Bled it snow.

The drizzle only became more persistent as I sped along the road to Bled. Rugged mountain faces loomed behind manicured fields, stubborn clouds clutching on to their peaks. In just over an hour I arrived in the small lakeside town. I checked into a very friendly hostel, where I was immediately accosted by other travellers asking where I’d been and where I’m going. My little holiday is not comparable to an epic world tour, but I’m all too familiar with the feeling of being on the road, and can already feel myself sinking into the mindset.

Permitting the rain to dampen my body but not my spirit, I went out for a ramble around the lake. On one side, boxy hotels leered over the water’s edge, but as I got further from the centre of town, the cars navigating the road that cut into the mountain side became fewer. Birds chirped an endless commentary, and raindrops pattered rhythmically on the canopy above me. The Church of Assumption peered out from the island in the centre of the lake, and though the scene wasn’t quite like the picture on the front of my guidebook, I could still appreciate the beauty of the church, framed by its idyllic setting. I got about half way round the circuit, and realised I was tired and hungry. To remedy this, I sat in a cafe and tried the cream cake that the town is famous for. The dessert rose from the plate like a monument, and the tiny fork that I was furnished with in order to attack it’s battlements felt somewhat inadequate, but at least it made it last longer.

I got back to the hostel and made more friends, then went out for a pizza. This quickly escalated to the consumption of wine and beer and wine, in that order.

I woke up the next morning to a thick blanket of snow wrapped around the chimneys and steeples of the town, dulling the thuds of the church bells. To escape the elements, TJ drove us up to Radovljica in her tiny red Kia. We ducked into a huge building in a quiet cobbled square, and were met by baskets of vegetable props and life-sized balloon figurines. We later discovered that a Milka advert was being filmed, an event that seemed completely incongruous with the sleepy atmosphere of the town. Edging past the production crew, we climbed a sweeping staircase  and found ourselves in a museum dedicated to the history of Slovenian bee-keeping. Whilst we initially suppressed sniggers at the absurdity of the situation, we were soon silenced by a genuine interest in the exhibits. We learnt about the life cycle of the bee, how they communicate the location of pastures through dance, and the development of apiarian cultivation in the country. After a quick coffee, we wound back down the mountain before the snow got too thick, and holed up for the afternoon, amusing ourselves with The Fellowship of the Ring and The Hat Game. We cooked a massive family meal with the rest of the hostel, and at 01:00 decided to take a quick hike up to the castle to see it lit up in the snow.

The snow was still the thick the next morning, but we couldn’t leave Bled without seeing Vintgar Gorge. The air was crisp and fresh, and the light reflected off the white fields in a blinding haze. The road through Podhom was gentle and winding. We fell into single file as cars squeezed past, clinging to the side of sturdy barns filled with firewood. Eventually we crested the hill, and started our descent in to the gorge. Cars rolled past, winding down their windows to tell us that the gorge was closed. Politely thanking the passengers, we continued along the path undeterred, ducking under a rope and lunging over a gate, we reached the water. The rapids roared through the valley, the turquoise water rolled through playful currents, swollen by the recent snowfall. We slipped down a wooden walkway, and it was only then that we were turned back by a couple of maintenance workers, who told us that the bridge had been destroyed by a tree, and we couldn’t go any further. Satisfied by the beauty of what we’d already seen, we turned our steps towards Bled, taking a short detour to make a snowman, before curling up at the hostel to watch Two Towers. The evening passed much like the previous, but tinged with the sadness of knowing that our fellowship was soon to be broken.

My time in Bled has not been how I anticipated. I didn’t see the lake and island in all of its splendour, and I spent more time than strictly necessary watching Lord of the Rings, but I did make a lot of friends and have some time to chill out, which I guess is the whole purpose of a holiday. If anything, what I learnt last year was that travelling is as much about the people you meet as the places you go, and with that in mind I’d say that the snow was more of a blessing than a curse.

A puja in Pushkar.

We were thrust into two Mahindra Jeeps, which were to drive us to Tordi Saga; a village of three thousand five hundred inhabitants. We had managed to select the party bus, and pumped out the likes of Aqua, Akon, and Avril Lavigne as we hurtled down the motorway. The back door had a tendency to swing open every time we went over a bump; which developed from something quite amusing to something mildly terrifying. However, we made it to our destination safely, and visited a local man’s house for lunch. He served us a delicious dahl and some dense wheat bread, for which we thanked him profusely. We then had a wander around the village, and were henna-ed by a beautiful but shy local girl.

In the late afternoon we were picked up by more Jeeps, which drove us to some sand dunes. We were the only people there as the red sun drifted down to touch the horizon; we sipped hot chai as the darkness spread.

The next day we had a walk around the village. This wasn’t nearly as contrived as similar visits I’ve done; the locals called out to us, asking for their photos to be taken. We were definitely a novelty. After our walk we crawled back into the Jeeps and drove to Pushkar. We walked around the small town, dazed by the volume of shops vomiting out tie-dye, camel leather, and tea. It’s a hippie mecca, and we were struck by the number of older people, their grey grizzled dreadlocks belieing many a decade spent in a weedy Indian haze. We visited the temple dedicated to Brahma, the Hindu god of creation, then went down to the holy lake around which Pushkar is built. A Brahmin in yellow chinos and a stripey shirt conducted a puja for us; a series of prayers for ourselves and our families, banishing bad karma and welcoming good. We cast flower petals into the water, and were anointed with a mixture of rice and red powder. Feeling cleansed, we walked around the lake and had dinner, admiring the fireworks that were bringing in the Hindu New year.

We had a relaxed day after that, shopping for psychadelic hippie tat, eating wholesome hippie fare, and chilling by the hippie-free pool. As we headed into town we stumbled upon a procession, led by an enthusiastic man in orange.

I had an ayurvedic massage, which was enjoyable, but in a weird little parlour/office. I was told by Yogi Ji that I had a cool head, soft stomach, and hot feet, and that is good. He asked me if I was a farmer, because of my supposed good health, and was visibly surprised when I answered in the negative.

In the evening we split into two groups. The others opted to take a camel ride, but I was too stingy to partake. We hopped into Jeeps and met them in the desert, at the campsite of a nomadic family. The sun set and the moon rose as we were entertained by a bizarre magic show which culminated in the apparition of three pigeons in a basket, and four mesmerising dancers that orbited the fire.

A man ate some flames and we ate our dinner, comprised of lentils, breads, vegetables and rice. The man that had conducted our pujas was also there, for some unknown reason. The fire burned low and we said our goodbyes.

Our final day in Pushkar started at 05:00. We tripped in the darkness, following Shanka up a mountain. The incline was steep, and for the second time I regretted leaving my trainers in Thailand. The milky dawn was just spreading as we reached the temple at the summit. We crumpled into a sweaty heap, and revived ourselves with chai as the sun began to peek over the mountains, the pink reflection glistening off the lake.

It was a moment of calm contentment. Until a family of monkeys started chattering and leaping around. We reluctantly descended, but it was worth it for breakfast.

Pushkar is one of those strange hippie bubbles that I’ve stumbled on from time to time while I’ve been away. It’s chilled out, safe, colourful, but it also feels a bit disingenuous, artificial, and designed solely to cater to western needs. This isn’t the whole story: Pushkar has been a site of religious pilgrimage for hundreds of years, and the fact that the city is meat and alcohol free is a testament to that. I would have felt safe in Pushkar if I’d been by myself, but I was a bit intimidated by the clans of travellers, who seemed reluctant to engage with anyone who wasn’t wearing tie-dye (disclaimer: I own some tie-dye), or didn’t have dreads. I can imagine people staying in Pushkar for a long time. Maybe it’s just for the muesli.

A day of many transports and a trek of many perils.

We left our hotel in Ayutthaya just after 08:00, and went in search of our first vehicle; a ferry across the river. This wasn’t as straightforward as it should have been, but we found it eventually and made the 30-second voyage across the churning waters. We then walked across the road to the train station and bought a pitifully cheap ticket to Bangkok. The train departed four minutes later, and in less than an hour it dropped us straight outside airport. We then checked in, even though we hadn’t printed our tickets – we only booked them last night, because we’re cool and spontaneous like that. We hung around the airport for four hours, then boarded our plane and took the one-hour flight to Surat Thani. We arrived a little late, then found a minivan which took us to our ultimate destination: Khao Sok National Park. It’s not the most popular destination with tourists, which was why it was such a mission to get to, but it was so worth it.

We entered the park, which was flanked by dense jungle, sprawling over steep karst mountains. The minivan pulled up to a small cluster of bungalows, set along a wooden platform a couple of metres above the ground. We checked in, and then got a traditional Thai massage in a ‘spa’ set up in a woman’s front room. A little girl was watching Disney, and we hummed along to Tangled, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella as the women pushed their weight into our muscles. We then supped on a delicious curry, and went to bed, after managing to close the window following a drawn out battle with an intrusive banana tree.

We had breakfast as the sun slanted through the palm trees, and were picked up by a mini van at 08:30. We drove for an hour to Chiew  Larn – a gorgeous lake bordered by karst mountains and dense, sprawling jungle. We took a boat across the turquoise water, and arrived in paradise.

We had time for a quick swim before lunch, then we had another brief boat ride before commencing our trek. Vines snaked along the dirt track, and the dappled light rippled as we splashed through crystal streams. The earthy smell of woodland lingered in the humid air as our guide held a discourse with a bird, through lilting coos and whistles.

After an hour or so we arrived at the gaping mouth of a cave. Slightly apprehensive, we clutched our flashlights and stuffed our valuables into our dry bag. Our solitary beams did little to keep us from stumbling. The head torch of the guide had a broader scope. He pointed out latent spiders the size of my hand, sometimes provoking them so they jumped into the water and swam away from our light. We saw militant frogs standing sentinel, and banners of bats, hanging from the roof. Our shoes were already soaked from the rivers we had to cross to get to the cave, but at times we suddenly plunged in deeper, the water up to our necks. I cautiously held the bag above my head, but this was probably unnecessary. Eventually shafts of light began to fall across our path. We’d made it. We happily blinked into the sunlight and squelched back to the boat. We swam at the famous karst formations, emulating Guilin, then drove back to the harbour, shivering from the spray that was coming up the side of the boat. We got back to the bungalow, had a shower, then went out for dinner and drinks with a German guy.

The next morning we went for a trek in the park by ourselves. We came to a waterfall and sat with our feet trawling through the cool water when we were joined by a monkey. He sat a couple of metres away, just watching, occasionally having a little scratch, and then slipped away to terrorise a youngster, who had found himself a banana. It was so incredible to see an animal like that in the wild, and we felt so grateful that he came to say hello. We walked back to the village and caught a minibus, but it was excruciatingly difficult to drag ourselves away from such a beautiful place.

When I was travelling by myself I was often put off visiting national parks, because they tend to be awkward to get to, and quite expensive if you don’t have someone to share a room with. These problems were effaced by Mariana’s companionship, and I’m so glad that we made the effort to come here. I’m also appreciative of her research skills – I’d never heard of Khao Sok before, and that’s precisely it’s beauty. It’s untouched, unfrequented, and unbelievably stunning. I hope it stays that way.

No time to dilly-dally in Dali.

I boarded the train at Kunming station, and was surprised to find that the ‘seat’ that I’d booked was actually the bottom bunk of a hard sleeper, with four people sitting on it. If anything I think there was a bit more room than on a seat, so it was perhaps marginally more comfortable. I got talking to the newlyweds opposite who shared my passion for Downton Abbey, and watched the forested slopes roll past the window. As the journey went on a higher and higher proportion of it was spent in tunnels, but occasionally we would break out into green terraced fields, overlooked by a pocket of wooden houses, their roofs flicking up towards the sky. I arrived in Dali at 16:00, caught a local bus to the old town, found my hostel and did a load of washing, because that’s the kind of rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle I lead.

The next morning was bright and fresh. The rising sun turned the top of the mountains a hazy pink, and the sky was a brillant blue. I hired a bike and cycled to the Three Pagodas. It’s been a while since I’ve visited a temple complex, and it was a relaxing way to spend a couple of hours. The site was quiet, and the pagodas themselves were impressive, standing majestically against the backdrop of the mountains.

I hopped back on my bike, and cycled along patchwork fields with elderly ladies in colourful headscarves stooping to harvest leeks and spring onions. I wound through small villages comprised of narrow alleys, snaking between high stone walls and dusty building sites, and eventually came to Erhai Lake. It was stunning, the rippling waves never quite broke the surface, they were caught in a perpetual fluid motion. I followed the road round, cycling through countless villages and past legions of boutique hotels, until I reached the ‘tongue’ of the lake: a small promontory leading to an underwhelming park. I then looked for Xi Zhou village, and after a bit of confusion found it, and the bread for which it is famous. I pacified my rumbling stomach, bought a couple of baba for Tracey, the owner of the hostel, and then carried on cycling for another half hour.

It was at this point that I realised I was utterly exhausted. In light of this, I turned on to the highway and began the gruelling journey back. My unresponsive legs and the force of the wind against me meant that progress was slow. I enlisted my Zumba tunes for motivation, and after a couple of hours I eventually made it home. In total I cycled about 50km. That was enough for one day. I sank into my cloudlike bed (the softness of which was alien, and as such, difficult to get comfortable in) and fell asleep.

This morning was as beautiful and mild as the last. I packed up my things, had breakfast, and wandered around the touristy shops of the old town. By some accident I bought a fourth tin of tea (it’s an addiction; I should really post some home), and then went back to the hostel to check out. I had a couple of hours before my train left, so Tracey took me to a café owned by one of her friends. It was quiet, tucked down an alleyway, and the only patrons were Tracey’s friends. It was also super-hipster; these friends were sporting extravagant headwear, knitwear and facial hair. If you hadn’t guessed, I’m definitely more of a tea-fiend than a coffee-addict, but my cappuccino was delicious. Tracey told me it was the best coffee in town, thanks to the bespoke espresso machine. The prices didn’t reflect this; Tracey laughed, telling me that it was a good thing the owner’s dad was rich – there’s no way he’s making money. She then took me around the backstreets, forcing two pastries and some pomegranate juice on me, before walking me to the bus stop and saying goodbye. I’m so glad she took me under her wing. She said she understands what it’s like to be a solo female traveller, and wanted me to feel welcome. Her generosity and kindness meant that this was certainly the case.

Dali is beautiful. I wish I’d had more time to go up to the mountains and to the other side of the lake, but I’m on a bit of a schedule at the moment. The more I see of China, the more I love it. The old town has unfortunately succumbed to the ravages of its thriving tourist industry, but Tracey showed me that there are still awesome places if you know where to go. I guess that’s true of anywhere; it helps to get in with the locals.