Bobbing along…

We spent an evening trying to work out the logistics of visiting Ein Gedi, Masada and the Dead Sea in one day via public transport. After a couple of hours we concluded that it couldn’t be done, at least not without military clock-watching, so we signed up for a tour.

We met the mini bus from the lobby of a fancy hotel, full of elderly Americans regaling tales of their intrepid adventures to each other. Fortunately, none of them were on our bus. Our first stop was the Jordan River, where Jesus is said to have been baptised by John. The river was a peaceful oasis in an arid landscape, bordered by wire fences and minefields. We spent ten blissful minutes quietly contemplating the fluvial border with Jordan, before jumping back on the bus and driving to Ein Gedi.

Ein Gedi is a nature reserve famed for its wildlife and natural waterfalls. Its fame attracts a number of visitors, including troops of baying schoolchildren. Rather than try to ascend higher and higher up the trail, at a pace set by the slowest child, we stopped about halfway up and enjoyed a smaller pool. The clear water felt cool and refreshing between our toes, and along with the merciful breeze, did much to revive us.

Our next stop was the ancient fortress of Masada, where rebels held off against Roman invasion, and chose to kill every person in the compound and commit suicide rather than suffer defeat. The foundations of watchtowers, bathouses and the tannery were spread over a substantial area, giving some idea of the scale of the attack. The views out to the haze of the Dead Sea were spectacular; it’s hard to take this cinematic landscape for granted.

Our final stop was the one we were most excited about. It hadn’t quite sunk in (hahahah) that we were about to visit the lowest place in earth: the Dead Sea. Upon arrival, we slathered warm goopy mud all over our skin, waiting until it tightened and cracked before washing it off with fresh water. Meanwhile, we had a little float, the salt content of the water making us buoyant, and occasionally forcing us to do an involuntary pencil roll. If we rubbed our hands together underwater, they felt slick and oily. Every sensation inspired novelty, however after a time we had to return to the bus, and to Jerusalem.

We touristed hard, and not in the manner to which we have become accustomed. We’re quite happy to find things ourselves, use public transport, and dicatate our own schedule, however for the sake of expediency (and for the sake of our dogmatic refusal to miss anything), the tour was hugely beneficial. Whilst some of the other tourists had expected to be guided, lectured, and photographed at designated points, we were quite happy to explore the sites in the time slots available, safe in the knowledge that we could get home.

Upon our return, we caught a bus back to Tel Aviv – the final stop of our trip. Upon emerging victorious from our battle with the traffic, we grabbed a sabich (aubergine filled pita) and went to sleep.

Our final days in Israel were spent eating delicious shakshuka and salads aplenty, exploring the old town of Jaffa, and basking in the sun at the beach. We also infiltrated an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day to watch the rugby, but that’s a story in its own right.

Our time here has been one of immense contrast in terms of history, society and culture. This is even reflected in the landscape, which is both breathtakingly beautiful, and terrifyingly hostile. The people we’ve met here have been hospitable and kind, but despite this I have felt very ‘other’. There’s no ostensible reason for this (apart from security treatment at the airport), but if anything, this has made the whole experience more interesting. Alex and Ricardo have been an absolute breeze to travel with, and I’m immensely grateful to them for letting me tag along. We’ve had experiences and made memories that I’m sure will stick with us for years to come; and I can’t wait to bring them up at (in)opportune moments in the future.

Viennese girls

At 22:00 on Tuesday night I hadn’t packed. At 04:30 on Wednesday morning, Annie and I began our voyage to Luton (which as avid followers of this blog will remember, is one of my favourite airports). By some serendipitous accident, Annie and I were sat next to each other on the plane (enabling us to share the guilty pleasures of a 90’s playlist). After a smooth flight the dusky silhouette of the Alps edged across the window, and we touched down under the pale blue canvas of the Viennese sky. 

We dumped our bags at the hostel, where it transpired that we had been upgraded to a private apartment. Positively gleeful, we waltzed out to grab some lunch. Having been told that Vienna is quite a meaty city. I was slightly apprehensive about food options, but we found a tiny veggie restaurant not far from the hostel where we shared hearty pumpkin and mushroom stews. Satisfied, we made our way to the centre of town along wide boulevards lined with ornate cream facades. We had a wander through the museum quarter, oggling at crumbling fossils and taxidermied sloths at the regal Natural History museum before visiting the Sacher hotel to try the eponymous chocolate cake for which it is celebrated. It turned out to be as delicious as its reputation (the cake, not the hotel). 

As dusk fell we wandered ever further, past the gothic spires of St Stephen’s Cathedral to Karlsplatz Christmas market. We sipped aromatic glühwein as we browsed the unique handicrafts, before turning our weary feet towards our apartment.

The next morning a film of mist coated the dome of the church outside our window. We swaddled ourselves in coats and scarves and braced ourselves for an adventure. We grabbed a pastry and coffee on our walk  to Schönbrunn Castle on the outskirts of the city, warming our hands on our cardboard cups. We soon arrived at the grand palace, which assumed a ghostly aspect as it emerged from the fog. We did a circuit of the Christmas market which was organised around a large drooping fir, where Annie purchased a kitsch felt Santa for her tree. We then had a wander through the expansive grounds, where the skeletal trees were hopelessly clinging on to their last few leaves. We then returned to the palace in time for the strudel show, where a disconcertingly enthusiastic youth skilfully stretched dough in to an elastic membrane before adding the spiced apple filling.

Feeling peckish, we grabbed some pretzels from a supermarket and had a quick rest at the hostel, before taking the U-bahn to the city centre. We visited Mozart’s House, timing our visit perfectly to coincide with the descent of a swarm of desultory schoolchildren. The museum was somewhat sparse, however compensated for this with rambling audio descriptions about noble figures who were peripheral to Mozart’s life in Vienna. 

Deciding that we needed to get our musical fix through alternative means, we made our way to the State Opera, where we managed to get standing tickets for that evening’s performance. At a mere €3, we were unfazed by our ignorance of Ariadne aux Naxos, and rectified this with a quick google of the plot. Despite the ridiculous storyline and improbable characters, the voices of the singers pierced into my heart with a tangible pureness and clarity as they somersaulted above the soft support of the orchestra. We emerged a couple of hours later with sore feet and grumbling stomachs. After a late dinner at Naschmarkt we staggered back to our apartment and crashed.

After the intensity of the previous day’s touristing, Annie (rather sensibly) decided to have a chilled morning. My restlessness prompted me to visit Belvedere Palace, to see ‘the most famous kiss in the world’. Klimt’s work hung alone against a stark black backdrop. The sensuous realism of the woman’s expression radiated both satisfaction and longing as she melted into the incandescent gold detail. I was captivated. I spent a few hours floating from room to room, before meeting Annie for lunch in advance of our train. 

Vienna is like a lot of European cities. It has grand palaces, manicured parks and hipster cafés. It would be easy to dismiss the  Austrian capital for its lack of personality. But its identity comes from its art; a historical and innate, but innovative and breathing dedication to creativity and human spirit. A couple of days was enough to begin to appreciate this vitality, and for us to satisfy our artistic thirst. But for those with a larger appetite, the city is an infinite banquet.

Fado, Festival, Farewell.

The overcast sky wasn’t quite enough to keep us from our habitual cultural exploits. We had lunch in a snug ‘Tibetan’ restaurant before visiting the Museu Nacional de História Natural e da Ciência. Our disappointment at the closure of the Botanical Gardens (for the purposes of renovation) was quickly subsumed by our surprise at the variety of the science museum. We gawped at huge blocks of crystal, meandered through the history of the universe, and were unsettled by the (un)convincing taxidermy of lynx, bears and wolverines. However, the best part was the interactive experiments in which we could participate. We were bemused by the suspension of a beach ball in a jet of air, incredulous at the demonstration of centripetal force, and utterly befuddled as to why Mariana is a much stronger conductor of electricity than myself. At 17:00 we were gruffly told by the security guard that the Museum was closing, and after failing to come up with a plan for evading him and seeing more of the museum, we decided that it was probably best to leave.

We walked back to the centre of the city along the leafy Avenida da Liberdade, and wound our way up to the castle. The terracotta roofs of the city tesselated like the scales of an enormous serpent, crouching by the Rio Tejo to quench it’s thirst. We navigated the battlements, grateful for the cool breeze that our vantage point afforded us, and watched as the sun began to dip behind the bridge. We then followed the cobbled streets into the Alfama, and chose a restaurant in which the spend the evening.

The restaurant we chose was empty, which is usually something I try to avoid, but the cracked white tiles were clean, and the fire in the open kitchen was crackling contentedly. We had just taken our first sip of wine, when the lights dimmed, and a shimmering fadista in a black shawl appeared in the middle of the floor. Slowly she began to sing, the melancholy of her soul erupting from the depths of her powerful frame. Her voice engulfed us, the room, the street, filling every particle of the space. The twanging melody of the guitars took feverish steps, moving contrapuntally across unresolved minor chords that hung heavily in the air like velvet. As the fadista began to build to a yearning crescendo, I felt the vibration of her voice in my chest, the hairs on my arms prickle, and three salty tears coat my eyelashes. And then, abruptly, in a superficial perfect cadence, the ballad was over. The lights came up, and I saw that imperceptibly the restaurant had filled; hypnotised patrons sat at every table, forgetting their fish and wine. We spent almost three hours in this trance, before floating back to the apartment with the swell of the fadista’s laments echoing in our ears.

The next day was spent mostly in the apartment; it was our aim to conserve as much energy as possible for our nocturnal exploits. As the sun dipped we took the metro, and then a second train to Algés. We were swallowed by a tide of people moving towards a huge multicoloured archway, and were greeted by the groans of distorted guitars and the raspy slur of a cover band. We were swept along into a tarmacked plaza, bordered by the flashing lights of various sponsors and food stalls. Just as we arrived, ghostly riffs announced the arrival of Alt-J. We swooned to the ephemeral melodies and were captivated by the psychedelic detachment of  ghostly voices. When the set finished, we did a circuit of the park before settling in to watch Royal Blood, The XX and The Weeknd. We also had time to try out a flight simulator, which involved being strapped to a frame and navigating through hoops on a virtual reality headset, using our core strength to tilt our bodies left and right. Much to Mariana’s chagrin I seemed to get the knack of it quite quickly, securing third place on the leaderboard. In the early hours we made our way back home.

On Friday morning I received the results for exams that I had been sure would render me jobless, homeless and destitute. None of these things happened, so we celebrated by going to the beach. We took the train to Cascais and followed the gentle trickle of people heading towards the sea. We dutifully set up camp and prepared to plunge in to the cool blue water. Unfortunately, the blue water was a bit too cool, so instead we read our books, listening to the inconsequential chatter of children as they played in the sand. After a couple of hours we remembered that neither of us like the beach very much, so we went to get an ice cream. We then followed the jagged coastline to the Boca do Inferno; a small cave in the dark cliff face. Moody clouds swept across the horizon, framing a distant lighthouse. The waves sparkled as the sun dropped, whispering secrets to the cawing gulls. We then turned back towards the town, and had dinner in a tiny restaurant that clung precariously to the rock. Pastel strokes of grey and blue swept across the horizon, slowly dimming until the bright eye of the lighthouse began to blink in to consciousness. We finished our meal and took the train home, leaving a trail of sand behind us.

We spent our final day in Lisbon cleaning the flat and packing our bags. After our final meal in a small restaurant full of locals, we sauntered down to Nos Alive to listen to Kodaline, Cage the Elephant, Fleet Foxes and Imagine Dragons. We lay on the fake grass entirely consumed by gratitude for our friendship, and started to make plans for our next trip.

My time in Portugal was intense, immersive, and unforgettable. I valued every second of spending time with a close friend, and being able to fleetingly forget the vagaries of adult life. Mariana helps me see causality in everything I do, feel, and am, and after spending some time in that mindset, I’m leaving Lisbon with a sense of power over my own destiny, and a subversive determination to live as the person I want to be. Every time I see Mariana she manages to teach me more French, make me laugh until I cry, and restore me back to my true self, and for all of these reasons she’ll be a friend for life.

An impromptu road trip.

A public holiday meant that local transport was severely limited, so Stephen and I met up for breakfast to try and figure out how to avoid another rainy day in the capital.

“This is a bit of a pain in the arse.”
“Yup.”
“Can you drive manual?”
“Manual?”
“Stick.”

We called a car rental company, and in an hour were cruising down the motorway, windscreen wipers cranked up full blast (along with a very informative radio show about an accomplished Slovenian photographer). After an hour or so, and through the witchcraft that is Google Maps, we arrived at Predjama, a tiny village which boasts an amazing natural and architectural monument. The castle looked like something out of a Disney film. Neatly wedged into the cliff face, the cream turrets seemed utterly impenetrable (and in fact were, unless you paid the entrance fee). Having read lacklustre reviews, we decided that the most impressive part of the castle was the exterior, so we dutifully took our photos, before heading to our next destination.

It was approaching 13:00, and feeling peckish, we decided to hop over to Italy for lunch. We drove past a monstrous industrial park and a gargantuan cruise ship to reach Trieste. The swordfish ravioli and clam tagliatelle were entirely sensational (the more so, perhaps, for coming after a week of stodgy Slovenian fare), and after a quick turn round the main plaza, we jumped back in the car and carried on.

We scooched back over the border in to Slovenia and drove around the bay to Piran, a gorgeous seaside town that could have been anywhere in the Mediterranean. We climbed up to a church and scaled the city walls, looking out over haphazard stacks of terracotta roofs. A tiny alley with higgledy stone steps brought us back out to the harbour, and I tried ‘Cockta’, a Slovenian cola. It was disgusting, but the view was not.

It wouldn’t have been a road trip with a smidgeon of drama. After Piran we thought we’d drive down to Croatia, and maybe have dinner in another seaside town. This intention was scuppered by an American passport and an absence of naval permission, but refusing to be disappointed, we engaged in a measured religious discussion and sang Taylor Swift (not, I hasten to add, simultaneously) all the way back to Ljubljana.

The best moments of travelling are the spontaneous ones, and despite not ticking off all of our destinations, we added a respectable few hundred kilometres to the odometer, and managed to return to Ljubljana in one piece. Our adventure had been a success.

I spent my last day in Slovenia in Bohinj, a lakeside town close to Bled. Unlike Bled, the natural beauty of the lake hasn’t been commercialised to its full ‘potential’, giving it a different kind of beauty, and a calmer atmosphere. Feeling adventurous, I decided to go on a 16km hike to a waterfall. I traced the edge of the lake, then veered off in the general direction of the mountains, with minimal navigational difficulties. The silence of the mountain was heavy. The sheer rock was wrapped in silks of cloud, and a gentle mist rose from the ground as banks of snow melted in the sun. Tubular pinecones and a residue of brown leaves littered the path, and the air was laced with fragrant woodsmoke and damp earth. A couple of hours later, I reached the top of the trail, and watched water gush down the rock in tumbling waves. The spray dissipated, coating my face with a light mist, and cooling my skin. On the other side, I could see Lake Bohinj framed by rolling fields and snow-capped peaks. Feeling Zen, I breathed it all in, eventually tearing myself away to catch a bus back to Ljubljana.

Packing is never fun, especially when you discover someone’s thrown out your laundry bag. Whilst this would have ultimately saved on washing, I felt that it would be a slight inconvenience to go home without half of my clothes. With the help and hindrance of a crazy Arizonian lady (who had some how appropriated my cardigan) I pieced together three versions of events (yes, all from the same witness) and after a brief early-morning rustle through a skip, was reunited with my dirty clothes. I grabbed a local bus to the airport and boarded a plane home.

This trip has brought me back to my self. The lost, carefree, directionless, person that I was last year is still inside me, she just sometimes wears a jacket and reads tax legislation. It’s comforting to know that despite the disappointment I felt on seeing myself instantaneously revert to my old self on re-entering ‘structured’ life, my changeability is just as applicable in reverse. People adapt to their environment, and now I know that if I want to be the travel-me again, I just need to go somewhere new. Slovenia is a naturally beautiful country, and whilst not the easiest to explore in low season (which to my mind, is quite appealing), it’s size made it perfect for the trip I wanted.

The only question that remains, is where to next?

Subterranean subculture.

We left Bled at 8:30 the next morning and made the short bus journey back to Ljubljana. The sun had melted all remnants of snow, and we were later plagued by gorgeous photos from the group who had decided to stay another night. I’m on a bit of a schedule, so wanted to see something new. In an exercise that demanded military precision, Stephen and I dropped our bags at our respective hostels and reconvened at the train station, four minutes before catching a train going to Divaca. The small train whizzed silently through the landscape, until we got to a random town somewhere in the East. Slightly confused, we disembarked and hopped on to a rail replacement bus which drove us a few kilometres before setting us down to catch another train. I’d heard that the Skocjan caves were difficult to get to, but this section of the journey was slower than anticipated. Nevertheless, me, Stephen, Tiffany and Solène, (two French girls we met on the way) eventually arrived at the right station and began the desperate search for a taxi to get to the caves. We’d missed the last minibus, and a taxi was going to take twenty minutes, so we decided to try and hitchhike. This turned into more of an amble along the motorway, but the sun was warm, and as soon as we turned off into the national park, all that we could hear were chortling birds and squealing school children as they played in a field. We arrived at the caves, and were ecstatic to find that our 3km stroll hadn’t been in vain; we hadn’t missed the last tour. We basked in the sun and played with the happiest dog in Slovenia, until we were called by our tour guide to begin the first section, stepping down into the valley to see the point at which the Reka River starts thundering into the caves.

Echoes roared off the cavernous walls as we entered through the mouth. It felt like being in the throat of a whale, the walls reaching an impossible height before moulding gracefully into a ceiling. We descended smooth steps to trace the bank of the river, following in the footsteps of the earliest explorer, who had to be rescued in 1884 after his boat capsized. We turned a corner, and natural light from one of the five natural openings burst through the darkness. We emerged into a valley caused by the collapse of another cave 12,000 years ago. Dappled sunlight dripped down the cliff-face, tickling ferns as they gently unfurled and dancing across carpets of lilac flowers. We crossed under the ‘bridge’ of rock formed by the collapse, and the voice of the river reached a crescendo as it was forced through a narrower opening. We passed to the other side, and took the graceful funicular back up to the entrance.

After another brief bask we followed our second tour guide down to the ‘classic’ caves.  We descended in to Moria, the dramatic dimensions of the cave arching above us as we were swallowed by the earth. The Silent Cave was webbed with stalactites, stalagmites and curtains of molten lime. Formations sprouted like mushrooms, forming bulbous columns and pointing gnarled fingers to the ceiling. The whisper of the river got louder as we came in to the Great Hall, the black void opening before us. We crossed a bridge 45 metres above the chasm, channelling our inner-Gandalf and listening for the Balrog with our hearts in our mouths. It was breath-taking. Despite being 110 metres below the earth, the air was fresh, the movement of the water acting like a lung, breathing life through the cave. After a couple of hours we blinked back in to the light, awestruck and humbled by the beauty of what we’d seen. Dasa went above and beyond her tour-guiding duties and kindly dropped us at the station, where we just managed to catch the train and begin our journey back to Ljubljana. We spent the evening in an African restaurant, lingering over Algerian specialities and listening to soulful live music. It had been a big day, and I (shockingly) couldn’t quite summon the energy for a beer, so went back to the hostel to crash.

The next day passed at a much slower pace. I lingered over coffee, sat in the sun, and watched the Slovenian world go by. In the afternoon I joined a graffiti tour, which was marketed as giving a whole new perspective of the city. Prior to the tour I didn’t know a thing about graffiti, apart from that it was generally considered as an anti-social nuisance. Sandi met us at a fountain in the old town, and over the next two hours led us through the alleys and back passages of the city, pointing out the works of different writers, describing the ideologies of the crews to which they belonged, and explaining the hierarchy of tags, characters and pieces. Having the chance to hear the stories behind the interventions gave them a whole new dimension, and the number of hermeneutic levels wrapped up in the dialogue of the art form was something that I’d never previously appreciated.

Later, I met the others at a rooftop café. We passed through a number of bars before ending up in a club in Metelkova which only played the music of ex-Yugoslavia. This is a genre that I hadn’t been exposed to before, but it was something like a mixture of the Clash and Chumbawumba. It had been a day of subcultural exploration, which was both enlightening and bemusing. Either way, I felt closer to understanding the soul of the city, and that was hugely rewarding.

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.

Where Slov you beenia?

It’s been a while since I’ve posted because it’s been a while since I’ve been abroad. For the past few months I’ve been fostering a new life in the city, and trying to convince people that I know what I’m doing. Adulting is as dull as I expected it to be. Topics such as council tax, pensions and house prices  surface in conversation, before being guiltily shut down as evidence that we’ve become boring. But thankfully I’m able to temporarily extricate myself from this mundanity by the grace of a magical little concept called annual leave.

I had a fitful night of sleep, my consciousness intermittently blinking on to ensure I didn’t miss my alarm. Benefitting from a mercifully central location, I walked ten minutes from my flat to a bus stop and at 04:15, squished into a minibus headed direct to Luton Airport. Luton unfortunately (and perhaps unjustly?) suffers from a reputation as an industrial slab that’s just a little too far from London. However, there are advantages to using a small airport; namely not having to trek for three days to get to your gate. I boarded my flight with Wizz Air (nope, I’d never heard of them either, but seemed legit), with unexpected ease, and in a couple of hours I was swooping beneath the clouds to my destination.

The first thing that struck me about Slovenia was the mossy green of the trees thickly carpeting the mountains, and the neat, ordered emerald of the fields. Living in London means that the only greenery you are exposed to is in the form of avocados, Edamame beans and ‘Wicked’ posters. I later discovered that Slovenia is the green capital of Europe; an accolade fairly won. This landscape was alive, fresh, thriving, breathing. As soon as I’d passed security, I broke into a semi-urgent trot to grab my bag as I caught sight of it on the carousel, then hopped into a minibus that would take me to the centre. Sherbet-coloured houses clustered around churches; lime, orange, rose, lemon. Oxidised-copper spires spilled into shapely bulges, before reaching up into fragile spindles. The mountains were curtained by a light mist of rain that whispered on the windshield as we sped along, and all too soon, I arrived at a hostel.

A lady with short brown hair and electric eyes checked me in, profusely wishing me a happy birthday as she noticed the date. Feeling welcome, I dumped my things, and set out to explore the city, undeterred by the drizzle. I wandered through a flea-market on the bank of a canal, making an effort to slow my pace so I could appreciate the wares on display. All manner of treasures were available, from tattered books and tarnished war medals, to bronze effigies, depicting Jesus, the Pope and a crocodile. Managing to resist the urge to make a purchase, I wound through the cobbled streets aiming for the castle.

The view from the top was a little dreary, utilitarian flat blocks occasionally reached higher than the churches. Nevertheless, the exhibits were well-presented and amusing. I was taken on a dragon’s-eye virtual tour of the castle’s various incarnations across ages, and enjoyed an interactive game entitled ‘Help Tito to capture as many Yugoslav Republic flags as possible.’ Once I’d exhausted my interest, I stumbled back down the hill in search of some respite. I found this in the form of a Cat Café, whose residents embodied the quintessential aloofness that makes humans so anxious to obtain their favour. I was unable to persuade any of the cats to let me tickle them behind the ears, so instead found comfort in coffee and a book. After an hour or two the rain withered to an acceptable level, and I wandered back to the hostel. There I met Nuria, who willingly agreed to have a cheeky pivo in honour of my birthday. Maybe we didn’t need an excuse.

After a little hesitation, the sun emerged as I walked down to the Botanic gardens the following morning. Large stucco houses lined the leafy avenue as I headed south, emanating grandeur despite their cracks and bare plaster. Crossing the river, I narrowly avoided an erratic train of preschool children, who were gabbling excitedly as they left the garden. I admired my timing, and then wandered through the fragrant wildflowers and shadowy glades. Catkins were strewn across the gravel path, softening the crunch of my slow footsteps. The dense air of the greenhouse felt comforting and soporific, the heads of orchids hung heavily on their stems. The earth smelt rich and woody, and there was even a tiny pineapple hiding in the undergrowth.

I then went up to the triple bridge and ordered a decadent peanut hot chocolate so that I had an excuse to linger and watch people strolling past. The sun was by this point warm on my face, and my sunglasses no longer felt excessively optimistic. I passed over the Dragon Bridge to the market, bought some strawberries, and sat on a bench in Trivoli park to watch more of the world. Having walked the length of the city, I returned to the hostel and met up with Nuria. We went for a beer by the river, and watched the shadows lengthen.

Ljubljana is the most chilled out capital city that I’ve ever visited. Both days felt like Sundays; people weren’t in an absent rush, but instead took the time to linger over coffee, ignoring the inconsequential drizzle. Everyone here has been friendly and helpful, and I felt at home from the moment I stepped off the plane. I’ve been to Poland a few times, and I see a lot of similarities in the landscape, the architecture and the language. Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable. Or maybe it’s the rain.

Ruminations on peregrinations.

I’ve been in Canada for three days now, and I’ve had time to start processing the past few months. Mum and Rob are in Vegas, so I’ve had the house to myself. I’ve fallen into a slow routine of Youtube yoga, protracted dog walks, and desultory job searches. It hasn’t quite sunk in that this is my life now. I won’t be catching a train in a couple of days to see a new place, meet new people, and try new food. On that note, having facilities to cook again has been a welcome luxury. As has tap water. But whilst it’s true that I’m very comfortable and content, there are a lot of things about Asian life that I’m missing. I never thought I’d get used to the rock-hard beds, or that I’d express a preference for squat toilets over western-style. I never thought I’d fancy dumplings or curry for breakfast, or that I’d miss rice after not eating it for two days. Canada feels aggressively quiet, clean, and peaceful. I walk the dogs past cloned houses and feel uneasy. Everyone is boxed in to geometric regularity, set behind manicured lawns and big shiny cars. There’s too much sky, air, and space, and not enough of the honest, gritty life that I’ve fallen in love with. Cars slow to let me cross the road, the pavements are flat and litter-free, no one tries to get me in a tuk-tuk; it’s easy, but empty.

Just having the dogs and cats to talk to has made me even more grateful for the hundreds of incredible people that I met on my journey. Maybe we trekked to a waterfall, or a lake, or a gorge. Maybe we cycled to see dolphins or royal tombs. Maybe we went to a temple, or the beach, or karaoke. Maybe we just caught a bus, or shared a dorm. I don’t remember all of your names, or even all of your faces, but you are all imprinted on my experience, and had a direct impact on my life, whether we met once for a few hours, or multiple times over a couple of weeks. We probably asked each other where we from, where we had been, and where we were going. Because that was what was important – that’s where we found common ground. I didn’t care where you went to school, or what your parents did, or how much you earned, or how big your house was. We didn’t have any of that. Just our backpacks, and a vague sense of where we wanted to go.

Nothing bad happened to me in seven whole months. I never got robbed, or hospitalised, or had a plane delay, or lost my passport or baggage, and I never felt like I wanted to come home. I learnt a lot of important lessons, despite the absence of any formative mistakes. Some of them were practical, like ‘Always load the Google Map before you leave,’ but my most important lessons were the direct result of the positivity of my experience. I learnt to trust in the kindness of others. I was overwhelmed by the generosity and compassion that I received from strangers, and that’s something that I’ve resolved to adopt in my own life. Before I left I was only ever warned about the dangers of other people – it never occurred to me that most residents of our world are good.

I’ve definitely become more patient – nothing you can do can make a Cambodian bus arrive on time, and with that comes a sense of calm acceptance, positivity, and confidence that everything will be fine. The universe provides; I always met the right person when I needed them, and I never went without something that was necessary. If anything I learnt that there aren’t many things that are necessary – I wished that I’d left my make-up at home, and wasn’t too distraught when I found myself trainer-less. Having less made me happier, and I now have very little desire for material possessions, or even the ownership of a home. Being reunited with my laptop has actually been a bit of a disappointment. I’m now furnished with a method of wasting time.

Because no time was wasted in Asia. A late bus meant longer to have a chat, or sit in the sun, or grab some almonds. An extra day in a town meant another temple, or a new friend. I cannot think of one occasion when I was bored, even on the twenty-two hour bus journey to China. I thought a lot. It was the first time that I’d had leisure to evaluate three years of relentless work, and think about what I’m going to do next. At first that space was scary because it was formless, but over the months my thoughts became more cogent, and I developed some self-understanding.

No, I didn’t find myself. I got lost at least three times a day. I had the opportunity to reinvent myself in every new city, and the variety of my experience demanded a variety of selves, which at times was more confusing than affirming. I thought travel was something that you did, then got out of your system but it doesn’t work like that. I’m already planning the next trip.

Go west.

We caught the train from Varkala back to Kochi, which was as sweaty an affair as we were anticipating. Thankfully there weren’t too many uncomfortable stares, and the journey passed without much incident. We caught tuk-tuks to the hotel, via an optician for Raf, who had found herself at the mercy of a rogue wave that swept away her spectacles, then had some kati rolls for lunch. We visited the Church of St. Francis, where Vasco da Gama’s tombstone is displayed, and the Dutch Palace, which houses excruciatingly beautiful murals that have stood the test of time, despite having been painted in vegetable colours. In the evening we watched a ‘cultural show’, and saw how traditional Keralan make up is applied. It’s the thickest in the world – you need coconut oil to get it off, and the end product was captivatingly grotesque. A Mohiniyattam dancer showed us her bewildering eyebrow moves (just like that Cadbury advert), and a triumvirate of old men provided the music. We then watched an extravagant Kathakali performance, in which a green-faced man denied the advances of a yellow-faced man dressed as a woman. We said our clipped goodbyes when we got back to the hotel – the fellowship was broken.

My journey west is my most ambitious so far. Estimated to take 40 hours, I’ll take three flights, with two 12 hour layovers, to reach Canada, and successfully circumnavigate the globe.

I got up at 06:00 on the 5th of April, and caught a taxi with Rachel to the airport. My first flight from Kochi to Mumbai was pain-free. I caught an illogocally infrequent bus to the international terminal, and was warned by the guard that there wasn’t much on offer until I went through security. He was right. The spotless atrium, supported by white arboreal pillars, was a barren wasteland of marble. I found a spot on the floor and alternated between my kindle and mp3, wondering if it might have been worth spending an extra £50 to get a more reasonable flight.

I ate at one of the two cafes available, and after nine hours of nothingness was able to check in and spend my last rupees. As I boarded the plane I consciously suppressed a wave of nausea. I was leaving India. I was leaving Asia.

I couldn’t sleep on the flight, partly because I was so full from the unnecessary meal at 03:00, and partly because the seat was uncomfortable. I was lucky not to have anyone next to me, and relaxed as best I could by watching films.

I arrived in London at 06:00 (having been awake for twenty-eight hours), and was overwhelmed by the oppressive black duffle coats, stern expressions, and sallow faces of my fellow passengers. I cried as I bounded into my Dad’s arms. It had been seven months since we’d seen each other, and when I’d left I’d had no idea when I’d be back. I dried my happy-tears, then we went to Windsor to make the most of our curtailed reunion.

The Queen was home; the Royal Standard billowed out as we watched the changing of the guard. We wandered around the picturesque town and I had a horrid lump of homesickness for Oxford. We had an ambrosial pub lunch, washed down by an ale that was like nectar, then sat by the river and watched awkward new couples on dates, and pensioners walking their dogs. All too quickly our time was up. Dad drove me back to the airport, and for the third time I found myself in a departure hall.

I settled into my window seat, did most of a crossword and watched yet another film. I was sentenced to more plane food (although at one point I was mercifully furnished with a scone, real jam, and Rodda’s clotted cream), and then the flight was over. I’d done it.

My brother and his girlfriend met me at the airport. An unfamiliar silence pervaded the night. No horns, no rubbish, no dust, no people. It was -1℃ (you can imagine how that felt in Birkenstocks), and icicles were strung along the car bumpers like bunting. I arrived at Mum’s house, buzzing from excess fatigue. By the time I went to sleep I’d been awake for fifty-two hours. I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.

Cashew nuts and cliff tops.

The next morning we got up at 06:30 to visit Kollam harbour. The smell of fish wafted up from the saline puddles as we splashed along the quay. Squadrons of men were mechanically unloading plastic baskets of fish, and carrying them down to women who sat on buckets, selling the catch. The energy was overwhelming, especially that early in the morning, so we recovered with some dosas. Once we’d munched our breakfast, we headed to a secluded cashew nut factory, hidden in the jungley suburbs. We watched as the workers shelled the nuts from the roasted cases (men by machine, women by hand), then peeled the skin off and graded the end product accordingly.

The hollow noise of knocking echoed around the walls like a xylophone, but everyone worked in silence. I didn’t know how to react. The workers have a steady job and a comparatively high income, but the work is manual and labour-intensive. We were told that they were happy to be there, and they smiled at us as we toured around, but I did feel a bit uncomfortable.

We took the bus back to the hotel, then caught two more buses to reach Varkala, a small town on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea. We had a late lunch then wandered along the beach, past cricket matches and souvenir shops. We enjoyed impossibly succulent fish for dinner, (which more than made up for the previous night’s repast), and went to bed, listening to the wind as it tore at the waves.

Ingrid and I were up early the next day to go to a yoga class. It was more spiritual and ritualistic than other classes I’ve attended; the teacher lit incense and splashed sweet-smelling water as we held our poses. It was really relaxing and I left the class feeling like there was a lot more space in my head. We met the others for breakfast at a restaurant perched on the cliff, then headed to the beach where the sun imperceptibly burnt us to a crisp. At about 15:00 we hit the shops, bargaining hard for some wall hangings (my inner-hippie has been unashamedly exposed) and then freshened up at the hotel.

We were lucky to be in town on the final day of a Hindu festival, celebrating Brahma. We encased ourselves in a sweaty crowd and watched as young men in mundus pounded their drums, and older men, convincingly dressed as women, twirled around in heavy costumes and thick makeup.

A procession of creepy floats (think fairground) followed the dancers, depicting scenes from Hindu mythology. The plastic figures jolted around robotically, twirling their arms and turning their heads. It was a little difficult to follow what was happening. We then walked up the road and caught up with the seven ceremonial elephants. It was heartbreaking to see their glazed eyes as they carried up to three people on their backs, laden with ceremonial pomp. The fear rolled off them like a dense fog, mixing with the incessant drums and the queasy songs blasting out of loudspeakers. Feeling humbled, we returned to the cliff for our last meal in Varkala.

Varkala is what I imagined Goa to be. It’s super relaxed, very hippie (though not to the scale of Pushkar), and utterly gorgeous. I’m very aware that I’m leaving Asia in a few days, and Varkala has been the perfect place to indulge my nostalgia and feel horrified at the thought of leaving. All good things…