seen so much. A few hours in Monreale, just south-west of Palermo, is a must. The cathedral has an impressive winding route to the viewpoint at the top and the town itself (although obscenely packed with tourists) is a stereotypical Italian town.

Back in Palermo, I decide that as a change to all the pasta and pizza I’ve been eating, it’s worth a visit to the Lonely Planet recommended Michelin star restaurant, Sant’Andrea. It’s hidden away in a maze of little alleyways, and I clearly look lost as a little old lady approaches me. She’s seems half my height and four times my age and yet she’s got more life in her than I could ever imagine. When I tell her what I’m looking for she looks at me with disgust. She begs me not to go; her friend runs the place and it’s over-priced and snobbish. She pushes her nose up in the air and with her best English accent mocks me, “I’m from Sloane Square!”

She advises some little bars and mimes eating some hot snacks with audible delight. She’s interested in where I’ve lived but she’s horrified when I don’t know which London theatre she’s trying to remember: “Ignorante! Ignorante!!” She cries, reminding me of my father’s similar style of mocking. I could listen to her all day, but she finally turns on her portable radio and it belts out classic music. She waves her arms in the air and walks down the street as if orchestrating the traffic. She leaves me with one final request: ‘Ti prego, non andare a Sant’Andrea!’

I kick myself for not taking her photo, but I could never forget her. It’s a fantastic experience that sums up Sicily for me and I simply can’t ignore her advice. Finding a small coffee shop in the middle of what appears to be a war-torn 1940s street, I ask if they can do food. The reply is positive, although after taking my order, the owner runs out the front door and leaves the bar empty. He returns five minutes later with two plates of food that clearly came from another bar down the road. It’s tasty, it’s quick and most importantly, it’s Sicilian.

The afternoon allows me to explore La Kalsa in a bit more detail. Building are in ruins and it’s crazy that this area that is so central can be so neglected. I particularly like the graffiti on the broken walls, mimicking a cash machine, supermarket, bank and McDonald’s.

The last couple of hours are spent by the coast, taking in the last rays of sunshine and eating some fantastic ice-cream. The locals play football in the park area and I’m laughed at again when they see me taking pictures – “paparazzi!”

My Sicilian adventure has been everything I hoped for and more. It’s an island of beauty and history and the locals resonate a spirit of life that I’ve never seen anywhere else. Furthermore, the food and weather has been out of this world, leaving me with just one question: When can I return!?

It therefore came as a nice surprise that the weather was glorious! I spent the weekend drinking wine, walking along the beach in Wittering and bouncing up and down on a trampoline.

There was also time to travel west into Portsmouth. I’ve been before, but only on business and I can’t say I was that impressed, although I never did make it to the harbour. What a pleasant surprise! There’s plenty to see, from bars to shops and it all feels a bit like a fairground. Dominating the entire port is the huge Spinnaker Tower, which has the largest glass floor in Europe for those who dare stand on it!

Unfortunately the only thing I didn’t get to do was learn how to surf. With the strong currents, I was advised to stay out of the (seemingly calm) water. I guess the Beach Boys soundtrack will have to stay in its case until next time…

I’m in the capital of Spain and I’m watching Madrid’s scenery on television. The newsreader tells me that the thunderstorms and rain is widespread across central and northern Spain.

The day didn’t start this badly. In fact, I’ve walked several kilometres today, mostly in the Parque Del Buen Retiro, and Madrid is exactly as I expected it to be. Typically, I couldn’t be much further east from the hotel when the storm hits and I get completely soaked. It brings an end to a day where my camera barely leaves my bag.

21st May 2007 – Madrid

The clouds have shifted and Madrid’s colours appear around me. I’ve a positive impression so far, but I don’t feel this city has been built for photographers. Maybe I haven’t got my photography head screwed on, but I actually find very little to shoot.

Furthermore, I’m told photography isn’t allowed in the Palace. Worse still, I’m told I have to leave my camera and all my lenses in a cloakroom. It really annoys me, but the efficiency in which they refund the entry tickets indicates that they probably have this problem quite often.

Heading further south, there’s the Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Almudena which has a lovely west-facing garden across the city suburbs. The guidebook recommends a cheese shop, a buzzing market and a coffee shop resembling one you’d find in the 1930s. All three are closed. So I try the nuns’ convent. They sit behind a revolving wooden window, selling cakes and biscuits and they remain hidden from customers at all times. I ring the bell, although there’s no indication I’m ringing the right one and I feel I’m disturbing someone’s private home.

‘¿Hola?’ cries an old lady’s voice through the intercom. It’s a voice you’d expect to hear when Little Red Riding Hood knocks on her Spanish grandmother’s door…

‘Hola,’ I reply. ‘¿Vendes de dolces?’

‘Estamos cocinando!’ Cries the voice… I vision a bunch of little old nuns running around a kitchen, frantically preparing dough and cake mixture! She says to come back at four pm.

La Plaza Mayor is large but uninspiring, which sums up quite a lot of Madrid. It’s a lovely city, in which I could quite happily see myself living, but as far as tourism goes, there’s not so much to offer someone other than the abundance of art in its three main museums.

Of course, a visit to Madrid is not complete for a football fan without seeing the Santiago Bernebeu. However, again I’m disappointed and I decide against the stadium tour.

After finding another coffee shop closed, I decide to ignore any more Lonely Planet recommended destinations and choose a restaurant. It turns out to be a bad choice, but it is now time to re-visit the nuns.

I’m instructed through some alleyways behind the huge door and I’m suddenly faced with a revolving door about the size of a small cupboard. The lady’s voice returns and she asks what I want. There’s a list of products on the door so I name the first one. The door starts to revolve and I’m guessing she wants some money. My Euros disappear and then there’s some frantic whispering from the other side. The door then spins again and suddenly there’s a pack of biscuits in front of me. I’m sure it’s not what I asked for, but before I have a chance to think about it, the door spins and the biscuits are gone! A few other tourists are watching this show and we all start laughing, a bit confused as to what I’m supposed to do next. Clearly the nuns find it funny too; they’re giggling to themselves behind the door. There’s a bit of a pause and then the biscuits return, this time in a plastic bag. ‘¡Tómelos!’

The sun is out in full force, so it’s much more pleasant at the Parque Del Buen Retiro second time around. The lazy afternoon turned into a lazy evening too, with a little too much sangria and much too little night photography.

22nd May 2007 – Madrid to Toledo

An early start, a super efficient train and I’m in Toledo by 9am. I’ve been looking forward to Toledo as I’ve been promised a bit of a photographic adventure. It’s therefore disappointing to report that it’s all very much over-rated.

Yes, there are narrow streets and old building everywhere. Yes, the small city is a maze of historical architecture and yes, the whole place sits almost impossibly on the top of a huge hill.

However, I’ll remember the traffic. I’ll remember that each corner I turned in its labyrinth risked a potential collision with a speeding vehicle. I’ll remember the scaffolding absolutely everywhere. The demolished buildings. The unfinished re-developments. The thousands and thousands of tourists. Oh, and did I mention the traffic?

It’s a real shame as there were parts I liked. Towards the south-west, the number of tourists diminished and further south it seems devoid of visitors all together. It meant that you could appreciate getting lost in the streets and enjoy the fact that you’d never know whether it’s a steep up or downhill climb around each corner.

Sick of the fact photography was not allowed in most building attractions, I followed the road south of the Tagus river, which climbed as high as Toledo’s peak, giving a fantastic view of the entire region. The lack of noise and the seemingly peaceful Toledo is how I’d like to have remembered it.

That idea is washed away, literally, as the thunder storms and rain brings more water than the area has seen in months. It also means there’s no chance of any night photography.

23rd May 2007 – Toledo to Valencia

Ce l’abbiamo fatta! Siamo campioni d’Europa meno di un anno dopo la vittoria a Berlino! Ho sofferto molte delusioni nella mia vita calcistica (Argentina nel ‘90, Brasile nel ‘94, Francia nel 2000, Marsiglia nel ‘93, Liverpool nel ‘05…) ma in questo periodo siamo campioni del mondo e campioni d’Europa. Forza Italia e forza Milan!!

The day starts well. Before leaving Toledo, there’s time to further explore the south eastern area along the river. It’s calm with the noise of the water being the only sign of time passing. It looks like you could cross the river at one point when the water level is lower and I make a point to find out whether you can (note: I still haven’t found out’). Despite the relatively strong current, fish occasionally jump from the water, trying to swim upstream.

Of course, a visit to Toledo’s cathedral is a must and fortunately photography is allowed. I’ve seen some impressive cathedrals before, but the fact this huge building was built for such a small number of people at the top of such an extraordinary location makes it all the more impressive.

The efficient train arrives back in Madrid in plenty of time for the 14.00 to Valencia and I ask for tickets.

‘No,’ says the ticket salesman. I pause, awaiting an explanation… He stares at me blankly, so I ask him why not. ‘El tren hay una problema.’ Great.

He tells me the next train is a regional one that leaves at 4pm. Bearing in mind Milan’s Champions League Final in Athens is at 20.45, I check the arrival time.

‘A las diez’… Mierda. I guess a bus trip is in order.

After an extraordinarily awkward discussion with the information desk (who tells me he only gives ‘train’ information) I finally find the bus station. This ticket salesman jokes whether I really want a ticket to Valencia. I’m confused. He points to my Milan shirt and then asks whether I’d actually prefer a ticket to Athens..!

The trip isn’t as bad as I expected. The four hours is split in two with a 20-minute refreshment halfway there. Best of all, was the screening of ‘Flight of the Phoenix’ during the last two hours, which helped time pass quickly. The opening crash sequence also made me quite grateful I wasn’t flying to Valencia!

My first impressions of Valencia are positive, although my mind was more focused on finding a restaurant showing the game, which I did. Despite the joyful ending, it has been a long day and celebrations are relatively reserved: Tomorrow I’ve a new city to explore!

24th May 2007 – Valencia

Valencia is a fantastic city. I’ve only had a day and a half to explore it, but is vibrancy and youthful environment makes it so enjoyable. Every corner I turned, there’s something to see, from the sublime fresh food market, to narrow, twisting streets and plazas everyfew dozen metres.

There are other tourists and there are plenty of cars, but it just seems so much more relaxed than Madrid or Toledo. Much of the traffic is directed around the centre and alongside the very impressive old river bed. The old river Turia flowed along what is now a massive long area of grassland, football pitches and other sports facilities.

Coffee shops are unique in style and nearly everyone treats you like you’re the first tourist they’ve ever seen. If Madrid is a middle aged man, and Toledo is his retired father, then Valencia is the eldest son at university!

The highlights of the day (other than the obvious tourist attractions) included discovering the Café de Los Henas (with its own coffee dessert which has shot to the top of my list: Espresso, Khalua and a ball of vanilla ice cream all in a tall glass!), relaxing in the massive Jardines del Real o Viveros (reading about Milan’s victory in Gazzetta Dello Sport) and seeing the way that the city is so beautifully lit at night.

I can say with confidence that I’ll return especially as there’s still much to see. Even at the top of the numerous view points (including the impressive Cathedral) you can see how much more there is to explore, in particular the port and sea-front that I did not see at all.

Tomorrow lunchtime I leave Valencia and travel 100km south to see my parents for a few days. After walking at least 20km per day for the past five days, a relaxing family reunion with sangria and barbeques is just what the doctor ordered!

I really must get it into my head why 7am flights are so cheap. It sounds like a good idea to arrive early in Frankfurt for the Bank Holiday, but three hours sleep and a cloud-filled sky don’t motivate me to do too much exploring on the first day. Nonetheless, my first impressions of “Bankfurt” are positive. Despite the number of skyscrapers, it has retained a “small town” feel to it and the old town (completely destroyed in March 1944) has been rebuilt exactly as it stood before the Allied bombings.

The 200m tall “Main Tower” is not the tallest building in Frankfurt, but it does give an impressive view of the rest of the city and I watch the sunset amongst a comical line of photographers with shutters snapping every few seconds.

6th May 2007 – Frankfurt

A good night’s sleep prepares me for a long day of walking. Frankfurt is not a large city, but the banks of the Main River make for pleasant strolls and there’s photography fodder everywhere I turn.

The Jewish Cemetery is frighteningly moving. Unlike the one in Warsaw which is just an enormous mass of graves, in Frankfurt there is a long wall with tiny plaques representing each person who was exported and killed in the Second World War. Each name, date of birth, date and place of death is a shocking reminder of what happened just 60 years ago. The Jewish History museum is disappointing, but again the large wall of named casualties can’t help but hit home.

Now you’d think it’s relatively easy to find a Frankfurter in Frankfurt. In the same way you’d expect to find Cheshire cheese in Cheshire, or a tasty curry in Madras, or even a decent game of poker in Texas… I really thought there would be frankfurters everywhere but I was wrong; not a sausage!

The sun takes its toll and the next stop is a 1000 year old tower that has been converted into a bar! The speciality is cocktails and it’s a suitable way to spend a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon!

There’s an area south of the Main called Sachsenhausen which reminds me of Dublin’s Temple Bar. It’s full of character during the day, but later in the evening it’s full of beer guzzlers and doesn’t have the same appeal.

The last stop is back in the old town and I finally find my long sought after meal. Along with a huge beer, the frankfurter goes down a treat. Tomorrow I’m going home and my journey is complete!

Three years ago I missed a train from Oslo to Stockholm. It meant I lost half a day in the Swedish capital and subsequently I rushed the visit and promised I would return. This weekend, I did.

From the main train station to the view down Vasagatan, it all comes flooding back to me and it doesn’t feel like it has been three years since I left Stockholm on the ‘binge ferry’ to Helsinki.

The old town, Gamla Stan, is just how I remember it; the cobbled, narrow streets are beautiful and the colours exaggerated by today’s bright sun. However, despite the blue skies, it still feels no warmer than when I was here in October 2004. I suppose I’m not made for Scandinavian weather!

Unbelievably, I don’t remember the Kungliga Slottett, the main attraction in the old town. Further south stands another tourist trap that I also don’t recall – a 60m tower overlooking the city. I wonder whether it was even here three years ago, but I embarrassingly rubbish that thought when I discover it was opened in 1883!

It’s interesting to walk through the KungsträdgÃ¥rden. The ice rink on which I fell so many times is simply gravel in springtime and the trees are in blossom. However, it seems that the outdoor, oversized chessboard is still in use. The elderly men are deep in thought and I can’t help wondering whether if it’s the same game as when I last walked by!

22nd April 2007 – Stockholm

DjurgÃ¥rden is one of the most touristy places to visit in Sweden’s capital. Once again, it’s another place I failed to visit last time I was here.

To get there is a relatively short walk along Strandvägen, admiring some of the older boats in the quay. One boat is a stylishly decorated coffee shop and I’m feeling a little lethargic so a caffeine hit is in order.

The first stop on the island is the aquarium. Its residents include sharks, piranhas, colourful fish and all kinds of frogs, so poisonous that even touching a leaf where one has been sitting could be lethal!

It’s interesting and particularly clever how they have recreated a rainforest (with authentic rainstorms!) but the sharks swim in circles and you can’t help feel that they are yearning for freedom.

In the Skansen, there’s an area with enclosed animals. Having recently been on safari, I find it horrible that the enclosures are so small. Monkeys hold onto a railing by a window and the bears sit on the highest rock as if they are looking over their prison walls.

The rest of Skansen is really well created. The ‘old’ area mimics traditional Sweden, with all kinds of tradesman’s shops, ranging from glass blowing, carpentry and engineering to bakery and dress-making, only using the tools available centuries ago. My favourite is the woman working in an old style home. She tells me she makes about 100 flat breads per day and they must be eaten quickly before they go off. Strangely, if cooked twice (each turn in the wood fire oven only lasts a few seconds) the bread can last for 25 years! She’s right when she says they are addictive; I eat one and for the rest of the day I’m craving another!

Stopping occasionally for coffee and cake, the rest of the day is spent wandering around admiring the architecture and beautiful views across the sea towards Stockholm. To save a long walk back, there’s a ferry crossing to the Old Town. It’s a strange feeling, as the last time I was on a boat in the Baltic Sea, I had just drunk a bottle of 60% vodka!

Without the flat bread recipe, I settle for a steak at ‘Broncos’. The cheerful waiter tells me that it’s a converted pharmacy, which explains some of the more unusual decoration in the restaurant. I tell him it’s the perfect place to eat since if I fall ill they can treat me…

‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘and I am training to be a medic also!’

Then he brings the drinks and tells me that the guests at the next table are firemen, confirming that this is indeed the safest place to eat in Stockholm!

The weather has turned and tomorrow’s forecasted rain has come early. It means my night photography session is cut short, although I’m delighted to find a small courtyard that I photographed three years ago, which allows me to compare my photography skills between then and now!

23rd April 2007 – Stockholm

I’ve one final thing to see before I go home. The Vasa museum is another tourist favourite and yet another I missed in 2004. I’m starting to wonder whether I saw anything but the inside of a nightclub last time I was here!

On the way I stop at ‘Coffeehouse by George’. It’s one I photographed on my last visit so I’ve been promising myself I’d one day go back. The three year wait was worth it! The caffeine kick gets me ready for a history lesson at the museum.

The ship is hugely impressive. From its incredible design to its remarkable rescue 300 years later, Henrik Hybertsson’s masterpiece is full of fascinating history. Normally I’m so shocked how humans have created such fabulous feats without the aid of modern technology, but my amazement is slightly reserved this time seeing as this ship sank so soon after leaving the docks!

It’s already time for me to return to London, but I’ve fulfilled my promise to re-visit Stockholm and see the (many) things that I missed. I step onto the bus for the airport and the driver says, ‘I’ve never driven this one before! I’m very excited!’

I don’t share his enthusiasm; all I’m thinking is whether Captain Söfring Hansson had said the same thing..!

Highlights were a restaurant allowing me to test out my pizza making skills, window shopping in the Golden Quad, the huge skeleton art display by Il Duomo, relaxing in the Parco Sempione and of course, each of the three goals Milan scored against Empoli.

Milan is going through a prolonged period of throwing away scoring opportunities and this game was no different. However, seeing Ronaldo in the Rossoneri shirt was a great sight, as was the return of Serginho after his long injury. Of course, the game doesn’t have to be good to enjoy the San Siro – I adore each visit as the crowd is fantastic and even half empty there’s a great atmosphere.

My first time in Asia doesn’t last very long. Arriving at the Sabinha Gökcen airport, I find a small bus that is heading west, across the Bosphorus and into Europe. There’s clearly a divide between west and east, but it’s more like a distinction between rich and poor, than a difference in architecture.

The further into Istanbul we drive, the larger and more modern the buildings become. The traffic also intensifies and it takes forever to complete the last couple of kilometres.

I step off the bus a little confused. We’ve crossed the huge Fatih Sultan Bridge but we haven’t gone across the Golden Horn. It means I’m in northern Istanbul and I’m already lost.

I enter the underground and immediately I’m stopped by the police. He seems satisfied with my camera equipment, although before letting me pass, he can’t resist squeezing my dust blower!

A few minutes later and I clearly look confused as I’m stopped by some more police, who are only too happy to explain I’m in the wrong place and I need to catch the funicular from Taksim to Kabata?.

I exit the underground having not travelled anywhere, only to pay a second time to get on the funicular. I’m searched again by police before being waved onto the train.

The next choice I have to make is which direction to take the tram from Kabata?. Since I can’t figure out the tram map, I use the logic of ‘the sea is over there, so I guess I go this way…’

It works a treat and before I know it I’m across the Golden Horn and passing all kinds of impressive mosques and buildings. As I step off the tram, there’s a wonderful smell of incense and there’s Turkish music coming from the nearby shops. Old ladies sit on the pavement creating jewellery and there’s the hustle of city life around me.

A local points me in the right direction for my hostel and I soon drop off my backpack. It’s a friendly welcome I’ve received so far and despite the sign in the hostel’s lift, I feel safe.

The receptionist suggests a local restaurant and I’m glad I heed his advice. The weather is pretty poor and I don’t want to walk too far from the hostel so I decide to explore the Sultanahmet area. Despite it being one of the most touristy parts of Istanbul, it’s actually very quiet. There are locals on park benches, there’s not too much traffic and life seems very relaxing.

Locals smile and it’s not long before I enter the Blue Mosque. The courtyard is enormous and amongst the visitors there are plenty of locals coming to pray. There’s a woman in a niqab and I fire off a few shots. She’s not impressed. She suddenly bolts to hide behind one of the pillars and I feel a bit guilty.

Removing my shoes and entering the mosque is a moving experience. Having studied Islam at school, it’s bringing back lost memories from 10 years ago. Watching the people praying under the gigantic Mosque domes, it makes me wonder whether a more widespread teaching of others’ religions would help reduce the hatred and human separation that religions so often cause.

A couple of photographers beside me ask an old woman to stand in the prayer hall for 30 seconds for a long exposure. As she stands there, confused and alone, the couple suddenly feel awful as they realise she was there to pray and wasn’t actually a visitor!

However, they don’t feel half as bad as I do, when a police officer approaches me and asks me whether I’ve been taking photos. I feel daft – I’m holding my shoes in one hand and holding my camera on a tripod in the other.

‘No photos in here?’ I ask innocently.
‘It’s ok. But have you taken photo outside mosque?’ He asks, pointing towards where the woman in the niqab was sitting just 10 minutes ago. I panic, realising she’s obviously made a complaint. I quickly point to the opposite side of the mosque and say I’ve taken photos over there. He points back at to the courtyard, ‘Not there?’
‘No,’ I lie.

He accepts my answer and assumes he has the wrong guy. It’s a close shave and it’s a lesson learned. From now on, I’m going to ask for permission however far away I am from my subject!

Leaving the mosque, it has already become dark. Just as I step from the courtyard, the deafening announcement for prayers screams from the speakers. Nothing could have prepared me for how loud it was going to be and it’s another absorbing experience that the textbooks can’t describe.

Outside of the mosque are the taps used for washing the feet as part of the praying ritual. Some locals allow me to take photos, but I don’t stay long; it’s getting cold so I head back to the hostel. On the way there’s a friendly looking man working in a stall. It’s a classic shot and I ask if he minds a photo. He misunderstands and says yes, because when I line up the shot, he covers his face and looks away. I apologise, smile, and his friendly expression returns. I’ve lost the shot but at least I shouldn’t have any more police after me!

The day has passed quickly and the spitting rain isn’t inviting me to do any more night exploring, so I decide that’s it a perfect time to indulge myself in the Turkish Baths!

The experience lasts about two hours at the famous ÇemberlitaÅŸ Baths (www.cemberlitashamami.com.tr). I’m treated to a steam room, a vigorous body scrub and soap lather by a huge Turk, followed by a deep tissue, oil massage from another man who seems determined to crack every joint in my body!

It’s an invigorating experience which I thoroughly enjoy and prepares me for the best possible night’s sleep!

23rd March 2007 – Istanbul

Istanbul is waking up, preparing itself for another day and I seem to be the only tourist witnessing it. I’m strolling westbound up Yeniçeriler Caddesi and everyone is walking in the opposite direction. I turn north and start the descent towards the Bazaar district. Shops and stalls are only just opening but there’s a buzzing atmosphere. The majority of people seem to be couriers, carrying huge sacks of goods on their backs. Some roads are incredibly steep and the older men get a helping push from behind to make it up the hills. I’m a little too early for the Grand Bazaar but by the time I reach the Spice Bazaar, it’s just opening up. Still, I’m the only person there who isn’t a local and the forceful salesmen I was expecting to see are non-existent.

I settle for a coffee in the Tea Gardens and watch the cats chase the birds around the square. I then use the bar’s toilet and wish I hadn’t. There’s a hole in the ground and next to it, a hose pipe and wash basin. Predictably, there’s no toilet paper; but there is a bar of soap…

With the ‘experience’ behind me, I head back northbound to the Spice Bazaar. I think I must have been in the toilet longer than I thought as the market is now full of tourists and the place suddenly feels alive. I get calls in Spanish and Italian (a favourite being ‘amigo sin barba!’) but it’s the completely random shout of ‘Forza Milan’ that draws me in!

All the shop owners I speak with are friendly and they all allow photography which also makes for a pleasant change.

The Grand Bazaar is now open and that too has an electric atmosphere. One café bar has an incredible selection of cakes, so I decide to try a chocolate slice and a Turkish coffee. The coffee is intense. I’m used to espressos, but the caffeine kick from this was mind-twisting. I’m high as a kite and simply bouncing around the Grand Bazaar, completely lost but shooting everything that catches my eye.

I come across an exit and realise it’s chucking down with rain outside. Just at that moment, the calls for prayers echo around the city and there are hundreds of Muslims rushing past me into the Nuruosmaniye Mosque. I stumble across a stairway that leads me above the streets below which gives me a better view, albeit in the rain.

Back in the Grand Bazaar, I find the iç Bedeslen and I’m a little disappointed that the eagle symbol isn’t as golden as the guidebook implied. However, the guidebook is spot on regarding the ?ark Kahvesi, a bar for local bazaar traders. In its smoky interior, there are groups of men playing cards, backgammon or simply refuelling with a quick kahve.

After my pit stop, I decide to follow a recommended 90 minute walk. I’m not too strict about following the exact route and subsequently exit the (impressive) university in the wrong place and end up walking half an hour in the wrong direction.

Back on track, I make it to the Süleymaniye Mosque, which, typically, has just closed for the next hour for prayers. It means I’m stuck in the courtyard listening to the incessant Islamic chanting for sixty minutes. However, it does force me to try and be a little more creative with my photography.

Inside, the dome is exactly twice as high as it is wide. It’s impressive, but probably more so on the outside.

I walk around its exterior and further north, through narrow roads, full of shops, towards the Golden Horn. Although I crossed it yesterday, today is more relaxing and I can really take in the view.

Crossing the Galata Bridge is excellent. It’s littered with restaurants with the waiters trying to beckon you in. One asks if I’m Italian and upon hearing my answer, he pulls out his mobile and asks me to translate a text message for him. My first thought is that it’s some kind of scam but when I tell him it’s a love message meaning ‘You’re always in my thoughts’, he’s ever so grateful. Maybe it was a trick to get me in the restaurant and he’s got the same text in 10 different languages! Or maybe I’m just a cynic!

I pass the local fishermen who allow me to take photos, one insisting on seeing the final picture before letting me walk away!

As I reach the other side of the bridge, the sun makes its first appearance of the holiday. It couldn’t be better timing; it’s low in the sky and I’m not too far away from the Galata Tower.

The climb to the foot of the tower is exhausting enough and I’m praying for a lift up the 60m viewpoint. My prayers are answered and I’m high above the city looking along the Bosphorus, with a different continent on each side. I spend an hour watching the sun disappear over the horizon but although I’m lucky the sun is visible, it’s still very cloudy and I’m denied a stunning sunset.

A lad then asks me if I’ll take a photo of him. He’s a New Yorker called Saqib who was uninsured and had his camera and lenses stolen only a couple of days ago. I take his email address and promise to send him the photo.

Next, I have a long rest at a restaurant on the Galata Bridge. With live Turkish music playing, I sit by the window with a fantastic view of the Golden Horn and the lit up Süleymaniye Mosque.

Surprisingly, the fishermen are still there, but even more bizarre is that on the west side of the bridge, street stalls are being set up, seemingly at random. The whole of Istanbul appears to be a non-stop trading city. Apparently there are 60,000 taxis in Istanbul; one for every 120 people. However, there must be thousands more shops and you’ve got to wonder how they ever make any money.

It’s quite a walk back to the hostel and a long day of walking finally comes to an end.

24th March 2007 – Istanbul

I look out of the window and it’s chucking it down. I haven’t had any luck with the weather on this trip but I suppose I should be grateful that most of it is being spent inside mosques, museums or markets.

In any case, by the time I’ve had breakfast, it has stopped raining and I make my way towards the Hippodrome. Not much is left standing, but the chariot race track is now part of the modern road. A little further to the east, is something I missed on Thursday. I’m trying to find a statue of Medusa’s head but it’s nowhere to be seen. I kick myself when I realise it’s in the Basilica Cistern that I’ve walked past about four times.

It’s worth the search; inside the underground water cistern, there are vast stone columns, reaching high up above the creepy and hauntingly lit space. The sound of water dripping from the ceiling adds to the atmosphere, although it’s slightly spoilt by the relentless yapping from a group of Japanese tourists!

At the far corner of the cistern, are two Medusa statues that form the base of a couple of the pillars. One head is on its side and another upside down; it’s an interesting and thought-provoking piece of architecture.

My next calling point is the famous Haghia Sophia. Over 1,400 years old, it’s a mind-boggling construction. The cost and time to replicate it nowadays would be obscene and this was built by men so simple that they thought they would fall off the earth if they sailed too far towards the horizon!

The tourists are out in their hundreds today, but the mosque is massive inside and there’s enough room to wander around without being bumped and pushed. The dome itself is gigantic, and even though half of it is covered by scaffolding, it only adds to the perspective to see how high the dome really is. The view from the upper floor is also impressive, although seeing an old, crooked marble pillar doesn’t fill me with confidence!

Next on the itinerary is the Topkap? Palace, surrounded by the Gülhane Park. There are many workmen improving the surrounding area, but once inside the Palace, I’m faced with room after room of historical artefacts. However, my favourite areas are the pretty courtyards, full of colour and wonderful hollow trees; one of which wouldn’t look out of place in a horror film!

I spend a while walking around and hunger strikes, so I leave the gardens and head back towards the Blue Mosque. In its vicinity is a restaurant called Doy Doy, recommended by both my guidebooks. On the way I feel I’m passing the real hangout areas for the local traders and I fire off a few shots.

I ask one man if I can photograph the rug-making. He lets me and tells me all about his brother’s trips to the UK to trade the hand-made rugs. He offers me some products for sale, but nothing captures my eye, especially not the rug (’95 years old,’ he claims!) that’s so