My parents infected me with the travel bug when I was young, 8 years old to be exact. They procured an old bedford school bus and renovated it into a mobile home for 6, with the help of my handyman come comedian grand-father. We proceeded to lurch around Australia for 4 years according to the whims of mechanical failure, the restrictions of finance, the educational needs of kids and teenagers and the rather divergent views of what to see and not to see.

During this time, as a requirement of our educational curriculum we were required to keep a diary. They still exist. On review, it was confirmed that the daily thoughts of an 8 year old are about as enthralling and insightful as attacking a termites nest with sticks. Lots of dust but very little of consequence. Furthermore, I still can’t spell and so the educational benefits were dubious.

Nevertheless, when I set off to kayak around the Alor islands of Indonesia in 2002, writing a diary seemed a natural thing to do. In 2005, when I set off for the UK and Canada a diary seemed incredibly old-fashioned and so I started this blog instead. It received a much needed boost of inspiration in 2011 when I set of to travel by motorbike from South East Asia vaguely westward towards the UK.

5 more years on, and after an extended stint in Africa I’m now in Europe. The route here was entirely unexpected, and the last few hundred kilometres may take the longest.

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