And so it begins… We’re off ready for the adventure of a lifetime!

From the first inkling of an idea some 18 months ago, our plans have moved and changed so much we wondered if we’d ever leave (as I think did most of our family and friends). But now with two resignations submitted, boozy leaving drinks survived (thank you Chicken McNuggets¹, you served us well) and two wardrobes of clothes squeezed into an impossibly small space, we’re finally off. As we taxi the runway I can confirm this is definitely happening!

We’ve got just under five months to jet over to the other side of the world and explore two as yet undiscovered continents and, at current reckoning, six unfamiliar countries: Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Australia, New Zealand and Hong Kong. Alright, so we’re not exactly going off the beaten track, but we are rookie travellers! So I suspect (intend?) we’ll be Glampacking all the way. Oh and in case anyone’s curious after our consultations with more seasoned travellers – we caved and compromised with one backpack and one suitcase. It’s comfy on the fence.

The rules of engagement (tee hee, that wasn’t even a deliberate wedding pun):

1. don’t spend the house deposit
2. but do say yes to everything (within reason)
3. talk to the locals
4. accept tips from dreadlocked gap year students
5. don’t come back with gap yah jewellery
6. but do come back with lots of fun memories

We’ve had a good list of recommendations from people who have visited various parts of the itinerary. We’d love to hear of any more if you have them, email below!

Nothing more to report as we sit still for the next 12 hours. Off to peruse the in-flight movie selection. Ooh and is that the rattle of the gin trolley…

There’s nothing to see on the train from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur but palm trees, so what better way to pass the time but on my laptop!

We’ve been kindly hosted on our short stop in Singapore by Jenny and Dan from Jo’s college days, and Sarah and Tones from mine. Many thanks to them, you’ve given us a great start to our time away!

Travelling got off to an appropriately middle-class start in a date with St Catharine’s college alumni, a meal in a family restaurant with a karaoke-singing host and free-flowing wine. Hangover successfully defeated jet lag.

Singapore is hot and humid, and lightning is forecast every day. We walked a lot, so saw plenty of the city centre. Once we got used to the tropical conditions and drinking a lot more water than usual, in many ways it’s just another western city. The “benevolent dictator” approach means it’s rich, clean and safe. It has its share of curiosities, such as caning as a punishment for nudity while allowing prostitution, the reclaimed land a mile past the original shoreline over the last few decades thanks to Cambodian and Malaysian sand, and a bizarre theme park with sculptures depicting the tortuous punishments that await you in the afterlife corresponding to prostitution and cheating on exams. But in the city everything seems to work, the people are kind and friendly and the taxis are cheap.

Food is tasty, cheap and decidedly Asian. We visited a few hawker centres, which are roughly the equivalent of the food courts in British shopping centres with a Spud-u-like. Loads of small independent stalls sell all sorts of food from around south-east Asia. It’s all pretty good and it’s dirt cheap. For westerners who like cereal, breakfast being no different to other meals is a strange concept – rice and chicken at 10am was tasty but will take some getting used to. The highlight was little white balls called char sieu bao (sp?), about the size of a tennis ball, of sweetish bready stuff a bit like brioche filled with BBQ-ish flavoured pork. I think Jenny and Dan were becoming a little concerned with our infatuation over these spheres of tasty goodness!

We visited the zoo on Friday, where Jo thought we might find ourselves. There were monkeys, giraffes, but no sudden enlightenment, maybe a little early in the trip for that! She even nearly dozed off in the crocodile enclosure… We walked through the botanic gardens, which has orchids, ginger and name-your-colourful-varietal in abundance, in different areas around the park – there’s even a section of carnivorous plants! The quiet of the small slice of preserved rainforest was overrun by the sound of a school band playing in the ampitheatre.

The city itself feels somewhat manufactured, and shares something of the spirit of Las Vegas or Dubai where the quest is for grandeur and shiny things (and foreign money). There’s a lot of high-rise in the city centre, and the variety is much greater than London’s few interesting skyscrapers surrounded by big boring square things. The view over the CBD at night is cracking. Quayside zones for organised fun sit next to what heritage the young island has, much named after Raffles (we didn’t have a customary Singapore Sling at the Raffle’s Hotel Long Bar, in accordance with rule 1). It’s small so very compact: school, motorway, shipping port are all right together. It’s a mix of many cultures and races (and something like 20% foreign ex-pats), and it’s interesting to see the casual way in which race describes people. Singaporeans and westerners almost all have maids, who are all Phillipino women. The taxi drivers are all Chinese. The construction workers are all Sri Lankan or Bangladeshi.

We’ll be back briefly after the Malaysia and Cambodia legs of the trip. Basically everyone has said KL isn’t as good/fun as Singapore but that it’s worth seeing for a day or two, so that works out well. (Singapore is better than Malaysia at everything, if you believe all of the anecdotes!) We’ve booked to go on a tour to an elephant sanctuary a little north of KL, so we’ll get out of the city for a little, before a zero dark thirty flight to Cambodia and temples on Thursday.

All of that is conditional on surviving the mosquitoes for seven hours in this train carriage. Does DEET work in confined spaces?

Stats

• Rice-based meals: 4
• Taxi journeys: 14
• Lady-boys: difficult to count

We spent Sunday at an outdoor stage in front of Marina Bay Sands, with a view over the bay, watching some jazz. For some reason I think my dad is a Courtney Pine fan, so maybe this will make him jealous!

Marina Bay Sands is an architectural work of art, three towers joined at the top by a massive slab lying across them. Earlier in the week with Tones we drank cocktails at sunset at Ku Dé Ta, the bar at the very top. It’s also trying its best to be a gaudy monstrosity. The self-indulgent “The Shoppes” shopping centre at the bottom comes complete with a river running through the middle and gondoliers to take you from Prada to Louis Vuitton.

Anyway, the Jazz Festival is a recent addition to the bay, in its second year. After a brief threat of a storm we settled down for the afternoon on a comfy beanbag – all very civilised.

• Roy Ayres – cranked out the classics, ultimately the band are great but he’s a bit rickety these days
• The Steve McQueens – technically fantastic but so complicated rhythmically as to be impenetrable at times. Drummer seems to magic extra time from thin air, wonderful.
• Courtney Pine – top notch effort to get the crowd involved!
• Yuma – pretty tight poppy Malaysian singer-songwriter humblebrag of a group that would be right at home on Jools Holland. Not terribly interesting, and she really needs to stop asking how the crowd are doing, and get on with the songs.
• Brand New Heavies – “slightly beyond middle-aged white men playing funk” is fair, but they were excellent as always. They were the only group to have the whole crowd up and dancing. The dance troupe that joined the stage from the audience were a fun surprise!

It turns out we really weren’t kidding when we said we were going to be glampacking. Not quite ready to settle into four months of slumming it, Joe arranged an amazing birthday surprise for our time in KL… with a luxury stay in the Grand Hyatt hotel, complete with flowers and birthday cake in the room and a spectacular floor to ceiling view of the Petronas Twin Towers. Wow. I think this stay may have ruined me for the rest of our trip. I’m just not going to be satisfied unless there’s a tropical paradise pool and an army of nothing-is-too-much-trouble staff.

Nonetheless, we thought we should leave the hotel luxury to explore the city, rain or shine (and it did both, with vigour). KL is undoubtedly dirtier than Singapore, with more obvious signs of the have and have-nots, and horrendous air quality as old cars choke out fumes. But it is also fun and lively, with tons of character and a more bustling, authentic vibe. Highlights include the beautiful fountains in KLCC park behind the Twin Towers, which dance to music in an impressively choreographed display, and lively Jalan Alor, with its tasty streetfood and pretty Chinese New Year lanterns. Yum.

Day two had more birthday treats in store with a trip into Malaysian countryside to visit the Kuala Gandah Elephant Sanctuary. This long-running government-led initiative rescues elephants who have been injured or orphaned and also works to relocate elephant herds whose habitat is threatened by expanding palm plantations. The sanctuary team were reassuring that their work has a genuinely positive impact to protect elephants from harm, as well as educating the public about the impacts of deforestation. Some of the elephants that can’t be re-released into the wild are trained to work with the relocation team, providing some muscle-power as well as a familiar form to reassure wild elephants as they are moved to their new home.

Getting up close to the elephants was truly heart-warming – I hadn’t realised quite how intelligent they are, or how huge. We let them scoop food from our hands with their trunk – some with a delicate touch, others with more slobbery eagerness. And then the absolute highlight, bathing and splashing them in the river and brushing down their surprisingly tough skin. A fantastic and unforgettable experience! My mum is jealous.

Cambodia made the itinerary because we wanted to visit somewhere a little less western and developed. It would be all too easy to let glampacking take hold and city-hop around rich countries without ever feeling like we’d left Europe, give or take some dim sum. We didn’t expect to find that Cambodia works entirely in US dollars, but we can let that one fly.

We landed in Siem Reap International Airport on the cheapest flight I’ve ever taken (thanks AirAsia) and the change from KL/Singapore was quickly apparent. The airport is tiny compared to what we’ve seen so far, and looks like a pagoda with a runway. We were taken from the airport by tuk-tuk, a motorbike attached to a wooden chariot complete with silk seat coverings! It can be a bumpy ride but nothing moves too quickly, so we survived. The long straight road to town is a wide tree-lined boulevard affair, though having recently finished reading First They Killed My Father I confess that the image in my mind was of Khmer Rouge troop carriers rolling in.

We spent the first day wandering around the absolutely charming town centre. There are little fairy lights and lanterns along the river bank, which is likely what made Jo fall in love with it so quickly! The Old Market is busy with stalls selling dried fruit, gap year elephant trousers, jewellery and locally-produced crafty stuff. Jo’s already been wearing some pretty hippy outfits (see photos), but I’m promised that the elephant trousers are on the shopping list too. As in KL it seems that most stalls are variations on only five or six different stock ranges. Pub Street, the famous touristy drinking quarter, manages not to be as garish as Clarke Quay, its Singaporean cousin. Nearby lies a warren of restaurants, massage and tattoo parlours.

There are tuk-tuks everywhere, and every time you step off one another offers you a lift, so we’ve been saying no a lot! None of it is aggressive, and they tend to be happy with a “no, thank you”. Big contrast to the selfie-stick hawkers in KL, who would tend to linger for longer if you engaged at all than if you just ignored them! Cambodia is a very polite society: people smile at you in the street, which feels dreadfully unusual to a Londoner; thank you/goodbye is done with a hands-together-and-bow gesture, like a prayer. Maybe the tuk-tuk chats are just that, polite.

I thought that Malaysians had a loose relationship with lane discipline, but that’s nothing on the tuk-tuks, motorbikes and cycles of Siem Reap. The country ostensibly drives on the right, but even that isn’t immediately obvious from the calm chaos on the roads! Nothing moves too quickly, so drivers seem to get away with meandering across the entire road. Motorbikes going the wrong way at the edge of the road seem commonplace!

The guide book and the little hotel manual warn that Cambodia is a tropical country – don’t drink the water and keep your door closed to keep the buggles out. Despite precautions, from the second night of four in Siem Reap we’ve had a guest in our room, a gecko we’ve named Grosvenor. He turned up in the bathroom that evening, stayed on the wall for a bit and then settled on the back of the cistern of the loo! Outside, Martin M’s suggestion of badass DEET spray seems to have worked so far – only two bites that we’re aware of (Jo has tasty blood) and no malarial symptoms yet. In fact it’s so strong that it seems to cause mild itching on the skin that feels like insects itself!

Cambodia is a lovely place, and we’ll recommended it highly to anyone coming to this part of the world. It’s not that well developed, at least not in Siem Reap, but it has bags of character. Siem Reap is really all about the nearby temples, about which more later, but does have a life of its own. The food is tasty, even if it all seems to be slight variations on a theme of rice and creamy green sauce.

We move to Phnom Penh on Monday, by which time we will have visited lots of 1000-year-old temples. We will also have to have learned how to pronounce Phnom Penh and worked out how to get the ferry – fingers crossed.

Cambodians proudly include the temples at Angkor among the seven man-made wonders of the world, and they certainly deserve the many superlatives that are used to describe them. In the vast jungle complex, majestic ruins appear from nowhere as you turn a corner, impressing with their scale and grandeur almost a thousand years after they were built.

On Temples Day 1 we borrowed rickety (!) bikes from the hotel to ride up to Angkor Wat about 6km away (or more like 14km for us, after a minor navigation fail). Angkor Wat is the biggest, best preserved and most famous of the temples. It’s set in an imposing square moat with a causeway to the entrance. Going through the first wall after the causeway it was easy to get distracted by the statues and carvings on the walls. Suddenly you can see through the door to the next level hundreds of metres away, and there’s a moment of realisation that the scale is another order of magnitude bigger than expected. The temple itself is the centre-most of three concentric square buildings, finally reached via an alarmingly steep staircase.

On the second day we got an early (0500!) tuk-tuk to see Angkor Wat at sunrise. We were a little unlucky with the clouds, but the gradual lighting of the temple structure was quite a sight. The most enduring memory is of the moment when the crickets decided it was daytime, and started chirping. It happened very suddenly in front of us, and over the course of a minute swept past us as more and more of them woke up.

We saw many more of the temples that day and the next, which we often found more interesting and mystical than Angkor Wat. Bayon has huge faces sculpted into the temple walls, like an early Mount Rushmore. Entering Ta Prohm is like being on the set of an Indiana Jones movie, where you can absolutely imagine running narrow corridors as rocks rain down on you, or sliding under falling doorways, reaching back for your hat just in time, of course. And when you see how tree roots have engulfed many of the temples, it’s almost possible to believe the old plot line of a lost city, overcome by the jungle, housing great riches or the elixir of youth…

You may recall that on our last day in Siem Reap, we were plotting how to get the ferry down the Mekong River to Phnom Penh. We thought we’d succeeded, but it turns out that “yes, we’ll pick you up from your hotel at 0630” actually means “yes, we might pick you up from your hotel at 0630”. A subtle but important difference.

So at 7am, 30 minutes before the ferry’s scheduled departure from a port 45 minutes away, we started to consider other options. After a brief chat with a friendly driver, we contemplated a high-speed tuk-tuk chase to the port, but opted for a mad spin through the morning streets of Siem Reap to catch the bus instead. It was a third of the price of the ferry, and timetabled an hour quicker at 6.5 hours, so it seemed a fine alternative. Particularly since we’d heard that the ferry “occasionally” gets beached in March, as the river levels are low. It doesn’t run from April.

So after consulting with a local tour operator (who we’re pretty sure was our driver’s mate, as we went right across town past numerous other outlets, only to return back the way we came to the bus station), we had bus tickets and a phone call was made to let the bus know we were on our way. Our driver pushed the tuk-tuk to the limit (by which I mean some tight corners and a slightly-less-gentle-purr from the moped, rather than the growl from a racing engine that you might be imagining) and we made a mad dash to the bus. Phew we made it. Only the bus then waited another 20 minutes for various other passengers. Turns out we needn’t have worried.

And so our planned boat-ride turned into a bus ride. On potholed “roads”. For 11 long hours. This was definitely not glampacking, but it was an experience worth having (once).

The bus was around 30 years old, and with the exception of one Australian couple, we were the only Western faces. Every seat was taken, but it turns out this didn’t mean it was completely full. Halfway through the journey we picked up half a dozen more passengers who were offered red plastic child stools to sit in the aisle. We travelled at an average speed of 25km/h (according to Joe’s GPS), rarely on tarmac, and regularly bouncing over crevices in the road. I was quietly quite impressed that the bus’s suspension survived the journey.

We stopped at two service stations en route, each with a kitchen offering hot rice dishes and a row of cubicles. We had anticipated that this would be a hole-in-the-floor jobby, but we weren’t expecting the water trough and saucepan which (we assume) served as a primitive “wipe and flush” system. Thank heavens for Kleenex and anti-bacterial handgel.

Almost five hours after our scheduled arrival, and 11 hours after our departure, we rolled into Phnom Penh, and it turns out it’s pronounced P-nom Pen, for those still guessing.

Along the road we got a small glimpse of ordinary life in Cambodia. Plush brick houses often sit next door to small wooden homes on stilts. We didn’t see the type of desperate poverty I only know from TV news, but we did see a lot of families living in one- or two-roomed homes, where the front serves as a grocery/automobile shop, with living space out back or upstairs. This generation of adult Cambodians has endured a lot, and you have the impression they have emerged hugely determined, working closely as a family to make the best of what they have and create a livelihood from their homes.

Phnom Penh is a major, busy, dirty city. Visitors primarily come to learn about the Khmer Rouge, and this depressing history seems to cloud the tourist experience of the city. The enduring impact of Pol Pot is hard to fathom. An American teacher we met recounted asking her class how their school lessons differed from their parents’ generation, and the normally bubbly classroom offered no response. Eventually one student raised their hand and explained, “Our parents didn’t go to school. Pol Pot happened.” In Cambodia, all the teachers are foreign.

Phnom Penh has none of the charm of Siem Reap, but is worth a visit if only to learn about its important but horrifying history. If anyone is considering a trip, we’d definitely recommend spending more time in Siem Reap, and perhaps just 36 hours in the Cambodian capital.

I hear it’s a just a quick hop by plane between the two cities, if you don’t fancy the bus.

Tuol Sleng, known as S-21, was one of the major prison camps of the Khmer Rouge, between 1975-79. It was an old high school, and the classrooms were converted to cells and “interrogation” rooms. The museum was a similar experience to the 9/11 museum in New York – a must see that is totally depressing; not a fun day. It’s terrible that we know so little about the Khmer Rouge atrocities, their path to power and the state of affairs after the Vietnamese invasion/liberation in 1979.

The museum is just the prison after a bit of cleaning. The horror comes to life through the tour guides, and through films that are shown through the day. Whereas the 9/11 museum has thousands of artefacts from the towers, planes and first responders, there were very few here – a couple of old bed frames and restraints used for torture, an exhibit on some of the tools used for torture and execution and some galleries of the famous arrival mugshots of each prisoner. We tagged on to a couple of museum-guided tours and heard about the use of each room and the stories behind some of the many mugshot photos. Every prisoner had a numbered tag attached to their shirt by a safety-pin. Those not wearing a top had it pinned to their skin.

Around 20,000 prisoners came through S-21, and fewer than a dozen survived. We watched a documentary film in which one of the survivors and some of the surviving guards spoke remarkably frankly about their experiences. It’s interesting to see the extent to which the guards were desensitised to beating and murdering their prisoners, and how they appeared actually to believe the nonsense confessions that they forced their captives to sign, so instilled was their obedience to the Angkar. (The CIA, KGB and various capitalist imperialists would have to have been running half the population as agents.) The consistency with which they described that they had no choice in what they were doing was remarkable; none of them broke down in tears about how many they’d killed, none of them gave an apology, it’s all very matter-of-fact. Perhaps (armchair psychology alert) it’s a sort of defence mechanism – there was a note that there’s been little research on PTSD-related conditions for the perpetrators, only the direct victims. I suppose there’s a certain selection bias in the sense that the guards who were still alive at the end of the regime were precisely those who weren’t executed for refusing orders.

I haven’t been to Auschwitz or Dachau, but Jo remarked on the similarities: the segregation of people into their role without knowing about others; the forensic level of documentation about arrivals, deaths, confessions, when prisoners were fed; and the totality of the conditioning that enabled guards to beat and kill the enemy so easily. This happened in Cambodia thirty years after it happened in Europe, and after 1979 the US (with others) backed the Khmer Rouge because they had been displaced by Vietnam. The mantra about never forgetting these atrocities clearly doesn’t hold water.

While I think my parents know something about the Khmer Rouge from news at the time, I wasn’t yet born and I assume it’s too recent or distant for secondary school history. There were two of the very few survivors at Tuol Sleng today, one of whom is there every day in his capacity as part of a victims association. We spoke briefly with him. There was little to say, other than to express the dismay at our level of ignorance about this.

Dear Run Club,

We had no idea. London is cold and dry, running is easy. I joined a friend of mine for a Sunday morning 10-ish km group run around MacCritchie Reservoir in the middle of Singapore. From his description I thought this was going to be a nice easy stroll, well within GSA Run Club pace. I’d stick with the fast guys and show them how it’s done in Hyde Park.

It was 8am and already about 30°C. Even the air was practically sweating. The trail was actually mostly shaded by trees, but the humidity was enough to have me on my knees. When we stopped for a water break (who stops during a run?!) just after half way the time was already approaching my Run Club times.

Singapore humidity makes for pathetic running. We’ve been trying to get into the habit of a short daily morning run now that we’re in Australia. The chilly morning breeze was an absolute delight in Adelaide.

Bring on the British weather!

Love and stretches,

Joe

We made it to Australia! These long haul journeys are a walk in the park by now – quick movie, quick nap and we’ve travelled 3500 miles (significantly faster than the 200 mile bus journey to Phnom Penh).

We’re now embracing the whole “proper backpacking” thing with our first stay in a real hostel, complete with shared bathroom. Our room has a bunk bed and a tiny square of floor space exactly the size of my opened suitcase, requiring a death-defying (ok, mildly perilous) leap from the doorway to the ladder to enter the room. We have cooked in the shared kitchen, though I suspect our roast chicken (take-away) and fine wine option wasn’t exactly the standard backpacker meal.

Adelaide feels like a pretty normal mid-sized British city. Even the weather is chilly (a temporary cold snap, I’m assured). And we really like it. The biggest differences are the universally excellent coffee (no Starbucks in sight) and the incredibly warm people – everyone’s happy to have a chat. Coming from London, it is a fun surprise to be engaged in conversation as you wait to cross the road, or have the Australian bus system explained at length by the friendly bus driver while the passengers wait patiently.

Our friend and one-time Oz resident Sarah Chapman described Australia as “like Britain, just 10 years behind”. Our visit to the South Australia Museum certainly confirmed this. Aside from the exhibits (lots of aboriginal spears, not much actual information), there were regular announcements, “The museum shop is closing in 15 minutes… The museum shop is closing in 10 minutes… No really, the museum shop is closing in 5 minutes. This is your last possible chance to buy branded pencils and cuddly toys.” It was all rather charming in an antiquated kind of way.

Most importantly of all, we have begun our discovery of Adelaide wine. And in the words of the National Wine Centre (wine tasting with some local history thrown in), “It doesn’t matter if the glass is half empty or half full, there is clearly room for more wine.” I think we’ll fit in well here.

We left Adelaide early, ready to cover 1000km in 2.5 days to get to Melbourne in time for the cricket world cup final. We definitely did not allow enough time to really make the most of the trip, but boy did we fit a lot in!

Given our growing interest in all things German, our first planned stop was a little town called Hahndorf on the edge of Adelaide’s wine country. It’s a picture-perfect place, especially in autumn as the tree-lined streets were turning orange-red and the local coffee house had an open fire blazing, as well as excellent coffee and home-made strudel, which Joe obviously couldn’t resist. Gotta love second breakfast.

From there it was on through open countryside to our first kangaroo sighting (sadly roadkill, so it doesn’t count) and on to Mount Bold reservoir. We were already realising Australia operates on a different scale to the UK, and this enormous dam and reservoir didn’t disappoint. From there the fun really started, with wine tasting in McLaren Vale, the home of Jacobs Creek and Hardy’s as well as a raft of far superior wines that are too good to export to UK supermarkets. Admittedly, wine tasting with 400km of our day’s drive still ahead of us was not ideal timing, but we made it work: one sip for me, one for the bucket, two sips for me, one for the bucket, three sips for me… ah screw it, let’s just take a couple of bottles to enjoy later.

Back in the car, our journey continued to the Murray River, where rather than building a road bridge the South Australian government operates a tiny car ferry shuttling back and forth across the 15m width of the river. I reckon with decent acceleration and a good run down the hill, you could launch across the river and get to the other side without needing the ferry at all. Maybe Jeremy Clarkson can give that a try now he’s looking for gainful employment.

With the river safely traversed, it was on to THE most famous landmark on this stretch of road, recommended by everyone from Bill Bryson to Lonely Planet: the big lobster. It is indeed a giant orange lobster on the side of the road, built back in 1979 by an enterprising businessman to draw attention to his Kingston restaurant. It turns out that Australia has something of a thing about massive roadside papier-mache statues, but apparently this is the biggest. So we took the obligatory photos and then strolled over to the cafe – which apparently most passing photographers don’t bother to do, much to the annoyance of its current owners. The doors were locked and the cafe closed, but the owner saw us coming and swiftly invited us in anyway, made us a coffee, and then proceeded to tell us all about the lobster’s history as well as his side-business of bee keeping. This led to a round of honey tasting, trying out his different varieties from local blue gum, pink gum and orange blossom trees. All together it was just the caffeine/sugar fix we needed to hit the road again to Mount Gambier, our nightstop.

In Mt Gambier, we spent the night in jail.

Alright, it’s not as dramatic as it sounds, but it was quite a unique experience! The old gaol operated from 1866 to 1995, home to local criminals and site of three executions. After its closure, a local family decided to transform it into a budget hostel, which of course meant they didn’t have to transform it much at all, but rather advertise the “rustic original features” to make the destination marketing gold. We slept in a former cell, with just a friendly welcome, a duvet cover and some fancy throw cushions to soften the effect. Oh, and the owners told us proudly about the aboriginal smoking ceremony they held to cleanse any ill-feeling from the site’s history.

The town of Mt Gambier itself is built on one of Australia’s few remaining dormant volcanoes, resulting in some curious geological features, including a sinkhole-cum-community-garden, which becomes a possum feeding station after dark. So armed with two bananas and a camera, we headed into the pitch black arena, uncertain what a possum actually looks like. After brief excitement which turned out to be a cat, we spotted a cute-looking creature lurking in the rock formation, and as our eyes adjusted to the darkness and the marsupial population sensed our arrival, one possum soon became half a dozen. Though wild, the possums were clearly very used to human visitors, and they were remarkably tame. Both we and they gradually grew in confidence until they were eating banana chunks direct from our hands and crawling up our legs to beg for more. Incredible! They may be thought of as a pesky rodent by the Australians, but they were super cute to us – and delivered another tick on our list of unique-to-Oz-animals-we’ve-never-seen.

The following morning we headed up to the appropriately named Blue Lake, another surprising feature of Mt Gambier’s volcanic location. The lake is an incredibly vivid blue all summer, then in late March it turns grey for the winter, before returning to its almost unnatural blue again over two days in November. The locals don’t really have an explanation for it, but it may be something to do with the many layers of filtering limestone rocks (all suggestions welcome). From there we headed to a conservation area in the hope of ticking a few more Aussie creatures off our list. Success! We saw wallabies lazing around in the bushes, but despite searching high and low among the trees, the much-promised koalas stayed hidden.

A few miles later, we finally hit Great Ocean Road proper, and the scenery got pretty spectacular pretty quickly. Miles of craggy shore being bashed by giant waves, under a dramatic cloudy sky. Just in time for sunset, we stopped to see the famous Twelve Apostles, which is actually about eight massive rocks sticking up out of the sea. (Apparently there were never 12, but it was just a catchier title to attract the tourists. Which feels like a similar tactic to the giant lobster really. Got to love the Australians.)

By that point, we were driving in total darkness along one of the most spectacular roads in the world. Figuring it was time to find somewhere to sleep, we pulled over at the next advertised guesthouse. The driveway was surprisingly dark, and there were no lights as we pulled up. We got out of the car to hear the sound of fast thudding footsteps breaking the silence of the forest. Thud thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud. Either someone was being violently murdered in there, or it was a whole class of children running amok. After some hushed discussion, we headed in. What actually greeted us was a normal family clearing up after dinner, and just two children running amok. They seemed somewhat surprised by our arrival (no doubt because we’d just walked into their home without knocking), but were unfalteringly friendly as they explained they were closed. Oops. Shame really, it looked absolutely delightful inside, and nothing at all like the b-movie vibe of the driveway. Nevermind, on to the youth hostel.

We set off from our hostel at some ungodly time of morning before sunrise. Driving along the coast road in the dark was very much like the previous evening. We might as well not have stopped.

As it became lighter the view appeared, and was just stunning. Every corner we turned we saw a new cove with the waves crashing against the rocks, in that lovely low sunlight that makes everything shine. We’d turn another corner and see yet more, a new configuration of this beauty-at-scale that seems to have become a habit on this trip.

By sunrise, we’d reached Kennett River, a village with a beach, a campsite and nothing else. The guide book promised that behind the campsite and up a dirt road, we’d find “bundles of sleepy koalas clinging to the trees”. We went in search, marching up the road. We saw the sun rise over the next headland, we saw the back gardens of some houses and we saw a bird’s nest that looked like it had two little ears. But we saw no koalas. Maybe they were in hiding from rain the previous night, or maybe they were just somewhere else. Oh well, no we’ll have to tick them off the list somewhere else.

A little along the coast we came to the town of Lorne, a lovely little resort town with a great beach, surfing waves and some cracking breakfast places. We enjoyed a tasty slice of banana cake and some local jam before a nice stroll along the beach. The surfers were out early, as were the cockatoos – I’d take these little punks over pigeons any day, Trafalgar Square would sound amazing!

Some more driving, some more pretty vistas and before too long we got to the motorway at Geelong and then Melbourne itself. Even from the ten minutes driving through the city to drop the rental car, Melbourne looked cool. We fumbled a little with the Oyster card machine but eventually made it to our apartment in the suburb of Windsor. It’s great – spacious, comfy and close to the action. The main drag of Chapel Street is about ten minutes away with cool bars, classy clothes shops and pretentious coffee. It’s great, and there’s plenty more to explore!

I can’t believe we’re already a month into our trip – and having a fantastic time! After much deliberation here’s our top five so far (in chronological order):

1. Singapore by night – Beautiful skyline, swanky cocktails at MBS, Philppino live band, Orchard Road lady boys. I think that pretty much captures every angle of the city!
2. Elephant bathtime – Playing with orphaned and injured elephants at a Malaysian sanctuary, just magical!
3. Cambodian extremes – Alright, we couldn’t pick so this is for the majestic (and Indiana Jones-esque) Temples of Angkor and the horrifyingly depressing Tuol Sleng prison of the Khmer Rouge. A country famous for two very different eras of its history.
4. Great Ocean Road and beyond – Breathtaking scenery, friendly possums, wine tasting, a night in gaol and a giant lobster. What more could you want from a 1000km drive?
5. Cricket world cup final – Seeing Australia win the cup in Australia’s most sports-mad city. And flying the England flag with pride as Aussies and Kiwis united to admire our courage.

After the trauma of participating in sport in Singapore we’ve taken a more relaxed approach in Australia.

We’ve been to the Melbourne Cricket Ground twice in a week. It’s pretty cool – it’s the biggest stadium by capacity in the country and the 13th largest in world, after the football stadium in Pyongyang, North Korea and a bunch of American college football grounds. It’s so well designed that the gap between one tier and next allows a view of the pitch from the bar – well done, Australia.

The cricket was great. Fantastic atmosphere with a big mix of supporters. The Aussies and Kiwis were well-represented, of course, and there seemed to be a strong contingent from India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, in particular. There wasn’t as much abuse as I was expecting for wearing an England flag all day (thanks for the gift, MJC!).

It was a bit of a shame that the game was so one-sided. NZ fans were pretty flat from half way through their innings, and the Aussies just got steadily more drunk without ever worrying about the outcome. Michael Clarke received a huge ovation from all quarters when walking off from his last ODI match, and had a sporting handshake from the Kiwi captain for whom defeat was ensured by Clarke’s innings.

On Thursday we returned to see the opening game of the new season of the AFL, Aussie rules football. The MCG turned the cricket ground into a football pitch in just four days, remarkable. Nine of the 18 top-flight AFL teams are from Melbourne, and this opener was between Carlton and Richmond, two Melbourne suburbs. It seemed to be a home game for Carlton, judging by the entrance of Captain Carlton before the start, doing doughnuts on a hovercraft all around the field, chucking balls into the crowd.

Aussie rules football is nuts. I’d done some cursory research before the match to try to work out the rules, to no avail. Based on our two hours of exposure to this madness on a circular pitch:

• We think the two teams have 18 players each. There are also 9 umpires who conduct themselves with the most amazing enthusiasm and look like a third team, and two guys dressed entirely in pink who seemed to run the width of the pitch from time to time. We have no idea what they were doing, but they seemed unrelated to the army of drinks carriers who had pink vests and ran on every minute or so.
• There are four goalposts at each end. Kicking the ball through the middle two gets you a big goal worth six points, and getting the ball between any of the posts otherwise gets a little goal worth one. (This is the only bit we’re sure of!) When there’s a goal of any sort the goal umpire races to the midpoint of the goal, stands to attention and does a funny pointing thing with one or both hands. Then he waves some flags, and then the goal umpire at the other end waves his flags back. Some sort of semaphore?
• If you catch the ball from a kick then no-one is allowed to tackle you for a little bit, and the opposition players danced around a bit with their arms out wide until it was kicked over their heads. Otherwise, it seems pretty no-holds-barred, and there were players piling on players all over the place. The kicking seemed to be pretty wild sometimes; there was a lot of booting it miles, with no obvious reason to suspect that it would reach a player on the same team.

All in all it’s thoroughly confusing. By the end the score was Carlton 11-12-78 and Richmond 15-15-105. All of Richmond’s numbers were bigger, so we think they won. There was a great bit of sing-along at the end as Richmond’s team song blared out (“YELLOW AND BLACK!”), while the Carlton fans sloped out looking sad.

We’ve not been entirely static since Singapore, and we’ve been out for a run most mornings, trying to get in the habit so that we can justify our cake intake. On the day we arrived in Melbourne, while walking from the tram stop to our little flat, we ran into a guy Jo knows from British Military Fitness boot camp classes in London, an Aussie who moved back here recently – quite the coincidence! He invited us to his boot camp class on Tuesday morning. It turns out that the Australians don’t have quite the same all-weather policy as BMF, and if it’s raining “or if the grass is wet” they do the session inside! They were impressed that we’d turn up at 0630 while on holiday, so I feel like I’ve made up slightly for the pathetic showing running in Singapore.

And with that, it’s probably time for more cake…

We didn’t feel like we’d stayed still for any length of time until we arrived in Melbourne almost four weeks after leaving the UK. The first leg through Singapore and driving down from Adelaide was hectic, so it’s been nice to have the chance to get used to a place over a slightly longer time. The melburnian travel agent expressed horror at the idea of spending two whole weeks here. “What will you do?!” On the contrary we’ve had no trouble filling the time. We’ve seen a lot of the city and a couple of the suburbs, and we’ve developed a healthy caffeine addiction.

It would be no exaggeration to describe Melbourne as a giant café. Every ten metres you find another independent pretentious coffee shop with a posh espresso machine and a pile of cake. They seem to take serving coffee very personally – I’ve never seen so much care put into a simple order. The guy this morning showed me the bag of Rwandan coffee beans he was grinding for my filter coffee with the sort of pride you’d expect when introducing a small child. “Really great, this one, really fruity.” If you want a drop of milk in your coffee (turns out this is not normal!) you’re asked whether you want hot or cold. We’re not in Costa any more.

Melbourne feels very safe. It’s definitely a few steps bigger than Adelaide, but has a very friendly sort of vibe. It’s very cool, very hipster. There are huge beards, done-up checked shirts, fixies everywhere. Think Shoreditch, but without the feeling of being judged for not being cool enough.

The whole city is pretty walkable – we’ve been staying in a suburb a couple of miles to the south-east of the centre and the river, and have covered a lot of ground on foot. We’ve been up and down Chapel Street maybe ten times, but somehow mostly while the shops were closed! (Jo disappointed, Joe relieved.) Everything closed down for the Easter weekend. The city centre was mostly tourists wondering where everyone was. Clearly the locals all went home for the weekend.

On the first full day, after the cricket, we walked to the beach at St Kilda, where our friends Sarah and Rob had lived for 18 months. They sent a generous list of things to do and places to see, so we made sure to cover the sights around their old house and Jerry’s Milk Bar (great coffee), so close and regularly visited that it might as well have been their living room.

The beach nearby features not only great views of the city from across the bay, but a colony of penguins living among the rocks of the harbour breakwater! At sunset each night they come home from fishing, and a crowd of tourists and officious volunteers gathers to see them arrive. The penguins that live here are the smallest species in the world, so they look pretty similar to normal birds, at least to untrained eyes. An under-informed and inconclusive game of “bird or penguin” ensued for an hour or so, until the penguins arrived in more obvious rafts of ten or so at a time. Cute little things! The volunteers shone red bike lights at the little dudes when they came close to the top of the rocks, because they don’t like white lights but can’t see the red.

We went for a walk along the Yarra river out to the north-east of the city, where pretty quickly you’re in quiet suburbia and the river path goes on through what feels like proper countryside until you climb the stairway to the bridge to find the shopping centre. At a warm little sun trap along the river we had a proper classy picnic of falafel and dips that we’d picked up from Prahran Market. There are a few of these markets through Melbourne, similar to the one we stumbled upon in the centre of Adelaide. Whereas Cambodia had markets in rusting sheds where every stall sold the same, here it’s all light and shiny and spacious, all of the stalls sell something unique and original. More than anything else, of course, this is just another indication of the relative affluence of Australia – there must be a far higher barrier to entry to this sort of market; it’s the middle-class version. As if to underline the point, I had the best coffee I’ve ever tasted in the South Melbourne market, from a shop with more staff than customers. It was like watching them squeeze the juice out of the beans individually.

In the city centre there’s a section of the south bank of the Yarra eerily similar to London’s South Bank, with an arts centre and concert hall, then loads of bars facing out onto the river. We found a full five-piece band set up outside a bar playing covers, and they were there for hours! Jo was spun around for a while by some random old asian guy who wanted a dance, before working his way around the crowd with other partners! There followed more music and dancing in a bar down the strip with its own band, like a live version of the music at Flares. We’re getting so used to the Aussie accent that we didn’t realise our waiter was from Leeds until we asked which AFL team he supports.

After the warm-up provided by the St Kilda penguins, we headed down to Philip Island to see their famous ‘Penguin Parade’. As sunset approaches, the tourists line up to see the smallest penguins in the world emerge from the sea, cross the beach, and climb up to their rocky burrows. It was adorable. We saw thousands of the little things! The fairy penguins (yep, that’s really what they’re called) seem to be big believers in safety in numbers, so after weeks out in the sea fishing and swimming, they meet up in the shallow waters to cross the beach in groups of around a dozen or more. We visited during moulting season, which means the penguins have to stock up on extra fish so they can survive up to three weeks in their dry burrows until their feather coats regrow. And that makes for chubby penguins! Some of them were so belly-heavy they toppled over as they waddled across the beach! And as they meet up with their buddies at home, they make the most incredible noise. I think I’d always imagined penguins as silent (or tap dancing, a la Happy Feet), but these little things were growling, squeaking, hooting galore. Amazing!

Philip Island also offered another wildlife wonder. After two earlier unsuccessful missions, we finally found koalas! The pesky little things are incredibly hard to spot – just a ball of fluff, curled up completely still and camouflaged amongst the branches. Even once I knew where they were, I often couldn’t find them again when I turned away. After honing our skills in the conservation area, I think we’ve got the knack now, as I spotted one high in the eucalyptus tree in the neighbouring forest. 10 points for me!

In fact, my wildlife tally is doing pretty well compared to Joe’s. We went hiking in the Dandenong Ranges, our first proper expedition into the ‘bush’. We got the heartrate going by racing the crowds up the 1000 Steps, then headed off on one of the less well-trodden trails. As we were walking along, a kangaroo appeared. It was there for just a second before it hopped off into the bush and despite my flailing and silent hand signals, Joe was looking the wrong way and missed it completely. He then spent 20 minutes clambering further into the bush and waiting around, camera poised, for Skippy to reappear – all to no avail. He redeemed himself later though, as our alleged trail appeared to disappear into the undergrowth, with an overgrown fallen tree crossing our path. In full Indiana Jones mode, Joe clambered over the tree and into the undergrowth and declared the route passable, so we persevered, feeling like extras in ‘Honey I Shrunk the Kids’ among the giant ferns and plantlife. As we swept branches out of our path, I expected at any moment to walk into the sticky web of a giant Australian spider, or to see the wriggle of a camouflaged snake. But we survived intact, apart from one leech-like creature which stuck itself to my finger (prompting girlie squealing, of course). Joe eventually came to my rescue, unhurriedly and laughing.

Our time in Melbourne was rounded off brilliantly with a sailing cruise up the bay, thanks to a birthday treat from my brother. We got to see the city skyline from the water, and have a play at steering the boat (I was pretty much just spinning the wheel at random, a bit like when you pretend to drive a car, but it seemed to do the trick). Two weeks in Melbourne have flown by. Next stop Uluru to see a totally different side of Australia.

When we first started thinking about visiting Australia, the outback wasn’t on our ‘must see’ list. How interesting can one rock really be? But on the recommendation of numerous friends and family (thanks Kate and Janet) and thanks to some birthday funds (thanks mum and dad), we decided to go for it. I’m so glad we did.

I had always imagined Ayers Rock/Uluru as a solitary lump in an otherwise flat and barren landscape, but actually as you fly into the airport, there was a decent game of ‘spot the rock’ as plane passengers perked up excitedly each time one of a series of hilly lumps came into view. But when you do see the real thing, there’s no doubting it – it is such a familiar shape from years of movies, royal visits and tourism posters.

We took a three day tour with some 20-odd other people from all over Europe – Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, France, Netherlands, UK and some USA thrown in, though no actual Australians. Our American tour guide was hugely energetic and turned out to be a botany and geology enthusiast, making for some interesting insights throughout the trip. Did you know that ghost gum trees are so well adapted to the arid environment that when they’re short on water they just cut off the circulation to a branch or two and let them wither for a few months. Then, when the water supply improves, they wrap around the dead branch and continue to grow. Nature is clever.

Our first tour activity was a walk around the base of Uluru, avoiding the controversy associated with the summit climb. The local aboriginal communities request that tourists don’t climb their sacred site, but when tourism took off in the 1980s, it was the climb that drew the crowds (“I conquered the rock” t-shirts and all that jazz). Today, the government remains reluctant to close the route completely, despite its more recent respectful stance towards aboriginal culture.

During the base walk, we had the chance to see up close the remarkable features of the sandstone rock, which was formed from rivers dropping sediment in a big lake in the centre of Australia some 400 million years ago. Time and pressure turned the sand and grit into giant rock formations. Various unique markings on the rockface have inspired traditional aboriginal legends – for example, a curve in the rock is described as a snake, whose nephew was killed and she lashed out angrily, leaving behind three gashes in the wall.

Aside from the impressive geology, the other noticeable phenomenon was the overwhelming number of flies buzzing around your eyes, ears, mouth, t-shirt, hair. ALL THE TIME. Joe looked pretty silly in his bee-keepers hat, but he was also pretty smug as the rest of us developed RSI from all the swatting. Now, I had expected a trip into the outback to involve some undesirable Australian wildlife, especially sleeping out under the stars. But the wonderful thing about all that arid landscape is that it is very inhospitable for all things six-legged. Except flies, apparently.

As the sun descended, it was time to score another tick on the Uluru tourist trail and head to a sunset viewing spot. And wow, it really was spectacular. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a 360 degree sunset, where the ground is so flat you can literally see the circle of the horizon and watch the sky gradually turn from blue to orange, pink, purple, black. Just stunning, as the photos prove!

After dark, it was back to camp for some kangaroo spag bol (tasty, lean and extremely low cholesterol, apparently) and a night under the stars in a ‘swag’, which is basically a one-man roofless tent, like a giant sleeping bag. With very few humans for miles around (it’s 1500km to Darwin, 1500km to Adelaide, 2000km to Perth and 3000km to Brisbane), the stars are incredible and we could clearly see endless clouds of milky way.

Day two began with a 4.45am wake up call so we would be packed and breakfasted before a beautiful sunrise over Ayers Rock. Then it was off to Big Rock No. 2, aka Kata-Tjuta National Park (technically lots of big rocks). Despite being located quite close to Uluru, the rock formation here is surprisingly different, with bulbous faces and rounded edges compared to Uluru’s sharp angles. Kata-Tjuta is actually substantially larger than Uluru, and again holds special significance for the aboriginal tribes. When we asked why Uluru is the iconic image and not its bigger sister Kata-Tjuta, we were told it basically just came down to the marketing. The power of PR.

After a loooong bus ride and another night under the stars, we made it to King’s Canyon on day three. The remarkably steep opening climb is named Heart-Attack Hill, and one of the plumper members of our group nearly found out why. After that exertion, we were rewarded with spectacular views over the outback expanse in one direction, a mini mountain range in the other, and the ‘Garden of Eden’ in between – an oasis of water and plantlife that must have seemed almost like a mirage for aboriginal travellers. The rocks on top of the canyon have been eroded into a strange criss-cross of towers – almost like lots of little Angkor Wats everywhere – which the locals describe as the lost city (cue the Indiana Jones theme tune again). With the dark red colouring, rocky landscape and burning sun, I think it’s the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing life on Mars.

The red centre was fantastic. It is so wholly different from anywhere else, so utterly remote. Although we stayed firmly on the tourist trail, the numbers of visitors are low enough, thanks to the cost and the distance, that it still feels natural and relatively untouched. There are just small pockets of basic amenities around to make the experience a little easier on the visitors, including a single tarmaced road that cuts a straight line through the outback for some 800km from Uluru to Alice Springs. Highly recommended.

Camping in the Blue Mountains was something of a shock to the system after sleeping in a swag in balmy 25°C under the stars. In this rather different climate we battled hypothermia and cyclonic winds, while nearly having to sleep on gravel with a bunch of stoners. Where to begin…

We had hoped to blag our way onto the direct flight to Sydney from Alice Springs, having booked to go via Melbourne because it was half the price. Inevitably this didn’t happen, and just to rub it in we had to re-board the same plane for the second leg, which was then delayed due to some mechanical problem! We made it to Sydney for a rainy evening, dinner in a Chinese food court (yes, there was char siew bao) and well-deserved sleep in an actual bed in a youth hostel. The following morning was hot and sunny, and as we picked up our new tent we were mildly optimistic about our solo camping experience.

The small town of Katoomba is really only there to support tourists coming to the Blue Mountains National Park; functional but with no real charm. We had booked a pitch in a campsite and hostel that had many outstanding reviews on all the usual websites, so were a little surprised to find that the campsite was something less than a spacious meadow with plenty of space for us to erect our new home. Indeed it seems generous to call it a campsite at all; it was basically the garden of the owner’s house, immediately next to an unofficial rubbish tip. We had a choice between the gravel of the driveway next to a couple of old-school camper vans, a couple of square metres on some wooden decking and a square of a hard dry mud covered in the detritus of a tent that apparently didn’t survive the night. Perhaps here we highlight the glampacking nature of our travels, but without too much shame we ran away in search of better lodgings.

A couple of kilometers down the hill, slightly out of town but right next to the national park entrance we found a real campsite. We pitched the tent (latterly dubbed Harry, on account of the ginger) on a nice bit of grass between two cricket ovals (we’re in Australia, remember) and relaxed into the night with the help of pizza and wine. So far so good.

The Blue Mountains are so named because they look blue. Along the valleys between them you can see a really long way, and the moutains at different distances stack up towards the horizon, with a blue haze increasing into the distance. It really looks like someone’s just photoshopped in some blue hue over a pretty picture (naturally it’s quite hard to photograph properly). That’s the idea, but when we arrived at the first lookout, where we were supposed to see a vast forest in a bowl of mountains and valleys off into the distance, we saw only white. The fog was total. We had maybe 20m visibility, enough to see the ground and person in front (and the cliff edge!) but certainly not anything resembling the advertised views.

We did get moments to peek through the clouds at the valley views all around us, before the clouds closed back in again. The second of our three days of walks was a compromise of being overcast but without the low-level cloud, so we could still see some of the view. With lazy legs we didn’t cover much ground this day, but did tick off our first Aussie barbecue that evening at the campsite. Australian barbecues are not the charcoal tradition that one has come to expect. In parks and campsites you find public barbecues, which are basically big gas-powered hotplates on which you can cook your burgers and then scrape off the charred remains. Press a green button and it heats up – the essence of a barbecue distilled to be so easy as to be frankly boring! Fine in theory; in practice it’s not hot enough, and you miss out on the grilling effect of the coal. But it seems they’re trying to reduce use of firewood on environmental grounds, so maybe that’s ok.

Our patience was rewarded with a final day of sunshine and views for miles. We went on a long hike out to the Ruined Castle, a natural formation of rocks in the middle of the mountain range that looks a bit like it might have been a castle. A spot of less-than-elegant rock climbing took us to the summit, and it’s nice to be able to remember this trip with some sun and pretty views, how it’s supposed to be.

The downside of spending the sunny day hiking was that when the weather quickly returned to torrential rain and cyclonic winds, the experience of packing up the tent was more like sailing through choppy seas. Harry the tent served us well for a few days that steadily worsened in wind, rain and cold, but it was a delight to arrive back into Sydney to return to the same hostel that had welcomed us only a few days previously with such luxuries as a mattress and a roof. Sydney is currently experiencing a storm measured with some of the worst wind and rain in a decade, and we’re pleased not to have to push Harry any further…

We heard all of the advice from people who have actually done this before, we even made token effort to keep our baggage light. In the end none of it mattered.

Peak baggage happened on the way from Sydney to the Blue Mountains, when we had no fewer than eight bags to carry, counting rucksacks, handbags, the tent and some food bags in addition to the damned suitcase.

After a new medium sized backpack and some repacking we’ve slightly improved on the sorry picture here. Next time we go travelling we’ll be better organised for this, and might pay more attention to the wise words of experience that we so flagrantly ignored.

Australia was supposed to be sunny! The run of poor weather has continued, and we’ve seen lots more rain in the week and half since the Blue Mountains. It’s fair to say that we wasted a couple of days through not trying to see enough during the rainy days, but by and large I think we’ve still managed to fill the calendar and explore the sights of Sydney.

Sydney has the feel of a busy city much more than Melbourne. In many ways it feels like a version of London with a harbour. In the sunshine it’s pretty, and there are plenty of places with good views of it spread all around the many coves of the harbour with ferries flitting around. It’s not too high-rise, and the buildings seem to be arranged with smaller ones by the water, so there’s a great feeling of space. The coffee’s still pretty good, but has nothing on the excellence of Melbourne!

The city was dominated for the last week by build-up to the Anzac Day commemorations, on the hundredth anniversary of the landings at Gallipoli in the First World War. Anzac is the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. This isn’t an event I was particularly aware of at home, certainly not on the scale of something like Remembrance Day. Here it seems to be considered something of a coming-of-age moment for the two young countries growing in global reach, despite the huge losses suffered.

On the day, sun and blue skies welcomed the parade through the city centre. We saw military units of all colours, veterans groups of a surprisingly large range of nationalities and even school bands. (Best drummers award goes to the Sikh Veterans!) Next to the memorial in Sydney’s Hyde Park a police band and choir had set up, playing the same collection of old songs that we know in the UK regardless of geographical references (“There’ll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover…”). All in all a pretty happy affair, in contrast to the mostly sombre mood of Remembrance Day.

Shortly after the parade, by about 1pm, the whole city seemed to have decanted into the pubs – not sure whether this was for the special occasion or just the normal course of events. The beer was flowing freely and there were uniforms everywhere. Jo most liked the airmen, unclear whether uniforms or wearers. An old betting game called Two-Up is only legally playable in New South Wales on Anzac Day, and we saw a few crowds betting ten or twenty dollars a time on a game that basically amounts to tossing a coin. It’s remarkable to see such delight in such a primitive game! As the afternoon wore on the sun gave way to a ferocious but short-lived downpour that had us sheltered under cover just next to Martin Place, the central square, with members an army band (“this always happens on Anzac day!”). It turned out that we’d arrived just in time to see the main commemoration service of the day, at the Cenotaph in Martin Place.

I write this while Jo is out running without me, for which I blame the wine. Today notwithstanding, we’ve been back into our morning runs after a break while in the red centre and the Blue Mountains. From the hostel we stayed at for our first week (called “Wake Up!”, and exhibiting a faintly Soviet level of joy in the rules, “Wash up! Dry up! Put your things away!”) it was a short jog to the parks and through to the Opera House. The iconic view from Macquarie Point towards Sydney Harbour Bridge really is better in the sunshine, when the tiles of the Opera House gleam! The same can be said of the rest of the city, the harbour views really need a bit of sun.

One thing that we got right in Melbourne was exploring more in the suburbs than in the centre. In Sydney we had covered most of what we could in the wet first few days in the centre before we realised this. With a recommendation from someone in the hostel we headed out one evening to Surry Hills. Sydney seems to have lots of small suburbs in easy reach from the centre, many named after parts of England, and this is a nice one, full of classy-looking restaurants. Not long after we got to the main street we took shelter from rain (common theme) in a lovely bar full of fairy lights and wine. On a return visit later in the week we stumbled across a bar with a live jazz quartet playing, delightful!

We spent one night back in our trusty tent on Cockatoo Island, right in the middle of the harbour. The island has a rich history, having been an Alcatraz-style prison, a school for naughty children and the ship yard that built many of the Australian navy’s ships during both world wars. It’s now a tourist stop with an audio tour, bits of cranes littered around and a camp site that was rather warmer than the Blue Mountains. Also a handy bit of cut price accommodation in the middle of the city!

Our next residential stop was a move out of the city centre to Drummoyne, another lovely area a little along the harbour, to a guest house that proved to be a much more civilised and relaxing affair than the playing with the 20-year-olds in the youth hostel. Drummoyne seems to be well off the tourist trail, to the extent that we were asked in one restaurant how we’d come across it! It’s much more like a commuter-belt town, even though only a short ferry ride from the CBD. Like so many residential areas we’ve seen in Australia the main road is a six-lane highway! Just off this mini-motorway we tucked into sushi that puts Itsu to shame and tapas serenaded by guitar.

Sydney’s been a bit of mixed bag, and honestly hasn’t captured our hearts in quite the way that Melbourne did. The weather certainly hasn’t co-operated. We’re going to the Opera House tonight and a netball match tomorrow before heading off to the countryside for a couple more days in Harry’s ginger walls, and before long the real next step of the adventure beckons in New Zealand. Time to invest in some more thermals.

We’re already two months through our trip and can’t quite believe how fast the time is going. It’s too hard to choose, but here’s some of the highlights from month two (in chronological order):

1. Penguin parade – Watching hordes of chubby penguins totter over the beach and squeal to their mates. So adorable.
2. Bushwalking – Battling fallen trees and giant plantlife and braving the wildlife off-piste in the Dandenongs.
3. The Red Centre – Sleeping under the stars, watching the sunrise and scaling the epic terrain at Uluru, Kata Tjuta and King’s Canyon.
4. Blue mountains – Being happy campers in our hardy new tent as the worst storm in a decade gathered pace outside, and rock climbing to breathtaking views when the sun finally came out.
5. Anzac Day – Men in uniform everywhere you look, and people singing nostalgically about the “white cliffs of Dover” – despite being some 10,000 miles away.

We’d long imagined our visit to the Sydney Opera House – a boat ride over the bay, strolling down the promenade in the sunshine, supping some bubbly and heading in to the famous concert hall for a sophisticated evening of classical music.

Well, our visit wasn’t like that, but it was brilliant.

We stepped out of our Sydney home, dressed to the nines (or as much as our packing allowed), to see dark skies and a deluge of rain. Undeterred, we took our boat (sitting inside) and then ran up the promenade, seeking cover wherever we could – which happened to be the excellent O Bar, where we got to sup our bubbly overlooking the illuminated Harbour Bridge, with just the occasional splashback of rain dampening our toes.

Once our glasses were empty it was on to the Opera House itself. The building has the quirky feel of the Barbican with unusual shapes and spaces, but despite its similar reliance on 1970s concrete, it manages not to feel dated. The vestibule areas inside are surprisingly spacious, so although we were attending an almost sell-out concert, there was plenty of room to enjoy a drink and take in the views – though all that space does make it feel oddly quiet for those of us used to London’s crowds and queues.

By a chance of timing, we were there to see the Last Night of the Proms, much to my delight and Joe’s horror. It was an authentic recreation, complete with all the fanfare, pomp and circumstance you could ask for. We couldn’t help but giggle when the concert opened with 2,000 Aussies standing to sing God Save The Queen – a wonderfully British moment almost American in its patriotic fervour.

There were Union Jacks everywhere you looked, though ours was comfortably the largest (thanks MJC). After an hour of light classical music and regular flag waving, the anglophilia reached new heights as the soprano soloist entered the stage and ceremoniously handed a large envelope to the conductor, our MC for the evening. “It’s a girl!”, he announced and the Aussie crowd erupted, cheering delightedly at the arrival of a new British princess. Perfect timing Kate!

All the bobbing, flag waving, green and pleasant lands of hope and glory culminated in confetti bombs and party-popper streamers. Our former colony contentedly sang along to the controversial lyrics of Rule Britannia, and while jokes abounded about the very British weather outside and our weird penchant for mushy peas, gags about colonies or convicts were markedly absent…

Netball is a great sport for a bloke. You get to see lots of women running around in very short skirts, and there are no queues for the loos!

We went to Sydney’s old Olympic Park to watch the Melbourne Vixens get trounced by the NSW Swifts. This completed the hat trick of sporting events in Australia where we’ve chosen the wrong team to support, after the black caps at the cricket and Carlton in AFL. Perhaps we should be choosing the home team each time, rather than just which strip we preferred… Again it wasn’t even close, they were totally dominant. The Swifts were just playing far better, making far fewer errors.

Apparently it was a record crowd for a regular season game at just over ten thousand. It was about 90% female, with plenty of girls netball teams all in full team colours, and the pitch of the cheers was a good octave higher than normal! The best moment was at half time, walking straight into the empty loo. There was no-one here, at half time. Crazy.

The sun did not shine, it was too wet to play. So we sat in the hostel all that cold, cold wet day and decided to go on an adventure and make our own fun.

The Royal National Park is a little south of Sydney, for a change within easy reach from civilisation by a train and boat ride. We had heard about a Coast Track along the edge of the park, one of those things that you’re supposed to do at least once in your life. The track can be completed in a single day if you are “very fit and an experienced bushwalker”. We’re usually pretty fast walkers, and the marathon-length hike across the Isle of Wight last year seemed like pretty good preparation. What could possibly go wrong?

We arrived at our deserted camp site after dark; no dramas, we’ve already put Harry the tent up in the dark by head torch before. More ominous were the pairs of eyes reflecting out of the night, often in groups. They would come and go from view, without giving hint as to what they were – species, size, level of hunger. We kept careful watch while putting up the tent and weren’t attacked.

On the way to the barbecue – the communal electric jobbies again but much hotter this time – we got up a bit closer to one pack of the eyes, and they turned out to be deer. We’re friends with a deer, so felt reassured until the smell of our beef burgers brought something else almost close enough to be identified. Could have been a dingo, maybe a fox, definitely not a deer. Regardless, we have no idea which of these it was that had a sniff around the tent later that night. We definitely feel like we’re in the wild now. We’re definitely on an adventure!

We set out early in the morning for our walk expecting it be long. We had as much water as we could carry and enough muesli bars to feed Goldilocks for a year. Trusty walking boots secure, camera at the ready.

There was finally some improvement in the weather, but having been raining solidly for so long the ground was pretty squidgy. We had had warning that some sections of the track were flooded, but we planned to walk carefully around those bits. It took all of five minutes and one wet sandy patch for me to lose my footing and get a boot full of wet sand. Track one, Jo(e)s nil.

So it was that our grand plan for the 40km return hike began to be revealed as over-ambitious in the extreme. Going was slow as the terrain showed us who was in charge. It was not rocky terrain that slowed our pace, or even the constant hill climbing – it was that the path had deteriorated into an assault course in the recent weather. Early on we had to clamber over fallen trees and part bushes that were covering the path. Then we came to the lakes that had formed over the path. We just about got over the first still dry thanks to some helpfully placed tree branches and the magic of Gore-Tex. The second was deeper, wider, wetter. We briefly considered trying to go around on another path (10km round trip) before deciding just to plough on. The socks stayed wet for the rest of the day, despite wringing them out repeatedly.

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There is more. In a nice grassy meadow a patch of grey pebbles turned out to be a stream full of floating pumice, which claimed Jo with a splash and a squeal. We had to wade through a river that was apparently only there because the upstream lagoon burst its banks in the recent flooding. We crossed a waterfall with a good view of what awaited us if we slipped (though this one is actually the normal state of the track). A path that we had to descend had a stream running down it, and later we climbed up through the water. It felt like when I went gorge walking with school, when we were told to take trainers that we didn’t mind getting wrecked.

This was all on the first half of the walk, as the return leg was almost entirely along a road – boring but easy! The highlight of the trip for me was my first sighting of a kangaroo, bounding across a wider bit of the track a way in front of us. We heard it again shortly after, thump thump thump as it bounced away. I have no idea how they move so easily through the dense vegetation.

The views were incredible. For hours we were accompanied by the waves crashing below us. We saw the famous Wedding Cake Rock (but failed to take any pictures of us sitting on it, sorry mum!), purple and red rocks and the remains of a massive boulder encasing other rocks (groovy!). We befriended two caterpillars who attached themselves to our bags at lunch and a bird who liked our salt and vinegar crackers. The final tally was 31.1km in about 11 hours. After a quick barbecue I was asleep by 730.

That it seemed reasonable to assume that the rocks wouldn’t be floating sums up the luck we had on this walk. For all of that it was awesome. We’ve had an adventure and I’ll never let Jo forget that she got wet in a pile of rocks!

Aboriginal creation stories refer to The Dreaming, the time before humans. Clans in different areas or language groups have different stories, and broadly they describe the arrival of people and how some of the local geography was formed. The stories are passed down the generations verbally and in the form of songs, and as you get older you learn more and more detail.

At Uluru we heard some of the stories that centre on the big rock, of course. The big holes were caused by spears, the long curves show the form of a serpent.

In the Royal National Park near Sydney a different group, the Dharawal, have their own stories. This sign was near a set of engravings (that originates from long ago but is still maintained) and gives a fairly representative example of these stories. Of course we only get the most basic children’s versions, but it’s interesting nonetheless.

(You might have to zoom in to see it all, but it should be legible.)

Back in Sydney for our last couple of days and the weather is, finally, glorious! The bay sparkles, the Opera House gleams white against the blue sky, the ferry rides are a delight. What a difference the sun makes!

We are just settling down to lunch at Drummoyne Sailing Club, on a balcony overlooking the marina, soaking up some rays before we hit wintery New Zealand tonight. This is much more like the Sydney we had imagined.

Pass the sunscreen. And the wine.

On 4 September 2010, a magnitude 7.1 earthquake hit Christchurch. Buildings were damaged as New Zealand’s second largest city shook, but no lives were lost. Less than six months later, as the damage from that event was still being cleared, a second major earthquake struck on 22 February 2011. Though the magnitude was smaller at 6.3, the epicentre was closer to the city centre, and struck at lunch time as many residents and office workers were out and about in town. This time, the earthquake devastated the city and claimed 185 lives.

More than four years on, the impact is still surprisingly evident on the city’s streets.

Before we arrived, we didn’t quite know what to expect of Christchurch. We’d heard stories of families still living in temporary accommodation, angry at the slow pace of repair. The city has been described as a building site, and, more hopefully, a city in the midst of transformation.

We didn’t have to walk far to see evidence of the earthquake’s destructive power, with deserted buildings missing a wall or a roof, marked for demolition. Next door is a gaping hole, where another building once stood. There is scaffolding everywhere you look, and construction workers sporting day-glo vests and hard hats stroll through the streets. The Cathedral still stands in the central square, though the front wall has collapsed allowing onlookers to almost see through into the aisles. Poignantly, an art installation has been set up with 185 white empty chairs, ranging from a baby’s cot to a beanbag, wheelchair to armchair, in memory of those who died.

It all sounds pretty depressing, until you see how the city has responded. Empty spaces are being filled with innovative installations, such as a ‘Dance-o-mat’ public dance floor – just pop $2 in a washing machine to hear your music piped out over a large linoleum floor, to replace the dance studios that were damaged. A new cathedral has been built out of tough cardboard, like hundreds of giant poster tubes. And there’s no shortage of parking in all those rubbled squares.

In the city centre, colourfully painted shipping containers create a vibrant shopping area, housing stylish clothes stores and tasty treats. The hipsters have been undeterred by the dust – we visited a bar operating out of shipping containers clad in fairy lights and patio heaters, and a pretentious cafe serving coffee out of conical flasks, water out of a sewing machine, with toilets hidden behind a secret book shelf and signposted by Star Wars figurines (Princess Leia for girls, Stormtroopers for staff and, somewhat controversially, R2D2 for disabled). There’s definitely a sense of people just getting on, with a smile. And it’s pretty exciting to see the makings of a $40 billion regeneration plan in action, even if it is taking shape slower than many residents would like.

Christchurch is still a city under construction, but with pockets of colour where regeneration has taken place – either through permanent government-led schemes or temporary resident-led creativity. Many of the city’s attractive historical buildings have been damaged, but the make-shift new centres that have taken their place capture the city’s charm and resilience.

The New Zealand road trip started as usual, with a night-time arrival at the first campsite after lots of faff leaving Christchurch.

Jo finally drove us off the forecourt after we’d spent two and a half hours at the Britz hire place, a hive of inefficiency. The time waiting did give us a chance to scavenge through stuff left by the previous hirers of camper vans; beans, cling film and an apparently-unopened jar of herbs covered in drips of soy sauce. (We left the herbs.) Our new steed was quickly dubbed Barry the Britz Bus, and Harry the ginger tent fits neatly in the boot.

Our first night stop was Akaroa, a small town two hours south-east at the end of a peninsula, set on the giant estuary Akatoa¹ Harbour. After relaxing with a glass of wine that nearly slid off the table we had such a comfortable night’s sleep that we overslept. (Note to self: buy a sleeping mat next time in Harry.) We were woken by a seagull walking over the roof barely inches above us and found, not for the last time I suspect, a stunning vista over the harbour below.

The town Arakoa¹ is notable for being the only attempt by the French to establish a colony in New Zealand, and so there’s tricolore bunting everywhere and some of the shops have a French name. Some should really try harder though – looking at you, Le Thai and Le Bike Hire.

After a gentle walk down to the town and along the beach-front we headed up the hill to see the view further along the estuary. So much of the countryside here looks like England. England on a good day, for sure, but home nonetheless. The harbour could be in the Lake District, the rolling hills could be Derbyshire if only they had some little stone walls around the ubiquitous sheep.

We found ice cream and some very tasty fush and chups (world renowned, so they claim) before hot-footing back up the Krakatoa¹ peninsula.

It was only driving back up the peninsula away from Arachnophobia¹ that we saw the views we’d missed in the dark on the way there. We had a hundred kilometres of lakeside views with the distant hills climbing sharply out of the water towards the setting sun, the road winding off into the distance ahead of us.

By the time we got close to Waihi Gorge it was long dark. With judicious use of Barry’s full beam and head torches we navigated the gravel road towards the tiny campsite, and even managed to find a flat pitch. We could see nothing at all of our surroundings, but at least there were none of the scary eyes this time.

Three days in, and New Zealand really is ridiculously beautiful. We woke up early this morning to the pattering of Waihi Gorge and looked outside to a trio of sheep dogs (not pigs, I checked) efficiently manoeuvring a herd of sheep across the sun-tipped hillside, watched by a shepherd clutching his staff. A perfect rural English scene.

We fired up Barry in record timing (it’s pretty easy to speed up the morning routine when there’s no shower, hairdryer or mirror in sight) and set off down the windy roads, each turn bringing another spectacular scene into view, as we headed towards snow-tipped mountains in the… THUD.

We would like to take a moment to remember a tiny bird, enthusiastic in spirit, slow in flight, who splatted into our windscreen. His life was short but happy, flitting (indecisively) over beautiful scenery.

We held the wake in the nearby town of Fairlie over coffee and cake, and then got back in the ornithocidal bus to continue our journey.

Just one hitch. We’re so used to driving along the only road in the vicinity, neither of us thought to check the direction as we merrily careered back towards Waihi, where we started the day. A sharp handbrake turn (or more of a gentle seven-point pirouette in unstable Barry), and we were on our way to Lake Tekapo, watching the scenery slowly transform from English countryside to Alpine Austria.

The first glimpse of Lake Tekapo was breathtaking – the kind of silly pretty that makes you laugh because it’s so improbably like a postcard. The lake is vivid turquoise, apparently thanks to ‘rock flour’ suspended in the water (which sounds like a recipe for papier mache if you ask me, but the waves seemed to be flowing normally). The lake is surrounded by hills, including Mount John, famous as one of the best night-sky observatories in the world. As we clambered up, rain drops threatened to disturb the sunshine, but instead we got a full rainbow – nicely reminiscent of our engagement rainbow in the Lake District! But as we hit the summit, we suddenly got battered by incredible winds. It was like being back in stormy Sydney. As we desperately clutched onto everything that could fly away, we had to lean into the gusts to avoid being blown over. My hair was a sight to behold.

Our descent was filled with plans for our night sky adventure (and scheduling our toilet trips so that we could camp for free in the nearby field). But the rain clouds that had been looming behind us eventually caught up with our power-walking pace and the heavens opened. With 90% cloud cover predicted for the night, we abandoned our Patrick Moore fantasies and opted to make progress towards Mount Cook.

We were back in Barry as the rain streamed and fog descended, while the Austrian landscape gradually faded into craggy Scotland. As darkness set in, all we could see were white lines and occasional bunny rabbits bobbing across the road. You’ll be pleased to hear we swerved more successfully for them.

We spent the night camping in the foothills of Mt Cook, famously climbed by Sir Edmund Hillary as training for his Everest expedition. We awoke to the sound of rain hammering on the roof, which is all of 10cm above our heads. But by the time we’d got dressed quickly (still no shower) and had breakfast slowly, the sun was glimpsing through. Enthusiastically, we nipped down to the information centre for advice on local walking routes, and expressed our interest in something challenging with altitude. We were encouraged to take the stepped route halfway up the mountain, which sounded good, until we spotted the route continued further under a new name. “That’s a mountaineering route, it’s a steep rocky climb beyond the snow line” we were told, discouragingly. Now, given our recent hike on the flooded Coast Track, we figured we’re experienced hikers. Joe and I were looking excitedly at each other, as the information lady eyed us sceptically and continued to explain why the route was not appropriate… avalanche routes, unpredictable weather etc.

By the time we set off, the sun had disappeared and the rain was pouring again. With waterproofs zipped up tight, we sped off up the first half of the track. The going was straightforward but surprisingly steep, with endless wooden stairs leading up at jaunty angles like some kind of Escher nightmare. Up, up, up, pace slowing, heart beating, rain stopping, layers stripping, sweat dripping, mist clearing, sun shining… Phew, we reached the top to see beautiful alpine scenery.

That was the easy bit.

From there, we continued up on the ‘advanced’ route. The clearly marked path was gone, replaced with rocks and the occasional stick guiding the way. We clambered up as the path got steeper, using all four limbs to get a decent grip when necessary. Before long, ice crystals were visible on the rocks, quickly followed by snow. We were having far too much fun to stop now, so ploughed on up, crunching through the snow. From the distance, there was the definite sound of a miaow – we like to think it was one of the cute little snow leopard cats we’d seen in Singapore Zoo, but I guess it could have just been a feline-sounding squark from one of the impressive birds of prey that we occasionally spotted flying about. Our pace slowed as we could see the route markers but not the route, and carefully prodded our way. By the time the snow was coming in over our boots, we figured it was probably time to turn back and began the steep descent, retracing our snowy footprints. Over 3.5 hours we covered a massive… 6km, which I think is testament to how tough going the route was!¹

After lunch back in trusty Barry, we decided we definitely had time for another walk, and headed into the Hooker Valley.

We power-walked along this much more popular route, overtaking groups of meandering tourists. Having spent much of the morning shrouded in mist or concentrating on the floor, we were bowled over at the unexpectedly beautiful scenery as the sun shone on the snowy peak of Mt Cook. The route took us on suspension bridges over gushing streams (cue the Indiana Jones theme tune, again), via marshland to a glacial lake, complete with ice bergs. We returned with a much more respectable 10km in two hours.

We’re now sitting in chilly Barry, looking like Michelin Men wrapped in seven layers and a blanket, clinging to hot chocolate. Brrr.

Dear Mr Campervan Man

I’d like to have a word about campervan design.

I see what you’re trying to achieve with the rooftop bunk, really I do. On paper it’s perfect – a little place to sleep, no need to tidy anything away in the morning, just hop down and get on with breakfast.

The fold out bed is quite ingenious, until you bang your head on it, repeatedly (Joe).

And the bunk seems like an excellent use of rooftop space, until you try to get in. The recommended access route appears to be a clamber from the sofa, over the sink, skirting the hob, to get one leg on the bunk in gymnastic splits. So far, this is just about feasible (as long as you’re over 5’8”). Hauling up the second leg, however, leaves me wedged between the bed and the roof, raucously giggling. Then comes the final challenge of turning and lying down, whilst simultaneously pulling out the bed covers from beneath my wedged behind, to then burrow beneath them. No mean feat, I can tell you.

Further real-life scenario testing required. One might even consider including a handy ladder. Though I suppose that would rather spoil the fun.

Best regards,

Jo

Barry is not, shall we say, a triumph of aerodynamic engineering. On the road it’s sometimes like trying to steer a washing machine through a wind tunnel. We paid extra for insurance to cover rolling over, after we were told that someone’s camper was recently toppled by the wind while parked. Last night we were grateful for this when Barry was buffeted all through the night.

The wind really started only when we went to bed, in our top bunk above the driving seats. As the gusts increased and the suspension flexed we could do little but cling on to the bed sheets and hope for calmer seas. After a couple of hours of this we unfolded the bottom bunk and moved there, in the hope that lowering our centre of gravity would help; no joy.

After a long night of turbulence and very little sleep we opened the curtains to more rain, heavy to the point that we drove the 20 metres to the campsite loos. (It’s great being able to drive your house around!) As we descended the mountain the rain cleared, the rainbows came and again we were presented with the wide sweeping views of mountains, lakes and meadows in between for which we’re running out of adjectives. Not all of the views are of stunning alpine mountain ranges – there’s a lot of pretty English countryside in evidence too. Sheep everywhere on rolling hills, that kind of thing.

We stopped briefly in Twizel to do some pirouettes while feeding the coffee monster. Other than the name it’s a totally unremarkable town. Apparently there’s a Twizel in the UK too, 18,634km away!

Oamaru is a Victorian-era town on the coast with big wide streets and buildings that should be in a museum. The town seems to have embraced Steampunk, and there’s a museum dedicated to it. The train engine at the front door sits at a jaunty angle and roars and blows fire from the chimney when you give it $2. The place is run by an oddball guy who looks like a Hell’s Angel, who told us about it with the most extreme level of conversational awkwardness. Weird persistent eye contact, long pauses, expletive laden assertions of just how crazy this place is. The Lonely Planet tells us that Steampunk is about “tomorrow as it used to be”, so we see old steam engines with rockets attached, dentist chairs next to huge electronic control boards covered in switches, old CRT screens everywhere showing static, big machines full of gears doing… well, not a great deal.

The dude in charge told us with great excitement about a new organ they’d installed, which plays different samples on different notes. Some are mechanical sort of noises, some are from recordings of radio transmissions to spacecraft, some totally unidentifiable. The five notes from A Close Encounter make an appearance. Altogether, it’s not completely clear what the point is, and that seems to be the point. It somehow fits with the town, as a sort of neo-Victorian thing. Still, totally bonkers.

The highlight was not at all like the rest of place; a room about the size of the interior of our camper van with the walls, floor and ceiling covered completely in mirrors, and lights hanging on strings from the ceiling. As the patterns of lights changed along to ethereal music they seem to stretch out to infinity in front of you. Cool effect.

On to Middlemarch, another tiny town serving a single purpose, this time as the entry point to the Central Otago Rail Trail, a bike path along an old train route not dissimilar to the Camel Trail that we did on holidays in Cornwall as a kid. We planned to cycle the first part of it for a few hours, after stopping for the night at an actual holiday park. We’d gone three nights without external power at the basic Department of Conservation parks, and after being so cold in Mount Cook we were looking forward to plugging in the little fan heater. Naturally, we turned up at the park to find a note taped to the office window – “closed until further notice”. For a ‘town’ at the start of a big tourist draw, there are surprisingly few places to camp, and the nearest option was 60km away on the coast, at tomorrow’s destination of Dunedin. Jo sweet-talked the owner of the town pub into letting us park in their car park overnight, so a warming fan was replaced by a pint, a game of pool and a we-can’t-be-bothered dinner of bacon and eggs. Perhaps a fair trade, in the end!

Dunedin (done-Edd-in) should be in Scotland. It’s like a small version of Edinburgh, complete with English students as bar staff and takeaways selling pie and gravy. It has a pretty railway station, apparently the most photographed building in the southern hemisphere. I’m always quite sceptical of places where the main draw is the means of getting away.

The museum was a lovely building but a rather unimaginative affair – rather than giving the story of the region with selected exhibits there was just lots of stuff on display and described.

The nearby Otago Peninsula is supposed to be a delightful set of walks along the shore past seal, albatross and penguin colonies. We had a total white-out, so after lunch in the camper we gave up and headed west.

It was a useful stop for an evening out and for some shopping for more warm clothes, and the pub made Jo a cracking apple juice and soda with a squeeze of lemon. Nice town for a quick visit.

Tonight was one of those nights where there was no plan, and it worked out perfectly.

We arrived in Gore, a small town of only 12,000 a couple of hours from Dunedin, in time to stop for a pint before stocking up at the supermarket. The Lonely Planet described a country music festival in the town that ensures ten days of hotel bookings per year, but as for the other 355… Gore itself boasts that it is “motor-home friendly”, and there are a few places to park a camper van and plug in, including at the local showground. Sounds promising. The perfect place to sleep and depart early, without having to worry about missing out.

A quick peek around an outdoor cattle market made it clear that we weren’t going to get power here without blowing some fuses or getting electrocuted. Over the road were a few camper vans in a little fenced-off car park. We parked, we plugged in, we walked innocently into the neighbouring bar, and we were welcomed into the Gore Town and Country Club!

This is the cheapest night of accommodation we’ve had, and the cheapest pint. It’s a good old-fashioned working mens’ club. We came into a warehouse-sized bar that looked a bit like a wedding reception – a bunch of tables loosely arranged around a small dance floor, with a local singer and guitarist playing along to a CD of 80s cheese and sounding awfully close to karaoke. Within two minutes of our arrival, while I was at the bar, Jo had been whisked away for a dance. There was horse chariot racing on the telly and groups avidly watching the rugby. The walls were covered with notices of who’d won that weeks raffle prize and the detailed rules of the car club. There was a slideshow of pictures from recent fishing and shooting weekends. As for bar snacks, we had a microwaved frozen quiche (veg or ham) and a three-inch wide chewy “pizza”.

It was brilliant. Thank you for having us! Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, da-doo-ron-ron-ron…

Fiordland National Park is huge. It’s the south-west corner of New Zealand, about the size of Wales and almost totally uninhabited. The geology is all glacial, so huge U-shaped valleys and steep sided mountains everywhere (Mr Tyler would be proud). From the sea you see openings to some of these valleys, the most famous of which is Milford Sound, whose floors are well submerged, so the cliff faces rise almost vertically from the water with waterfalls gushing everywhere around.

Anyway, getting ahead of ourselves. We approached from the west, suffering only the slightest hangovers courtesy of the Gore Town and Country Club. The scenery was the usual pretty sights, but was quite flat until we got much closer to Fiordland, when the mountains started to loom over everything. The entry point is a little town called Te Anau, another of those single-purpose places where you fill up with petrol for the long single road north to Milford, up into the park proper. After a brief walk into the forest near there we were off, and having totally misjudged the timing drove the majority of this beautiful road in the dark.

An early rise in the morning: this was our big walk! The Routeburn Track is one of a few official multi-day walks through the wilderness, with huts manned by rangers and equipped with gas stoves along the route for night stops. In the winter (as of only a couple of weeks before our visit) you get no such help and have to be totally self-sufficient, including taking means to boil water from streams for drinking, wet-weather and snow gear, handling avalanche risk and being able to traverse “large, swift and icy rivers”. Needless to say we’re not equipped for an overnighter or for the genuinely alpine middle section, but we were able to walk the first day of it, out and back.

On foot you get a different impression of the terrain than from the windscreen. Immediately it’s all very damp and humid; a carpet of moss over everything; the ground, the rocks, the trees. In the forest as you climb you see only glimpses of the snow-capped mountains, lakes and the valley floor beyond, but passing the bush line suddenly you see for miles. In the car you can usually see what’s coming for a while before you pull over at the prime viewpoint; in the bush it happens much more quickly. So many times we’d come round a bend in the path to find an enormous waterfall that we hadn’t even heard, or find a sudden change in the vegetation that crowds out all the light.

Often the best views up the mountain from the path, of a waterfall or of the snowy summit above, were in areas marked by signs as being avalanche or rock fall zones. “No stopping next 400 metres” it would say, seconds before the view opened to the river falling from the sky. I can only imagine what this is like deeper into winter.

The weather was certainly kind to us on the walk. Many who walk up to the first summit of the track see nothing but a wall of white annotated by signs describing the view “on a clear day”. Wow. At the larger scale the floor is carpeted with trees that still look like moss, so thorough is the cover they provide to the valley floor. The road looks pathetic next to the meandering and torrential rivers of glacial meltwater. Over a lake in the distance the terrain is full-on pastel in colour.

After a night in a basic campsite near the end of the Routeburn, the following morning we headed on to Milford to take a cruise out along Milford Sound. Fog rolled in and rain poured so we didn’t get the blue-green-blue views we might have hoped for, but we could still see the vertical rises and the waterfalls were at their dramatic heaviest. We spent most of the cruise outside for the better views, and got to see one waterfall “properly” when the captain of the boat brought us in extra close. We weren’t actually under it but the wind was such that the waterfall didn’t really land in the sea anyway; more like it expanded over a huge area and filled the air with water! The wind from the thing itself was incredible, enormous gusts as we got close to it.

On our return out of Fiordland we finally saw the views that the guide book had promised would be evident in daylight. We were treated to seeing some kea birds attacking some guy’s car, pulling at the rubber bits around the doors. We drank some stream water (tasted like mineral water), saw the Mirror Pools that reflect the next range of mountains, and generally marvelled at the continuous unfolding of…

I honestly run out of ways to describe this; there are only so many adjectives. New Zealand really is this pretty, just everywhere. It’s silly.

Queenstown likes to describe itself as ‘the adrenaline-rush capital of the world’. That sounds like fun, but I definitely had preconceptions of streets overrun with bungy jumpers, skydivers and snowboarders. Basically, I was expecting a cross between a too-cool ski resort and a seedy Faliraki filled with overcooked teenagers. Fun for a day to do something crazy and move on.

Turns out I was way off the mark. Queenstown (not Queensland, as I KEPT calling it) is achingly beautiful. Set on a lake, sparkling in the sunshine, with 360 degrees of snow-topped mountains, chic shops and bars, and an unusual but delightful combination of picturesque serenity and fun-filled adventure. I loved it.

Our trip had two main objectives:

1. Do something fun; and
2. Eat at world-famous Fergburger.

After a potter in town, we skipped the expensive Gondola ride and walked up the steep forest trail to the top for the stunning views and, more importantly, the luge. This was Super Mario Kart racing off the top of a mountain, made all the more authentic by Joe continuously singing Do-do-do-da-do-do-de-doo, which is, apparently, the Mario theme tune. We got a brief lesson on how to work what was, essentially, a sledge on wheels with a brake (cheating) and then we raced down the hill, squealing at every corner, much to the amusement of the passing tourists who were on the way to meet their (much more squeal-worthy) bungy rope. I won, though it turned out the luge had pushed Joe’s driving skills to the limit and he had crashed his little trolley into the wall. Embarrassing.

Back in town for dinner, Fergburger was calling and we joined the queue. Despite all the hype from the guidebook and various people we’d met en route (“burgers as big as your head”), they were without doubt the best burgers we have ever eaten. So the next night we went there again. Naughty.

We figured we’d earned it, though, after a strenuous day trip of white-water rafting. Once we’d donned numerous layers of wetsuit, we hopped on a minibus to the river – a drive which is listed among the top 20 most dangerous roads in the world (so they claim), complete with tight turns and sheer cliff drops. Plus plenty of chat from the guides about sheep (turns out rural Kiwis are just like the Welsh).

On the river, some fool let us go in the front, which put us alarmingly in charge of the raft’s power and direction, under the instruction of our genuine Maori guide, aptly named Chief. Unfortunately, Chief kept calling us “English pussies” and threatening we’d lose our spot if we weren’t up to the task, so Joe was determined to defend his national honour. After a teensy tiny (huge) steering fail, we got caught between two rocks mid river (a rock and a hard place, if you will… sorry), and then a bumper-car knock from the second raft wedged us even further. It was hard to tell if Chief was concerned or amused as he announced we all had to clamber onto the rocks to free the raft, and then jump back in quickly before it floated away. Success! Teething problems sorted, we got into our stride, splashing down river and swallowing as much water as we rowed. Great fun! And as an extra treat, we got a hot shower at the end – true luxury!

Finally, it was back into Barry for the long drive to the West Coast, complete with more stunning views and an incongruous soundtrack of ‘A Chorus Line’ bellowing out the speakers. “Tits and ass, got myself a fancy pair…”

We went on a helicopter! And climbed a glacier! And saw a kiwi! So not a bad day, all-in-all.

After a 5am alarm, we headed up the west coast, home to two of the most fast-moving glaciers in the world. At first light, we caught a brief glimpse of the first, Fox Glacier, and ploughed on to Franz-Josef Glacier where we were due to check-in for our heli-hike at 9.30am.

One slight hitch. At 9.05, Joe announced he wasn’t feeling great. At 9.10, he was jumping out the passenger seat and hastily throwing up at the side of the road. We’d survived the hawker markets of Singapore and Malaysia, and some very dodgy-looking street fare in Cambodia, but it appears Joe had been taken down by some fancy blue cheese (again).

At 9.15, we were easing Barry’s spinning wheels out of the mud that our hasty stop had landed us in. And by 9.25 I was sweet-talking the check-in desk to see if we could move our trip. Thankfully, they agreed to fit us in the next day. Phew.

Before long, Joe was feeling a lot better, so we spent the day pottering around the impressive glacier valley in the sunshine and came across a local kiwi sanctuary. Now, Joe has been obsessed with these rare little birds ever since we arrived in NZ (getting excited at every kiwi-related bit of tourist tat – and there is a LOT of kiwi tat), so the sanctuary made its way firmly onto the ‘to-do’ list, making for a busy next day.

It was well worth the visit. Did you know a kiwi lays eggs that are the same relative size as a human giving birth to a six year old?! They can live to 70 years old, but they can’t fly, despite having teensy wings. Instead, they spend their time foraging on the forest floor with their long beak, complete with nostrils at the end, making them the creatures with the second best sense of smell in the world. Impressive little things! But they are endangered thanks to an array of predators introduced by Europeans in the 19th century – only 2% of kiwi eggs survive to adulthood in the wild.

After years of dwindling numbers, NZ conservationists are now acting as care-takers, looking after eggs and baby kiwis until they reach a kilo in size and their chances of survival against a stoat, cat or possum are much improved. We got to see two young kiwis, soon to be released into the wild. In their darkened home, you can hear them scuttling around long before your eyes adjust enough to see them, and they really are very cute, snuffling around in the logs for grubs, and running about at impressive speed. Their quirky little bodies really do look like all those keyrings, cuddly toys and t-shirts… one of which Joe is now wearing with pride.

From one excitement to the next – it was helicopter time! We got completely kitted out from woolly hat to woolly sock, and headed to the landing pad. Just like in the movies, the wind was incredible as the helicopter landed. We boarded, donned our headset, and then we were off. The motion was surprisingly gentle, delivering impressive angles on the turns, and fantastic panoramic views. We were in a helicopter!

We landed on the ice, and scuttled away to put on crampons ready to hike. The glacier moves up to seven metres in a day, gliding on meltwater closest to the rock surface. At steep sections, gravity helps the ice move faster than the general flow and the glacier splits into deep crevices. At times chunks of ice fall down and re-freeze, forming huge jagged boulders on the ice below. We squeezed through the narrow crevices, walls of ice brushing both arms, and were able to see the layers of translucent blue ice that had been compacted down under the pressure from snow and ice above. The sheer power of mother nature is undeniable. The glacier feeds a thundering waterfall, flowing at a staggering pace day-in day-out, which briefly appears and then disappears under the ice, only emerging where the glacier meets the river bed far below. This is nature at its most untouched, most baffling and most formidable.

This has been the week of extreme activities in Queenstown and the west coast glaciers, where you’re supposed to do crazy stuff at risk of peril.

I walked into a pole in a campsite and gave myself a scar that looks a bit like an appendectomy (it was dark!). On over-exerting the trolley luge the track gave me a bosh to the elbow and some extra ventilation in my new jumper (no excuse). Jo walked into a bollard and walloped her knee (broad daylight). Jo’s derriere had a close encounter with the floor on the slippery ice of the walk up to Mount Doom (insufficiently soft landing). I had a gastrointestinal disagreement with some cheese that we’d picked up at a cheesery we visited on the drive, which meant a reluctant extra day with the alpine views of Franz Josef and a delay to our helicopter ride (waste of good Stilton).

All of that in addition to the headbanging in Barry, of course.

Our last single-use town in the South Island of New Zealand was Picton, home of the ferry that crosses the Cook Strait to Wellington in the North. The adverts for the ferry promise relaxation, three hours of putting your feet up while the kids silently watch a family friendly film, that kind of thing.

“There’s a slight southerly swell today so it’ll be a bit rough” said the tannoy, after we’d been given similar warnings twice already. There was a liberal distribution of sick bags all around the passenger areas and before long six metre waves had us bouncing around. We could only hope that they’d sufficiently tethered Barry to the deck, lest the sea finish off what the wind on Mount Cook had begun.

We disembarked feeling a little green but intact and ready to explore. Wellington immediately gives more of a city feel than anywhere we visited on the South Island, a theme that would continue as we travelled north. The South is definitely the rural neighbour.

The Te Papa museum, which seems to be a sort of national flagship museum, is hosting an exhibition on Gallipoli for the four years of centennial commemorations of the war. It’s incredibly well done, walking you through what happened at ANZAC Cove and giving some personal stories of a few of the soldiers involved. There are giant figures of the featured soldiers made by one of the special effects workshops behind Lord of the Rings.

One of the must-sees on the tourist trail in Wellington is the Mount Victoria lookout, a view over the city from the top of a hill. The walk winds up a steep hill through an affluent suburb reminiscent of parts of San Francisco. A nice stretch of the legs before driving north!

Next stop Tongariro National Park, which is serious Lord of the Rings country, including the volcano that starred as Mount Doom in the films. A big long drive meant we arrived after dark again (so haven’t seen any of it yet!) but even the campsite shows more signs of civilisation than the wholesome experience of the parks in the South Island. Taps with running water? Only 6km from petrol? Radio reception in the camper? Phone signal in the park?! Luxury.

We had an early start, made easier with radio on at breakfast. It was decidedly warm, a welcome change on previous stays in the national parks. The plan was one of the famous walks around the volcanoes of the Tongariro National Park in the centre of the North Island.

After nearly slipping over on black ice in the car park, the man at the Department of Conservation visitor centre talked us out of doing the 8 hour one-way Alpine Crossing that had forecast -14°C wind chill. In hindsight we should have ploughed on, these people always overstate the difficulty because of the idiots who try to do it in shorts and a t-shirt before being airlifted out with hypothermia. Anyway, he sent us on a slightly tamer (6hr return) tramp around some lakes to the foot of Mount Doom.

It’s not really called that, but the real Maori name is impossible to pronounce. It starred in The Lord of the Rings films, but on a sunny day doesn’t look all that foreboding! It’s pretty cool, a volcano that looks like volcanoes should look, how you drew them as a kid: symmetrical cone with a crater at the top.

The walk took us up through the snow line again, in fact over a lot of slippery icy path early on (Jo’s bruised bottom can attest to the lack of traction). The vegetation is very different here, with no trees once you get close to the edge of where the lava flows. So you can see for miles over gently rolling hills punctuated by the snow-capped volcanoes.

It was not a well-trodden path – entirely snow covered by a dump the previous night. There were only two sets of footprints ahead of us, one of which came from that rare occurrence of someone walking faster than us.

Much of the route was spent calculating escape routes should the volcano erupt. Should we try to outrun the lava and ballistic molten rocks, or try to take cover and wait it out? No clear answer that doesn’t end with us melting.

A good walking track and yet more different scenery from this crazy country.

At Mount Doom we had seen a dormant volcano, but the next few days in Lake Taupo and Rotorua showcased the decidedly active geological side effects that come with this volcanic region, where the Earth’s crust is about as thin as it gets anywhere in the world.

The first clues were the strange cloud formations we could see from the car – looking like small patches of forest fires sending narrow plumes of smoke into the air. Only once we got close could we see clearly that there was no fire – just the earth smoking. Which is not at all normal where I come from.

We spent the night in a car park overlooking beautiful lake Taupo (prime real estate, for free!), and awoke to see the lake steaming as the sun came up. We took a walk to Huka Falls, a huge, thundering waterfall that gushes at an unfathomable rate. It definitely looked like a fun spot for white water rafting, though apparently others who shared that view never survived to tell the tale. Perhaps we’ll give that a miss.

On the way back, we were treated to a free spa in a geothermically-heated hot water stream that was visibly steaming as it flowed into the cooler river. It was wonderful, a lovely dip in a hot rock pool with mini waterfall. In the end, we couldn’t handle the heat and had to get out, feeling wonderfully spaced out and relaxed as we meandered back to the camper.

The next day took us to Rotorua and Te Puia, home to the biggest geothermal geyser in the world. We began at the beach for a little science experiment – we dug a little hole and, sure enough, it quickly filled with steaming hot water and gave off the most incredible stench. We’d been warned about the smell of sulphurous volcanic gases, which permeates the whole town, but I was surprised just how strong it was up close. Covering our noses, we backed away.

Our visit to Te Puia began with a Haka – a very slick performance of grunting, dancing, stick banging and thigh slapping, traditionally used as a war dance to psyche out potential competitors and as a warm up for the warriors. The main attraction at the park, though, is the geothermal landscape. It is bonkers. It looks like a movie set, complete with steaming earth, rock pools, mud pools and a giant explosive plume of water shrouded in its own huge clouds of mist. The mud pools are mesmerising, creating concentric circles that gradually grow into little mounds and then pop with a gentle splosh – like an advanced game of splat the rat, with little lumps forming all over the surface of the pool.

It took a lot of willpower not to slide in and enjoy a toasty mud bath. Joe kept a firm hold of my hand, given the mud holds the heat much better than the water pools and reaches 90+ degrees. I’d showered that morning though (yay!), so the enjoyment of being clean superseded my desire to play in the mud!

Paihia is the main entry point into the Bay of Islands, famed for beautiful beaches, turquoise waters and sporty activities that take advantage of those. The Bay of Islands was on our itinerary despite being a few hundred kilometres north of Auckland, which meant a big extra drive.

The weather was just beginning to turn against us for the last few days of our time in NZ, so on arriving at the Bay of Islands patchy rain and cloudy skies meant we didn’t quite get the spectacular impression that we might have. We pressed on regardless, and after speaking with another unhelpful chap at tourist information, hired a kayak for the afternoon to head out around a couple of the islands. Yes, nothing if not committed to exercise on holiday!

That was just the start of it. There’s also a nearby kiwi sanctuary, one of few areas of dense population in the wild – nice place for a walk. On a gate at the start of the walk was a notice warning of disruption from a half marathon taking place soon, on the paths in the sanctuary. “A half marathon? But we can run…!”

That was it. At fifteen hours notice, we decided to run a half-marathon through a kiwi sanctuary, before we’d even found out that there was to be a haka at the start.

Plans to party all night in Paihia with hordes of 17-year-olds who’d turned up for some pop gig were canned, and carb-loading began. Early night led to early morning, and as we woke the rain began to fall. What we found as the start line was brilliant – friendly and delightfully local. Kiwis seem to be in pretty good shape, by and large, and have a reputation for epic amateur sporting prowess. There was an awful lot of kit around branded with various running clubs from the area (Jo: “I don’t want to come last!”). Everyone seemed in pretty good cheer despite the looming rainclouds.

The haka was brilliant. Introduced as if it was totally normal (“are the haka guys ready yet?”), three men and two women leapt into action wearing the ceremonial dress and tattoos. It was not nearly as polished as the “cultural performance” we’d paid to see at the geological Disneyland, but so much more enthusiastic. The horn-like conch shells were in good voice and there was plenty of swinging of big sticks. The stamping feet were well served by the hollow stage, and the assembled runners gave a big cheer before heading out to the cold start line.

The first 10km passed in what felt like an instant. The start was flat, through the town on the road alongside the beach past where we’d rented our kayaks, over the hill to the next beach and back again to the start. There was plenty of banter from the runners about how lovely a day it was and it seemed pretty clear that no-one was taking it too seriously! I found my pacemaker, a woman who seemed to be twenty yards ahead of me no matter how hard I was running. The rain was crazy, and parts of the path went through deep puddles, steeplechase style. This was not going to be a fast time.

After the half-way mark we headed into the kiwi sanctuary. Being nocturnal they would all have been asleep (or at the very least hiding from the big running humans) so we didn’t see any. We were not on roads any more – narrow paths through dense forest, made very muddy from the rainfall and covered in rocks and tree roots, often with steep drops down hills off the side of the path. They had actually drafted in Search and Rescue personnel and stationed them along the route, though that did seem one step too far! This section felt really quick, though probably only because of the concentration required not to lose footing or catch an ankle.

To make up the total distance the organisers had thrown in an extra out-and-back along a road off the main course, a steep hill down to the shore and back up. Down the hill was fast, but you could see the effort etched on the faces coming back up the hill. Still, everyone who I ran past here had a big smile and shared a shout of encouragement or a high five.

The last few kilometres was all downhill, and I passed the line in about 1hr 56min, my slowest half marathon time. I blame the kiwis and the hills! After being handed a satsuma by a policeman on the finish line (!) and high-fiving my early pacemaker as she finished a couple of minutes later (ha!), I didn’t have long to wait for Jo at 2hr 17min. As she approached the finish I handed her the Union Jack that’s been adorning the inside of Barry, so she ran over the line looking quite the patriot! The ambush worked, and a guy with a microphone who was interviewing randomly-picked finishers and giving out extra prizes jumped towards her. A little chat broadcast around the finish area and Jo was the proud owner of some new running socks and a t-shirt that was for a different half marathon!

The sun came out for the afternoon so it was time to munch some well-earned cake.

The final drive was sad. I don’t think we had expected to become quite so attached to our campervan, but Barry has been such a big feature of the Honeyment and it’s sad to see him go.

We pulled into the depot near Auckland Airport, packed up all our things and emptied the van. We had one last celebratory Tim-Tam around the table, reminiscing about the acrobatics required to get up into the bunk-bed, how difficult it was to get up the hills and our morning coffees in the most beautiful campsites.

Barry was good to us, faultless (but for his little waste-pipe which had to be replaced in Wellington), and it was with a tear in our eyes that we bade farewell. Thank you, Barry!

Driving through New Zealand has been an absolutely wonderful experience. We’ve seen almost the entire length and breadth of the country, chugging along in trusty Barry the camper van, and in the process we’ve fallen in love with the place.

Everywhere you look the scenery is stunning. Not all of it is spectacular in the mountains and waterfalls sort of way, but the view changes dramatically from one place to the next. There are rolling hills covered in sheep, pastel-coloured hills behind a lake, a gorge with a roaring river and, yes, the snow-topped mountains. Sometimes the peaks are everywhere, sometimes it’s just one in an otherwise flat landscape.

We found ourselves trying to compare what we saw to other places we’ve been. Aside from places like the totally new geothermal fields of Rotorua most of our stops in NZ had similarity to somewhere in our own travel histories. The triumph of New Zealand is that it’s all here – the variety is preposterous. Sometimes the land looks like Shropshire, sometimes Switzerland. Sometimes it’s the Lake District, sometimes the Scottish Highlands. Driving all of it meant that we saw this huge variety in a compressed time, like a Bill Bryson tome on speed.

Over a mountain pass, or even just round a bend in the road, we’d encounter the next set of views. If the passenger was reading the guide book the driver would shout “Pretty!” as a lake comes into view ahead. Then you see the hills rising up to the sunset to the left. “Pretty!” again. Oh but now to the right are the snowy mountain tops, spread out off to the horizon – “Pretty!” Sometimes you just don’t know where to look. Too many pretty.

Four weeks back we were in Christchurch, and it felt relatively small and, in many respects, barely functioning. Wellington was bigger and felt like a town in its normal stride. Auckland brought us back to urban civilisation. It’s a much bigger and more lively affair with the usual array of shopping streets, arty precincts and Canary Wharf-lookalike areas.

As usual we started with a potter through the centre. It was warm! None of this freeze-your-bollocks-off two-jumpers weather to which we’d become accustomed. Pretty parks in the sunshine, plenty of shopping to keep Jo occupied for far longer than we’d have here, no shortage of coffee.

Auckland occupies a narrow spit of land with water all around it (there’s a walk through the city that traverses from coast to coast that’s only 16km long), and there are islands everywhere. Waiheke Island is a popular tourist stop easily accessible by one of the commuter ferries. We had a walk through the forest, some top notch ginger-beer-battered fish and chips and a potter along the coastal track.

Along the walk it seemed that we were getting a reprise of all the sights New Zealand had shown us along the way – there were steep stairs on the path (Mount Cook), big gusty wind (Mount John), vertical cliffs dropping into the water (Fiordland) and even a minature Mount Doom look-a-like island just offshore.

It wasn’t supposed to be a long walk so we had no food or water with us, and certainly hadn’t thought to bring the headtorches that we usually carried on bigger walks as a last resort. The sun was setting, and our last sight of a New Zealand sunset over the rocks out to sea (beautiful, naturally) was accompanied by the realisation that we were going to cut it fine to get back to the ferry with any light. As day faded to a moonless dusk we were edging along a road down to the coast, where the path was supposed to traverse the beach to the ferry terminal. Navigational failure had led us to the shortcut that is impassable around high tide, though we discovered this only when we reached the waves lapping against the rock face.

So it was that our last walk in this wonderful country finished along a road in almost complete darkness. You win, NZ!

We’re now more than three months through and well over halfway. We’ll be back home again before we know it, with only 6,000 photos (and counting) and a whole lot of memories to show for our adventure!

Month three has been pretty special, taking in the final days of (finally sunny!) Sydney and four weeks in beautiful New Zealand. We tried to get it down to five highlights, but there are just too many, so this month we’ve got the top 10. Here goes…

1. Epic walks – Fording rivers on the NSW Coast Track, crunching through snow at Mount Cook, dodging avalanche paths on Fiordland’s Routeburn and sliding on ice around volcanic Mount Doom. Hiking (or tramping) doesn’t get any better than this.
2. Beautiful views – Driving through stunning NZ scenery, and not knowing which way to look because it’s so pretty in every direction.
3. Barry the campervan – Our NZ home on wheels, freezing cold, slow up hills, laden with design flaws and a petrol gannet. But also a provider of countless giggles, beautiful sunrises and freedom to roam. Who needs showers anyway?
4. Heli-hike – Taking a helicopter onto the Franz Josef Glacier and donning crampons to squeeze through icy crevices.
5. Spontaneous half marathon – Running the Paihia Half Marathon on 15 hours notice, through a kiwi sanctuary, in the pouring rain. Because what better way to explore the Bay of Islands?
6. Hot stream – Enjoying a free spa in a steaming natural rock pool, thanks to geothermally-heated water in volcano country.
7. Milford Sound – Getting soaked under 200m waterfalls, in awe at the thundering power of nature.
8. Gore Town & Country Club – An unexpected night stop dancing with the locals, learning about paua and sleeping in the car park.
9. Christchurch – A city that responded to adversity with creativity, rebuilding from the 2010 earthquakes with an abundance of stylish shipping containers.
10. White-water rafting – Upholding our national honour at the head of a rubber dinghy, faced with a torrent of water and kiwi abuse.

After a frenetic few weeks in New Zealand, we figured Brisbane was our chance to kick back and relax a little. Alright, alright, I can hear the heckles already. Yes it’s a five month holiday, but it’s hard work getting up for all those sunrises, traversing all those beautiful landscapes, and being all-round intrepid explorers (!).

As soon as we landed, we knew we’d entered a new phase of our trip. Bye, bye chilly mornings and snowy mountains, hello sunny days and glorious beaches. The Sunshine State definitely lives up to its name.

In Brisbane we pottered, drank a lot of coffee¹, and, somewhat unexpectedly, salsa danced. We exhibited zero inherent talent, but it was rather fun! On Thursday nights, local nightspot Cloudland hosts free salsa lessons. After a minor diversion to a suburban part of town to visit Cloudland Apartments (not the right place), we found the slick bar, complete with chandeliers, bird cage bars and an array of indoor shrubbery. Undeniably jaw-dropping when you first walk in – it somehow managed to be completely over-the-top without looking over done. All praise to their interior designer.

Then, on Friday nights, Brisbane’s central square sashays to latin tunes as a hundred people display their fancy (or not-so-fancy) footwork a deux. After our practice-run in clubland, we got to show off our steps in front of the whole town. Fortunately, everyone was far too busy giggling at their own footwork to notice ours. Just as well.

Brisbane is a lovely place. It has all the features I look for in a city – water, hills, shops and bustle. It has all the good bits of any cultural capital – decent museums, theatre, music, events. Only it’s all scaled down and squished together into this wonderfully compact, liveable city. It oozes with normal life. Oh and the sun shines all the time. Even in winter. Take that Sydney.

We’re not beach people, really. Sitting around on the beach is fine for a while, and eventually it’s a bit boring. The Sunshine Coast promises sun, sand, sea and surf; the fun version of a day at the beach. When you imagine stereotypical Australia this is the image; golden sandy beaches stretching for miles, huge waves breaking ashore dotted with surfers and sparkling in the sunshine, the lifeguard post with toned men in red shorts (concentrate, Jo), red and yellow flags fluttering in the gentle breeze. The temperature display at the top of the Surf and Lifesaving Club reads 29, and they still have the audacity to call this winter.

We dragged ourselves away from the coffee to go for an easy run through the waves along the beach. On the way back we went into the water for a dip to enjoy being buffeted around by the big swell. Waves are fun! We hadn’t used enough suncream so looked quite the lame white British couple swimming in our t-shirts. We’re not really beach people.

This afternoon we had our first surfing lesson. The instructor was exactly who you would expect; thick accent, big energetic smile, bouncing around the beach and full of silly rhymes to remember what to do. If you’re tall you fall, if you’re low you’ll go go go! Derriere in the air! Surfing’s not all that difficult, until you’re in the water faced with metre-high waves breaking towards you and you have to remember a sequence of five or so steps to get up onto the board. Then it’s pretty tough. We both managed to get upright briefly, but not for long and not consistently. We’ll try again when the waves are a bit calmer, that must have been the problem. We’re not beach people, but what a cracking way to spend an afternoon.

It actually rained for some of the morning, providing brief respite from the glorious sunshine. There were the obvious moans that we’d brought the bad weather with us from England. Because we’re not beach people. Honest.

“Do not carry food. Do not store food. Do not leave backpacks unattended. Do not drop rubbish. Do not carry rubbish. Do not walk alone to the rubbish bin. Do not leave shoes and socks unattended. Do not run. Do not leave children unattended. Do not feed children to the wildlife. Do not feed the wildlife at all. Do not camp in unfenced areas without armed guards. Do not camp in fenced areas without a 4WD tank for your belongings. Always carry weapons. Do no harm.”

We alighted the boat with trepidation, uncertain what we might find. Our few sailing compatriots quickly dispersed into the undergrowth and we were left alone, surrounded by forest. We quickly found a spot to gobble down our breakfast, aiming to minimise the amount of food we had to carry. Seeing the warning signs all around, we transferred our sandwich meat into a plastic bottle, hoping to minimise the smell that might attract the native predators. Then, intrepidly, we ventured on to The Fence.

With the music from Jurassic Park playing in our heads, we looked quickly in all directions, listened out for signs of movement, and then opened the heavy wire gate and entered the dangerous terrain. As instructed, we picked up man-sized sticks that would be our best line of defence in case of attack. All senses alert, we walked up the sandy track, knowing that thick rainforest on either side would obscure our view of any potential threat until it was right upon us. A rustle in the distance stopped us dead in our tracks, our hearts pounding. Phew, it was just a bird fluttering the leaves. This time.

After 10km, the sun was hot and the sticks heavy in our arms. Having seen no danger so far, we decided to risk our picnic, though regretted the choice of very smelly chorizo as we munched quickly on our rolls, back to back, scanning the horizon. The final mouthful brought a sense of relief, as the risky manoeuvre was completed.

Soon, the track opened up into a beautiful paradise lake – crystal clear blue water set against pure white sand. We had made it to world famous Lake MacKenzie – one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Against all advice, we left our backpacks, boots and socks unattended on the sand as we went for a dip in the cool water, keeping one eye out for any sign of imminent attack. The coast was clear. Rejuvenated, we returned to the track and carried our sticks the long 10km trek home until we saw the glinting fence in the distance and picked up our pace to safety. The gate clinked shut behind us, we had made it back to safety!

Our experience of Fraser Island was ridiculous. Planning to go on foot rather than hire a 4WD as most tourists do, we could not get any straight advice from tourist information about the real do’s and don’ts. All we got were a series of warnings about the acute threat from dingoes, hyped in all the literature, on all signposts and in every conversation about a possible visit. We had expected to be immediately surrounded by the wild dogs, and ravaged if we made one foul move. The reality was rather more benign. We saw no dingoes at all and it turns out there are only 80 of them on an island 120km long, and it seems they’re mostly quite friendly.

In fact, we were probably in greatest danger on our night walk that evening, guided by a park ranger. After showing us a range of frogs and bugs, she started poking into a small spider’s hole. “Is it harmless?” I asked, nonchalantly. “No” she replied, as the spider jumped out of its hole at lightning speed to see what all the poking was about. We stepped back.

Disappointed by our lack of dingo sightings, we tried to find out more about the real level of risk. “How often do you get actual incidents of dingo attacks?” “I heard that one gave a little growl at someone last month, but no attacks that I’m aware of.”

I can’t help but feel the danger is overhyped. Beautiful island though.

Bundaberg is yet another single-purpose town, but it’s a good one – here they distill sugar cane harvested from miles around to make the world-famous Bundy Rum. While Jo had a coffee and newspapers (and cake) day in cafés in town I hired a bike for a few hours to venture out to the countryside and village-hop along the coast.

The bike is a good way to see an area; you can cover a lot more distance than walking and driving is too fast to get a feel for it. It was nice to linger at some of the many coastal lookouts along the way (not least because my current level of fitness leaves something to be desired…)

It’s very flat around, and fields of cane line up as far the eye can see, swaying in the wind. It was very much like the seas of vineyards in the south of France. There are railway crossings over the road all over the place, really narrow tracks used for carting cane that looks like some overly enthusiastic hobbyist has littered a toy train set all over the landscape!

That evening we engaged in a curious Aussie tradition, and bought a bottle of rum from a drive through bottle shop. Cars and liquor seems an odd combination; Bundaberg Rum and Bundaberg Ginger Beer that night in the campsite was much more of a classic.

Our first taste of the Great Barrier Reef was at Lady Musgrave Island in the southern reef. It’s a proper tropical island formed from washed up dead coral – known as a coral cay – and surrounded by shallow coral reef. As soon as we got close, we could see glimpses of colour speeding past under the water, offering clues as to the huge volume of life below the surface.

The deserted beaches are covered in coral fragments of assorted shapes and sizes, and dotted with twisted fallen tree branches from the rainforest interior, while clear turquoise waters lap at the shore. And of course, in the true spirit of Australia’s everything-can-kill-you fauna, we were quickly warned not to pick up any cone-shaped coral, lest we get fatally zapped by a tiny creature inside – for which there is no known anti-venom. I kept my flip flops on.

From a glass-bottomed trawler we got a clearer view of the fish and, excitingly, our first glimpse of green turtles just chillin’ on the coral in a little bath-shaped bowl – eroded by so many turtles choosing this spot for their R&R. These huge reptiles can live to be over 100 years old, though no-one really knows because many of the first turtles to be tagged and tracked are still going strong. One of them popped up to the shore to grab a breath of fresh air and say hello to the tourists – allowing us to see his grumpy face all the more clearly. They really do look like Victor Meldrew on a bad day. But they’re undeniably adorable nonetheless!

Knowing there were turtles nearby, we were eager to get our snorkels on and jump into the water for a closer look. Now, we have discovered from our travels that Australians are a bunch of total softies when it comes to the cold. And sure enough, every one of them paid extra to hire a wetsuit, even though the water was a balmy 22 degrees. Being the cold-hardened English that we are, we donned comedy snorkel and flippers and jumped straight in. Pah, that’s not cold if you’ve swum at Brighton.

I don’t think I’ve snorkelled since I was little, and then only in a vast empty sea, enthralled by tiny fragments of sand or pollution in the water. This was a very different experience. The first view was utterly spectacular, with schools of blue, pink, yellow and stripy fish swimming directly towards me, their mouths puckering open and closed. It was slightly unnerving being so completely surrounded by fish, initially unsure whether to be afraid of them, or afraid of hurting them. Splash, cough, splutter. I came to the surface with a mouth full of sea water. Fish can swim deeper than I can snorkel. Something I repeatedly forgot.

We explored further out across the reef, feeling like researchers for a David Attenborough documentary as bigger and brighter fish came into view. I could almost hear the voice-over. “The parrot fish is named for its bright colours and powerful beak, which it uses to rasp algae off the coral. The females are the dominant gender, able to transform into males if there is a shortage of eligible bachelors in town.”

We didn’t find Nemo, but we did see some of his fishy mates, and that surfer-dude green turtle. Nemo is still out there somewhere…

Iceberg is an absurd name for a boat. The company owns another two, called Blizzard and On Ice, and they sail around the toasty warm Whitsunday Islands. Name aside, it’s a hell of yacht – a 52-foot racer that came 16th in the stormy Sydney-Hobart race in 1993 in which two-thirds of the entries failed to finish.

Sailing is kind of a big deal up here. Behind the coral reef the coast is protected from the size of swell that surfers like further south. Airlie Beach, “the heart of the reef”, is the jumping off point for all manner of sailing trips, from day-long island cruises to multi-night party boats on which the sailing is … not quite the point. For us Iceberg was a lucky pick from the many on offer, that happened to sail on the right dates.

We set off early on the Saturday morning, six guests, skipper and deckhand, and were immediately relieved of our shoes – “here in the Whitsundays we sail barefoot!”. We met Tim, a German backpacker living the dream, travelling and working, and his father Mikhael, a German ice road trucker whose English was less good but whose infectious enthusiasm and fluorescent green beanie were admired by all; Emilie, a French power line engineer living in a German-speaking part of Switzerland; and Mikhaela, an Austrian student about to qualify as a doctor. The skipper, Mark, was a spitting image of a grinning Patrick Stewart, big hat flaring in the wind as he leaned the boat over at 45 degrees. The deckhand, Dave, seemed to do a bit of everything; running around the deck rigging sails, steering from time to time over the bigger waves (“let’s make her surf!”), as well as being our tour guide, chef and cleaner.

We started with a briefing that touched on the usual catastrophic but unlikely emergencies (fire, man overboard, abandon ship) but made clear the problem they was most concerned about was having to deal with a blocked toilet! We were also introduced to stinger suits that you wear while swimming in these jellyfish-infested waters. On realising the number of German speakers he told us about his favourite German word – when we come back in from the water, “hang your stinger suit on the kleiderbügel!”, he said, brandishing a coat hanger.

After motoring out of the marina it wasn’t long before we set sail, and we were each given bits to do, whether manhandling sails, winching ropes or steering. There was a constant background of Mark and Dave reminiscing about various sailing adventures they’d had, much like the sailors at college used to do when you let them talk about boats, ranging from a gentle cruise across the bay to crewing in six-metre swells in ocean races. A common pasttime was to laugh at other boats we saw who were doing something wrong – there are a lot of bareboat charters in the area, yachts hired without any crew by (allegedly!) experienced sailors. We saw one that had managed to lose its tender, the little rubber inflatable motor boat dragged behind that gives access to the beach or the reef, only to see it pulling a different coloured tender the next day!

The first stop was the famous Whitehaven Beach on Whitsunday Island, the largest island of the area. On the short walk through the forest, from a lookout we saw a stingray in the water from afar, another addition to our list of cool animals! The sand is fine, white and smooth; we were told that the sand is such pure silica that some was mined to make the lens for the Hubble telescope^{[citation needed]}.

Back on Iceberg (after putting stinger suits on kleiderbügels) we sailed on around Whitsunday Island, directly downwind. Dave was clearly enjoying himself tweaking the sails to get that little extra speed but bemoaned not having the competent crew required to deploy a massive spinnaker sail off the front of the boat. Even so we were really moving, spray flying everywhere. Eventually we calmed down, found our mooring spot, dropped anchor and settled in for a big dinner and an evening of star-gazing and tall sailing tales.

Sunday on our Iceberg trip was snorkelling day. The first stop, we were assured, is the best reef snorkelling in the Whitsundays. Anchored a little away from the reef itself we suited and masked up, went a little closer on the tender and jumped in.

The sensation of colour was even stronger than at Lady Musgrave. Fish were everywhere, darting around. There were the beaked parrot fish again, and I swear you can hear the scraping sound of beak on coral. There were schools of hundreds of blue fish whose sheen changed with the angle of the sun as they passed me. And then… we found him! Nemo and his family, three little orange and black clownfish keeping to their own little area of the reef. They’re really small, only a couple of inches long; I think Jo expected them to be much bigger.

There is much more variety of coral here. At Lady Musgrave most of it was brown and most was in the shape of either large balls or tangles of branches like reindeer antlers (there’s a northern hemisphere analogy for you!). Here there were bits that looked like clams, but purple and with blue trim. There were dark green plates, peach-coloured brains, swaying noodles, shrubs with vividly glowing bluish tips. Just like you see on the telly, but close up, magnified through the snorkel mask.

The second snorkel site was a reef just off a sandbank. Just as we were getting ready on Iceberg a turtle popped up near the boat for a breath – bingo! We knew that the area was visited frequently by turtles but the crew had been at pains to make clear that sightings weren’t guaranteed.

Even better followed in the water, as we quickly found a turtle sitting on the reef, a male (they have shorter tails). After a short while he floated up closer to us, and proceeded on a casual swim with snorkellers in tow – we were swimming with a turtle! He seemed quite content for us to float along beside, as he popped up for air once or twice. Then it seemed he’d had enough, and after one last breath he let out a massive poo and descended into the murky deeper waters. Life achievement unlocked: I’ve seen a wild green turtle do a poo!

In all the excitement the reef and fish were totally forgotten. In the current we’d drifted way off the reef and most of the way back to Iceberg. Just before getting out we had a turtle-eye view of the boat from beneath, the rudder and keel dropping a lot further down than I’d imagined.

And all of a sudden we were on the home straight. The wind had picked up again so the water was choppy, and as we sat on the high side of the angled deck, our feet were splashed with surprisingly warm water. We arrived back at the marina sunkissed, windswept and salt-encrusted – what a way to spend a weekend.

On departing from Iceberg Mikhael and Mark swapped their cool hats, green beanie for captain’s sun hat. In an attempt to join in the German I asked Jo the words for “great hat”. Perhaps my pronunciation wasn’t up to it. “Toller hut!” He looked very confused for a moment. “Perfekter kleiderbügel?”

As we approached the tropical north of Queensland the temperature was noticeably rising. Townsville is known, unfortunately, as the skin cancer capital of the world. A combination of the latitude and the hole in the ozone layer means that sun cream is a must from morning to night. We’ve used an awful lot of the stuff in Queensland, so hopefully we’re protected from the worst of the rays but precluding any possibility of tanning our white, white bodies.

We had a nice morning run along the esplanade in the city, past the danger signs warning of crocodiles and sunburn, before the heat became too much. This will go down as our least environmentally friendly exercise, given that we had to drive 10km each way to get there!

The main tourist draw here is Magnetic Island, home to the usual array of furry, slithery or toxic wildlife. Warnings about snakes around the paths reached us too late, so we hiked on in sandals. The island is not that big, but has a couple of decent hills in the middle. Pace was slow as we walked around anything that might harbour death, along the rocky and steep path. We didn’t see anything that might kill us (you never do until it’s too late), but did find a sleepy koala in a tree, our best fauna-hunting success of this couple of days.

We have long held the opinion that Australia is less than imaginative with its place names. Just about everywhere is named after a town in England: Newcastle, Paddington, Kings Cross, Epping, Cheltenham, Windsor, Surry Hills, Surrey Hills, Box Hill, to name but a few. Townsville provides a new multilingual take on this lack of originality. As if in self-parody, the central business district is called Townsville City. I mean, really.

North Queensland is beautiful. Miles of sandy beaches edged with palm trees, set against a backdrop of lush, hilly rainforest. It’s idyllic, almost. Since it’s Australia, the paradise is punctured by signboards describing the perils that may lurk in the water – “Warning! Achtung! Crocodiles inhabit these waters and may cause injury or death”.

We were hoping to get our first croc encounter on the drive up, which took us through the small town of Cardwell. The Lonely Planet practically describes streets lined with crocodiles, so we were pretty excited as we hopped out the car, listening out for the distinctive ticking of clocks and expecting to see hundreds of them sunbathing on the beach. We actually saw miles of pretty but deserted beach, and the locals laughed at our enquiries. Turns out you have to try a little harder than that to see crocs – though we wouldn’t be short on opportunities.

We ploughed on to our destination, the charming town of Port Douglas. Famous for reef trips, this lively resort town definitely caters to the more affluent end of the Oz tourist market. The ubiquitous backpacker hostels are still there, but nestled alongside a selection of independent boutiques selling ‘resort wear’, as well as restaurants decked out with fairylights.

We dined at the yacht club (naturally), and on the recommendation of our waiter we signed up for a lesson in stand-up paddle-boarding. It was described as a relaxing way of enjoying the scenery. However, we hadn’t factored in the crocodile warning signs on the beach. The first guideline definitely states, “Do not enter the water.” Um. That doesn’t sound good. The instructor offered considerable reassurance that “the water is way too cold for crocs, and they only head into the sea in mating season”, and pointed out the “wildlife check” ahead of us, consisting of two children, an instructor and a dog paddling up the shore, so we decided to proceed. We stayed downstream of the instructor as we entered the sea, and the fear of croc-infested waters was certainly a great motivator for staying upright. Once out in the deeper water, our concerns were forgotten as we focused on trying to wobble less and look a little more like elegant Pocahontas. There is definitely still work to be done on that front, but it was surprisingly easy, much simpler than surfing!

We spent the afternoon pottering around the lovely town centre in ‘proper’ holiday-mode, buying comedy hats and sunglasses, and popping a bottle of bubbly to watch the sunset. Followed by some more wine. And margaritas. And more wine… Port Douglas is fun.

Daintree is the oldest rainforest in the world, dating from when Australia was still part of the Gondwanaland supercontinent some 180 million years ago. It is also the largest continuous area of tropical rainforest in Australia, so it has plenty of worthy claims for its World Heritage listing. Our visit began at Mossman Gorge, and although it was swarming with tourists, it was impressive for its sheer scale. Essentially, it looked a lot like a gentle stream, criss-crossed with stepping stones – only it was enormous, with boulders taking the place of pebbles. We half expected to see a giant’s foot skipping across the stones.

Next stop was a cruise up the Daintree River to continue our croc hunt. It didnt take long. Within minutes, the boat pulled up right next to a crocodile lazing on the riverbank – easily close enough for it to jump up if it really wanted to. Our guide assured us that crocs are actually more the shy and retiring type, as he proceeded to tell stories of one that got curious and jumped aboard, resulting in a Crocodile Dundee-style wrestle and a black and blue torso from the whips of its tail. And another that was just ‘practising’ its show of aggression, in preparation for any rival dominant male trying to get in on his hareem. The training programme apparently involved sprinting to within a metre of its target (in this instance, the boat) and standing up to its full height, teeth laid bare.

That must have been pretty hair-raising for the tourists on those trips, but the crocs we saw looked fairly placid. The first was so still, with no external signs of breathing or blinking, that I was contemplating whether it was in fact a papier mache joke-croc, just to please the tourists (it wasn’t). Most of them seemed entirely indifferent to our arrival, though perhaps a little peeved that the wash from the boat was getting them wet as they tried to catch some rays.

After seeing adult crocs ranging from three to five metres in length, it was a surprise when the guide pointed out a baby amidst the mangroves. At five months old, I was expecting to see something about a metre big. Instead, if you looked really closely, there lay a teensy tiny little crocodile – more of a gecko really – sitting on a log. You forget that these huge creatures hatch out of eggs. They may be small, but they’re still pretty self-sufficient predators from a very young age.

After the excitement of the crocodiles, we headed on to Cape Tribulation “where the rainforest meets the reef”. After a spot of slow-motion rally-car racing along the windy roads, we hit the sandy beach with its picture-perfect backdrop of palm trees and tropical forest. Walking through, it was easy to spot the abrupt line where the rainforest turns into mangrove, bringing a distinctive shift in the plantlife.

It makes you realise just how clever nature is when you see some of the ingenious ways plants here have adapted to life in a flood zone. I am sure our friend and global mangroves expert Dan will correct all of this, but we saw trees that had huge roots to anchor them in soft mud and elevate them out of the water. We saw others whose roots act like snorkels, poking up above the waterline to breathe. There were others whose seed pods explode rather than simply dropping to the waterlogged ground, allowing the seeds to spread over the greatest possible surface area. Clever!

On the dark drive home, just as I was being lulled into a gentle snooze, Joe slammed on the brakes, but couldn’t avoid the huge rock in the middle of the ‘motorway’ – it turns out those ‘falling rocks’ signs aren’t kidding. The ker-thump, ker-thump from the front wheel signalled a flat tyre. Neither of us had every changed a wheel before. And the rental company’s support service was “experiencing a high volume of calls”. Just as we were contemplating giving it a go, a passing Australian asked if we needed a hand and we accepted enthusiastically. If you were to imagine an Aussie knight in shining armour, I think he would fit the description – huge arms, big smile and an air of total competence. He basically did the whole job singlehandedly, as we stood by feeling incredibly useless and passed tools on request. The wheel was changed in five minutes flat (unintended pun), it seems you get a lot of practice if you drive regularly on Queensland’s roads, and he seemed more than happy to help out and demonstrate a bit of Queensland hospitality. Thank you, Luke!

Dear Kate,

It’s great that you’re coming to join us for our spin through Hong Kong and Vietnam, and we’re very much looking forward to that last stretch of the holiday.

We thought now would be a good time to outline the conditions of your trip. I’m sure you’ll find them agreeable.

1. Guest blog – to be considered a member of the holiday party you’ll really have to get a by-line on the blog
2. Tour guide – you have excelled as our travel agent, so we’re excited to have our own personal tour guide show us around and provide us with interesting historical facts. You’ll need a colourful umbrella (also it’s monsoon season)
3. Jogging – you’ll join us for a morning run or two through the (hilly?) streets of Hong Kong, continuing our sporadic efforts at exercise
4. Karaoke – get your singing voice on, as is the local custom
5. Re-integration – we’ll need an independent third party to point out any socially unacceptable habits that we’ve picked up in four months on our own before we return to the real world

None of this is negotiable. Oh, you’ve booked the flights already? Then it’s a deal!

See you at the airport,

Joe and Jo x

Our second visit to Sydney was much sunnier than the first, though admittedly that’s a pretty low bar! Returning here it felt much more like we know how the city works; we weren’t so much exploring anew as coming back to a place we’ve lived. We strolled confidently onto the subway, knew the way to the hotel in advance and had our first running route planned from last time.

We were staying in the suburb of Surry Hills, where we’d drunk far too much wine on our first visit, in a hotel that happily fed our various addictions with coffee and sweets on tap in the lobby. There was even a continuous stream of people walking past with ice creams from a famous gelato parlour up the road (which, of course, we had to try).

Australians don’t handle the cold well, but also don’t seem to understand what cold really means. It was only down to maybe 15 degrees this week at the lowest, bright and sunny, and with the feel of early summer at home. Everyone was dressed in their winter gear – scarves, big coats, woolly hats – as we walked past in shorts and t-shirts! They mark the occasion of “winter” with glühwein and ice rinks (and seagulls!) at Christmas markets, and there are signs around cafes advertising hot soup! Bunch of pansies, the lot of them. Our rafting guide in New Zealand would not have been impressed.

With only a couple of weeks to go, it’s getting towards time to think about employment when we come back, to make sure that the next adventure is just as much fun as this one has been. So it was nice to start reawakening those parts of our brains that will come in useful for activities other than camping, eating and walking on the beach.

But before that we have our mini holiday-within-a-honeyment, two weeks in Hong Kong and Vietnam with a visit from Kate and sunny weather close to body temperature.

Eek. The Australian leg of our trip is over and it’s only a couple of weeks until we come home (sob)! Here are some highlights from our road trip through tropical Queensland:

1. Snorkelling the Great Barrier Reef – Getting up close to an underwater world of multi-coloured fish and spiky, brain-like or clam-shaped coral. It’s just how David Attenborough described it!
2. Sailing round the Whitsundays – Hauling ropes, befriending Germans and getting soaked under massive waves, while speeding past idyllic islands. Really must save up for a yacht.
3. Learning to surf – Trying to unearth my inner surfer chick on the Sunshine Coast. And failing. It’s harder than it looks.
4. Being Dr Doolittle – Feeding dolphins, stroking kangaroos, hunting for cassowaries, spotting crocodiles and hugging a koala – playing with Queensland’s varied wildlife.
5. Pottering in Brisbane – Returning to civilisation and warm weather after the NZ wilderness, and enjoying the small delights of a roof, showers, shopping and, er, salsa dancing.

One of the conditions of being allowed to join the Jo(e)s on the last leg of their trip was contributing to their blog. A grand honour. So here goes. I hope it makes it past the discerning editors.

Ha Long Bay is one of ‘the’ places to visit in Vietnam, listed in all the guidebooks, postcards and blogs and one of the main reasons we came to Hanoi. We’d been advised to go on one of the many overnight boat tours being touted on the bustling streets of Hanoi but time wasn’t on our side, so we plumped for a day trip – four hours there, four back, and four actually on a boat, being toured. And, despite all three of us being well-versed in outrageously long and uncomfortable bus journeys, we gave in to our somewhat middle-class (a sign of our age?) need for comfort and booked a tour bus with air conditioning and almost enough leg room. Travelling in style (the minibus, if not us) was a novelty we could quickly get accustomed to.

We set off bright and early with our guide, Hong, encouraging us to sleep for the first hour (I should mention at this point, “early” was 8:30 am. Not quite the crack of dawn.) However the views as we drove out of the city and into the countryside were too alluring to miss; first of the streets awash with motorbike dodgems, which we were slowly learning to navigate safely, and then the miles of watery paddy fields, being tended by farmers wearing the Jo(e)s’ favourite head attire – bamboo pointy hats.

Hong was an excellent guide, who explained he wouldn’t tell us all the facts and figures we could read online. Instead he gave us a history lesson (Vietnam was once half its current size, with a strong Chinese influence) and a language lesson. The latter was particularly welcome as we’d been trying to get to grips with the language, made up, as far as we could tell, of one-syllable words only. The longest we’d seen was just five letters. We learnt that intonation is key, changing the meaning of each word as needed. (This later led us to a lunchtime debate about language more broadly, including whether ‘embitter’ is a word. It is. We’re nothing if not cultured travellers. Or possibly just a little nerdy.)

The journey went faster than expected and we were soon approaching the bay, its horizon dominated by the iconic islands; round-topped, sheer lumps of limestone, somehow reminiscent of Kata Tjuta in the Australian outback. Each island is said to be the shape of a particular animal – dragon, hen, lion – although we struggled a little to see the resemblance. Perhaps it’s time for new specs.

We then boarded our boat and headed out into the Bay, where we ate a fish lunch before hopping, less than gracefully, into kayaks to get a closer look at the islands. It was a first for me, so Joe kindly (read: patiently) paired up and showed me the proverbial ropes (“maybe paddle a bit harder, Kate” read: at all).

We kayaked through some caves to an inlet, where the sheer scale and beauty of the islands became clear. And of course gave us chance to race against Jo, take silly photos and shout to see how much echo we could get. We were clearly the noisiest group on our tour. I’m sure our fellow passengers loved us.

We then went on a walk through a huge cave complex, full of stalagtites (reminding us of school geography lessons: stalagtites grow down like tights on a washing line, stalagmites might one day meet them.) Hong showed us the different elephant-shaped stalagtites, which even our limited imagination could make out, and a series of three showing the story of Aladdin- the lovers meet, he is banished, the genie rocks up (pun intended). Funny, as the complex did have touches of Disneyland about it, the caves lit somewhat unnecessarily with multi-colour lights, which bugged Jo in particular.

And then it was time to head back to Hanoi. The Bay is beautiful, the islands other-worldly and nothing like hills or mountains we’re used to. They are serene as a collective yet their sheerness makes for a hostile appearance. They are also a reminder of just how remarkable nature is. Which put us firmly in our place and finally ready for a snooze on the journey back.

BEEEEEEP, Toot, Toot, swoosh, Brum, Brum, whoosh, whoosh, toot, TOOOOT, orange, blue, red, whoosh, toot, green, pink, beeeeeeep. The first step out of our hotel in Hanoi was utterly overwhelming - instantly terrifying and exciting. We were greeted by a cacophony of noise and colour as thousands of motorbikes weaved their way through market stalls, street sellers, signposts and dumbstruck tourists.

Crossing the road was like a crystal maze test of confidence, team work and timing, as you realise the traffic definitely isn’t going to stop for the zebra crossing. Or for the red light. Or for you as you step onto the tarmac. We soon realised that edging forward – determinedly and consistently – was the only way to make any progress, trusting the traffic to swerve around our path. Fingers crossed… There was an audible sigh of relief each time we made it to the other side.

Looking around the town, it soon became easy to spot the tourists who had just arrived, looking completely ambushed by the chaos, versus those hardened travellers who had already mastered the traffic system. By day two we were feeling pretty smug about our skills, as newbie tourists crossed the roads in the safety of our shadow.

The traffic wasn’t the only hazard to overcome in Hanoi. It didn’t take long to encounter our share of would-be-scams:

1. A Vietnamese-American man offering to share, and pay for, our taxi from the airport – it may have been a friendly gesture, but the cynical side of me thinks it was more likely a con.
2. A taxi attempting to drop us off at a fake hotel, as a man with a clip board and a decidedly home-made hotel sign suggested we’d reached our destination. We hadn’t – Thank you GPS.
3. A cafe owner returning the wrong change by a factor of 10 as we broke a large note to pay for our coffees.

You certainly have to keep your wits about you round here! Fortunately, we were armed with the wisdom of Google and the Lonely Planet plus a natural tendency to be distrusting.

The final assault to the senses was the heat – hitting 40 degrees and about 95% humidity. It isn’t the same burning heat as Arabian summers, but my word is it sweaty. We were a sticky, drippy, frizzy mess within seconds of stepping outside, consuming large bottles of water like a life-supporting IV drip. With regular stops for ice-cream, obviously.

Once you get past the craziness, Hanoi is an undeniably unique and throbbing city. I loved the colourful streets and unending bustle – it’s intoxicating, addictive even.

We had anticipated Vietnam would be similar to Cambodia, and whilst that was certainly the case, there was a striking difference in the relative prosperity. Crossing the road in Siem Reap was tricky because a hundred tuk-tuks zipped around, with no obvious signs of lane discipline. Here, it was motorbikes and 4x4 cars. Cambodia’s infrastructure was dirt roads. Here, it was proper motorways and bitumen, not to mention the odd tree-lined French-influenced boulevard. Vietnam is clearly a few years ahead of Cambodia in its tourism economy, and noticeably more developed, but still retains the charm (and fairy lights) that we loved there.

Nonetheless, after two hectic days in Hanoi, we were looking forward to the promise of calmer roads in Hoi An. Or at least we hoped that was where we were going, as our ‘tour guide’ Kate kept using the two town names interchangeably…

Hoi An felt like a huge relief after the sensory abuse of Hanoi. After our early flight south to Danang near Hoi An (think the RyanAir school of airport locations) we were picked up from the airport quickly by a hotel driver, who seemed much easier to trust than his shifty counterparts in Hanoi. We were worried for a moment when the taxi was pulled over by a police officer, but after a hasty exchange of documents (large-denomination documents) all was well again. “It’s only money”, he said with a wry smile once we’d sped off.

The hotel was a little haven of calm. We were offered cold flannels before we even got to the door, rapidly followed by coffee, juice and the full buffet breakfast. The grin on Jo’s face was tempered only by the intake of corn flakes.

Off to potter. Hoi An used to be an important port, a hundred years ago or more, until the river silted up and trade moved downstream to Danang. These days the town is basically a tourist attraction. It’s pretty, it’s got a fun market and plenty of temples to see, and tailors in which to while away whole evenings trying on dresses. The pace was much slower.

The markets were just as we saw in Cambodia, at least in Siem Reap. Most of the stalls were selling the same collections of bowls, chop sticks, table mats and pointy hats. The tailors, too, all had similar clothes on show, but at least there there’s a slightly more interesting interaction than “please buy something”. Over the course of our three days here we spent a lot of time picking fabrics, trying on samples, getting measured, changing minds, and eventually buying a load of perfectly fitting clothes for about a tenner an item. I’m not normally big into clothes shopping. Jo’s normal tactic to keep me entertained involves regular provision of cake, but it only works for a short time. This was quite a different experience, of course, actually quite enjoyable chatting to the locals!

The food in Vietnam had been consistently excellent. It also didn’t seem to matter what we paid, $3 or $12 for a dish, it was all ever so tasty. There were obviously similarities with Cambodian food but it did seem a step better here, in line with the country being more developed in every aspect. Anyway, one of the must-do touristy activities here is cooking lessons, where we got to learn how to cook some local dishes. First stop was the market to buy the ingredients, and we each had a wicker basket to carry a share of the goods. Among my cargo was the prawns, which were definitely still wriggling in their little bag. We watched as meat was expertly carved on cardboard, with apparently little worry about contamination. At least they don’t serve meat rare here! The lady chopping fish apart did so with sufficient gusto to cover Kate’s legs in sticky juice, while others kneeling nearby preparing vegetables were protected by the big hats.

We travelled out of town for the rest of the lesson, on a boat down the river. Our guide from the market had suddenly changed into gleaming white chef’s clothes, and we got started! Steaming pots of beef stewing away, peanut satay sizzling, tasty goodness all round. The Vietnamese definitely don’t hold back on their herbs, piling them in. We might have to adopt that back home.

The thing we couldn’t escape was the heat, and the humidity that sapped your energy all day. By the end we could pretty reliably negotiate three big bottles of water for around 45,000 dong, just through having so much practice. We dived into a coffee shop for some respite at one point and found that, yes, pretentious coffee has found its way even here! Full-on science kit coffee was not expected here, and the baristas wearing hipsteresque cool hats was a lovely finishing touch.

Sadly it’s time for my holiday with you two to come to an end. Thanks for having me along for the ride – it’s been ace!

However, before I head off, I think it’s apt to check in on the Ts&Cs you set me upon joining you. So have I met them? Here’s my take:

1. Guest blog. Tick. Two, if you include this. Double tick.
2. Tour guide. Hmmm. I’ve read you informative sections from the guidebook, managed the kitty for at least a day and suggested some fun activities. Does this count? Tick (Let’s not focus on the finer points like the train that couldn’t be booked, and the half-day trip that needed a day. Mere details. So I’m a tour guide who doesn’t like details.)
3. Jogging. Substituted with kayaking, cycling and waking. Tick, IMO.
4. Karaoke. We haven’t had the chance. But I have serenaded you on many an occasion with a least one correct line from a number of hits of today and yester-year. Tick, surely?
5. Reintegration. See separate blog. No tick.

I hope you’ll agree I did ok. Under the circumstances.

So now I’ll bid you farewell – I’ll look forward to seeing both you back in the smoke and in the meantime have an amazing last couple of days of your honeyment.

Kate x

On arrival at Hong Kong airport, the Jo(e)s looked just like the couple I’d waved goodbye to in the UK, four months previously, albeit a little bit tanned.

However, throughout the subsequent days of our holiday I discovered new things about my friends. Were these latent, hitherto hidden habits? Or behaviours learnt after months of travelling, often hungry and homeless, out in the wilderness with only small mammals for company? Or, perhaps traits of other cultures, observed and learnt anew?

One of the Ts and Cs of my being allowed to join the Jo(e)s was the reintegration test – I am to point out any “socially unacceptable habits” in order to ensure they return from their honeyment able to rejoin British society. Therefore I feel duty-bound to recount what I discovered, lest it creep into their UK life and hinder their social progress.

So here goes:

• Saving up bottles of water (and even just bottles for water) for flights, long walks, or possibly the apocalypse
• Obsessive compulsive muesli bar eating disorder (OCMBED) for the curing of the hanger
• Saving tissues, presumably for use as kindling, again during the apocalypse
• Occasionally dressing the same. For no discernible reason

Although now I come to think of it, these are all habits that could come in handy back in the UK. On tube journeys, for example. Or picnics. Or for wardrobe space-saving. And I guess I should confess I’ve on occasion been struck by OCMBED. So perhaps I’ve failed the reintegration test. As the saying goes, if you can’t beat them, join them.

We were met as promised at Hong Kong airport by our new travel buddy Kate, waiting at arrivals and brandishing a lovingly handcrafted sign: “The Jo(e)s”. Freebies for tourists were thrust into our hands (ferry ticket, useful; fridge magnets, presents) and we grappled with our latest currency to get onto the train to town. We flew to Vietnam the very next day, saving our main stay in HK for the last week of the honeyment.

Hong Kong seems to work pretty efficiently, and we saw many similarities with Singapore. But once your armpits adjust to the heat the thing you notice is the quantity of people. Everywhere, packed on to the pavements, and it wasn’t even rush hour. In London we’re used to Oxford Street being rammed, but that doesn’t extend to every street in the city. It was mad.

Similarities and contrasts with Singapore are both easy to find. For an Englishman new to the east, the most obvious is the Chinese tradition; red and gold everywhere, lanterns, temples with golden statues never far away, and the creepily ubiquitous presence of those waving cat statuettes. Hong Kong feels as though it has developed much more organically, Singapore more as a planned process. Singapore was a mix of its constituent cultures, Hong Kong more of an established single tradition.

We spent most of our time on Hong Kong island. We stayed in the Mid-Levels, a neighbourhood built on the side of a pretty steep hill. There’s even a system of escalators and overhead walkways to get around the area without having to climb too many hills, though it took us our entire stay here before we were able to navigate it successfully. The Mid-Levels is a crazy mix of high rise housing (all of the housing in HK is high rise), small niche shops (big antiques scene) and a chunk of the island’s nightlife, all overlooking the higher-rise business district at the bottom of the hill.

The result of this excess of high-rise buildings is a magical skyline. The best view is to be found on the Star ferry that crosses to the mainland (for the princely sum of 20p a go!). The view is quite incredible, both day and night, mostly because of the sheer scale. All of the buildings are huge, along the whole visible coastline and for many blocks back from the coast. Some are pretty, some are just concrete blocks, but when there are so many it just doesn’t matter! Behind them all Victoria Peak rises up, often with a crown of clouds, giving a great backdrop to it. Kate squealed with delight and bounced around the ferry when we saw it for the first time!

We walked around Victoria Peak on one of the many hot, sweaty days, invigorated by the electrolyte drinks sold everywhere and the temptation of ice cream at the finish. Not far from our hotel in the Mid-Levels was the lower end of the Victoria Peak funicular railway, one of those Victorian era attempts at tourism that has remained and prospered. We arrived early, to an empty station, and had a ride up the hill in a nearly empty carriage; spacious isn’t quite the right word though, the seating was definitely not designed with tall peoples’ legs in mind. We walked up to the top of the hill, which has pretty good views over the bay and some of the other islands of Hong Kong, and then on a sort of tour through the forest below the peak. It was what you might call an urban forest; definitely green, but you could constantly hear the air conditioning units on the big hospital building down hill, and the chatter of horns from container ships in the bay. Another similarity with Singapore – it doesn’t really have countryside!

The one place we found with a slightly slower pace of life was the island of Lamma. If you ignore the massive power station on the coast and the too-dirty-to-swim water, it’s a lovely little island, with the distinguishing feature of having no cars at all. The local businesses use these tiny little quad-bike-esque things with trailers to move around, but it’s otherwise a pedestrian’s world.

We did find one cafe providing really good pretentious coffee, but it turned out to be run by a bunch of Australians, from Melbourne no less, and using beans roasted in Melbourne! We should have known.

We ended the honeyment in style, thanks to a very generous gift from my aunt Janet – afternoon tea at the Mandarin Oriental! This seems to be something of a colonial tradition, marvellously well executed. We had the tea for two with champagne (of course) and were presented with a three-tier cake stand full of tasty little things. The pieces were individually quite small, but didn’t feel it once we’d eaten ten of them! After two hours we stumbled out again, feeling like we’d eaten our month’s cake quota in one setting. Thanks, Janet!

We’re home! I can’t believe it’s all over already, but what an amazing trip! Some final highlights from month five…

1. Jo, Joe & Jones – Bonding over sweaty knees, regular meals and laugh-til-you-cry moments. Our new travel buddy Kate was an excellent addition to the team. Though I’m not sure it helped with our reintegration to normal society – turns out she’s just as weird as we are.
2. Kamikaze road crossings – Ignoring everything we ever learnt about waiting for the road to clear before crossing, in Hanoi we had to take a leap of faith into the path of oncoming traffic, staring determinedly in the hope that Jedi mind powers would kick in and convince the drivers to swerve around us.
3. Cooking, Vietnam style – Learning to cook delicious Vietnamese dishes with about eight times as many herbs and spices as I’d ever consider at home. Who knew that six cloves of garlic is not too many cloves of garlic? No vampires in Vietnam.
4. HK skyline at night – Watching the city light up into an unending metropolis of colourful skyscrapers, while Kate ran around the deck of the Star Ferry, squealing with delight.
5. Tea at the Mandarin Oriental – Making like an expat and enjoying a spot of afternoon tea under sparkly chandeliers. Because there is no such thing as too much cake. Especially not on this trip.

Ways in which Jo coped admirably well:

• Coping with Dirt. Some of the hole-in-the-floor toilets in campsites in New Zealand were just awful. Miles from the nearest human, often in the absence of any of the usual infrastructure of civilisation she embraced dirt and alcohol hand gel in equal measure. I would never have imagined that we’d go five days without a shower, but with some creative application of baby wipes she coped admirably well.
• Coping with Driving. We covered somewhere in the region of 8000km over about seven weeks of driving, including along the Great Ocean Road, in Kylie through Queensland and our special camper van Barry. She parked the car all by herself and even emptied the waste water tank once!
• Coping with Joe. She kept me well fed despite hunger tantrums (“give me Tim-Tams!”), didn’t seem too concerned by my hoarding of water supplies and didn’t mind my small obsession about the angle of the parked camper van (have to be flat to sleep!).
• Coping with lack of a plan. A lot of the trip was planned on the hoof. We usually had an outline of a timeline but had kept the schedule quite open. On the larger scale we didn’t know even what country we were going to live in after returning to the northern hemisphere. She coped admirably well with all this uncertainty.

One night we stayed in a particularly basic campsite in Fiordland, in wild southern New Zealand, when it was pitch black outside, nearly down to freezing and just about manageable with three jumpers, a blanket and am emergency cup of hot orange juice. After a visit to a particularly traumatic example of the facilities at these remote sites she returned to our chilly van looking slightly lost for words, and eventually exclaimed… “Honeyment!” It was despair, horror and desperation (we should be in a posh hotel by a beach!) mixed with a note of delight that we’ve done this adventure instead of the perhaps easier choice of the luxury romantic break. Yep, definitely adventure and not just despair.

One Honeyment, one incredible adventure:

We timidly tasted food from Hawkers with questionable hygeine ratings in Singapore, only to discover these were like surfaces out of a Mr Muscle advert compared to places we would eat in Cambodia a week later.

We pretended to be Indiana Jones discovering lost temples and deserted forests, singing the theme tune all the way.

We walked on the moon and battled pesky flies, and stared out at incredible sunrises and starry night skies.

We saw the cricket world cup final, got confused at Ozzie Rules football, and taught Joe the appeals of netball.

We danced in the street, joined a BMF class, cycled a tandem, kayaked and surfed, did aerobics on a river bank and ran a half marathon through a kiwi sanctuary.

We traversed snow-topped mountains, giggled in the top bunk, and pushed trusty Barry up some very steep and windy hills.

We defended our national honour in a rubber dingy, took a chopper to explore a glacier, and entered croc-infested waters.

We swam with dazzling fish, followed turtles, watched chubby penguins, bathed baby elephants, fed kangaroos, played with dolphins, cuddled a koala and spotted a tiny, little (deadly) spider. We never did see a dingo.

We inhaled thundering waterfalls, traversed unexpected rivers, and sailed round one of the most beautiful places on earth.

We drank spectacular coffee, visited colourful markets, had pretentious picnics, rustic barbecues, and learnt to cook Vietnamese-style.

We battled epic storms, gusting winds and icy cold, while Harry and Barry kept us dry, and eight jumpers, two blankets and a glass of fine wine kept us warm.

We drank wine in the sunshine, got sweaty knees on hot hikes, and wore so much sun cream we came home with paler skin than we started with. But with big smiles and a mountain of happy memories.

When shall we do it again?