Farmer humour at Blakelaw Farm, just north of Bellingham (click to enlarge)

Written on 3 July 2003, 6 years ago.

If this section was sold to people as a self-contained day walk, then I'm pretty convinced that nobody would bother to do it; the only reason I can imagine why anyone would drag themselves out of bed to walk from Bellingham to Byrness is because it's part of the Pennine Way, and once you've come this far north, you might as well finish the bugger. The journey is completely without merit and it's just one more reason why I'm delighted to be leaving the Pennine Way tomorrow; I've really had it with this bloody track.

It's not the physical difficulty of the Way that's got to me; I'm able to cover 15 miles a day reasonably easily, and even with the uphill climbs and swampy bog, a day this long is now pretty routine. The thing that gets to me is the sheer stupidity of walking through this kind of terrain in the first place; today started with more depressing moorland and it finished with a long and very tedious walk along forestry roads, through the soulless man-made pine forests of Kielder.

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Shadwell Basin (click to enlarge)

Written on 3 July 2008, 1 year ago.

My original plan for this tubewalk didn't include the East London line, as it was closed in December 2007, and when it re-opens, it won't be part of the Tube network any more (it's going to be extended and included as part of London Overground instead). So I happily ignored it when planning my route, and thought nothing of it until someone posted to a London Underground blog saying that until it re-opens, the East London line is technically still part of the Underground, as London Underground is running a replacement bus service, thus effectively keeping the line open. So, here I am, walking the East London line, much to my surprise.

Truth be told, I was quite pleased to have to shoe-horn the East London line into my schedule, as this line contains the oldest section of railway in the whole network – the bit that goes under the Thames between Wapping and Rotherhithe, through the Thames Tunnel. The only reason that the East London line isn't regarded as the first underground railway is that the Sir Marc Brunel's Thames Tunnel originally catered for pedestrians only. The tunnel – which dates from 1843, some 20 years before the Metropolitan line opened – didn't carry trains until 1869, some six years after the Metropolitan line became the first subterranean railway.

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Our welcome in Makemo (click to enlarge)

Written on 2 July 1997, 12 years ago.

The trip from Amanu to Makemo was another ocean passage, and this time surely the unkindest. The wind was good, the sea was calm and the seasickness relatively under control, but on the second day I was knocked down by another problem: food poisoning. I threw up every fifteen minutes for about five hours, starting at 6am, and to add to the pleasure my guts decided to do a convincing impression of a milk shake maker. Both ends thus ruined, I survived on glasses of water and staying above deck, running over to the side to retch on an empty stomach, and shooting down below in that race-against-time otherwise known as Delhi-belly. The trip only took two days, but it dragged on for eternity as far as I was concerned. I spent most of the second day sleeping, with the captain masterfully sailing the boat himself. Finally we sighted Makemo and its large navigable pass.

We entered the pass, and tied up to the pier (mainly because when we left Amanu the electric anchor winch fell to pieces, meaning we had to haul in the anchor by hand until it could be fixed). On the pier, though, there was precious little privacy, and every few minutes we'd hear a muted 'Hello? Bonjour?' down the hatch as we tried to snatch a little sleep on the now stationary boat. After a couple of hours' I gave up trying, and invited the locals on board.

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Windshields Crags (click to enlarge)

Written on 2 July 2003, 6 years ago.

Back in 122 AD when the Emperor Hadrian built his eponymous wall, Haltwhistle was at the very edge of the Roman Empire. The tribes in the north had driven the invading Romans south to this point, and the wall was a way of consolidating the northern border of the empire and stopping any further incursions. However, one can't help wondering whether your average Mediterranean soldier actually wanted to go any further north anyway, for in the rain that so often strikes the north of England, Hadrian's Wall is a truly dismal place.

It's not fair of me to criticise Northumberland when all I've seen of it is mist, midges and mud, but today I couldn't shake off a strange feeling of foreboding. The last time I was at Hadrian's Wall it also rained, and I sat in the pub at Once Brewed and drowned my sorrows at being beaten by the Pennine Way while the wind lashed the windows and made me only too happy to leave. This time things are different – I'm still able to walk, for a start – but the rain's still here, the skies are still grey and the outlook is still dreary. It's a shame; it'd be great to see Hadrian's Wall in sunshine for once.

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The spotless Sikh museum at the Golden Temple in Amritsar (click to enlarge)

Written on 1 July 1998, 11 years ago.

As pupils in school history classes we barely touched upon colonialism, an amazing omission given the importance of the British Empire in the continuing arrogance of the English abroad; if we did study it, it was only to mention British successes (such as the Battle of Plassey, the explorations of Captain Cook and the glory of Hong Kong) or to paint a vivid picture of the hardships forced upon us by the conquest of the developing world (such as the Black Hole of Calcutta, the Zulu wars and the exploration of North America).

But the British abroad were hardly angels; one only has to read Orwell's Burmese Days to see a different side to the glory of Victorian England and her supposedly benign influence on her subject countries. I am constantly surprised by how biased my education was; I expect such a thing to happen in countries with oppressive and dictatorial regimes, but in Britain, the Land of Hope and Glory, the inventor of parliamentary democracy, the epitome of fairness and high morals? I've begun to explore the other side of the coin, and it's an ugly story. I was fed propaganda at school.

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The signal box at Alston (click to enlarge)

Written on 1 July 2003, 6 years ago.

The section of the Pennine Way from Alston to Greenhead is generally accepted to be a complete and utter waste of time. Even fans of the Way don't think much of the zigzagging track that plods across farmland and boggy commons; I know this because Barry, my fellow End-to-End walker from Street and Bewdley, turned up at Alston Youth Hostel last night and he doesn't have one good thing to say about the Alston-Greenhead walk. When I did it back in 2000 I hated it; my knees hurt from the descent of Cross Fell and when I walked I compensated so much for the pain that I ended up damaging the tendon in my right foot. I didn't know it as I slogged through the bog into Greenhead, but that was to be my last day on the Way; I woke up the next morning unable to walk and I had give up and return to London. I wasn't sad, as by this time I'd had quite enough of the idiocy of the bloody Pennines, but it left a deep impression, an impression that when the Pennine Way wants to suck, it sucks hard.

That's why I didn't touch the Pennine Way with a barge-pole today, and the sense of relief is palpable. The skies opened yesterday as I enjoyed a rest day in Alston, and they stayed open all day today as well; rain turned into showers and then downpours before a steamy respite, but I didn't mind too much because the track I took, the South Tyne Trail, turned out to be a motorway.

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Crossing the Thames in Putney (click to enlarge)

Written on 1 July 2008, 1 year ago.

There were two themes to this walk today: the first was money, and lots of it; and the second was sun, and lots of it. Both of them are quite exhausting when stretched out along an entire 12.5-mile walk, but wow, the photographs are really something, especially when you consider that in this fierce sunlight, I've only been able to take north-facing pictures for most of the day.

I was joined for the Wimbledon to Fulham Road section of today's walk by Jez, a mate of mine from university days whom I haven't seen for years, and as always, company made the miles fly by. I almost felt guilty stopping us in our tracks to take yet another photograph, but the architecture of southwest London is simply stunning, and it would be a crime not to capture it under such perfect blue skies. I've walked around this part of London quite a bit, but I've never connected all the different parts into one walk, and I can safely say that walking from Wimbledon to Edgware Road is an education in desirable residences that comes as a bit of a shock after walking the eastern end of the District line. Wimbledon and Upminster might be connected, but you'd never guess it.

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Just one of the reminders near the Nanutarra Roadhouse that the wet season is very wet indeed (click to enlarge)

Written on 30 June 1996, 13 years ago.

I reached the Nanutarra Roadhouse before dark. While the rain poured down I put up my sodden tent – with a little help from a neighbour in a campervan, who was from Geelong and had spotted my Victorian number plate, bless him – and cooked myself some pasta, before finding shelter outside the roadhouse café.

Roadhouses are strange places. Like airports, they're transit stations: nobody stays at roadhouses longer than they have to, and they're normally totally isolated. Truckers make up the bulk of the roadhouse trade, and as such these places manage to take the most bizarre qualities of European truck stops, double the prices, add some serious isolation, and come up trumps. You meet some interesting people at roadhouses, for sure.

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The effect of tourism is obvious in places like Dharamsala, where piles of plastic bottles litter the hills (click to enlarge)

Written on 30 June 1998, 11 years ago.

One thing I find hard to tolerate in the long-term traveller is the sense of the past always being better than the present. I am constantly meeting people who harp on about how excellent Goa used to be before all the tourists arrived, and how Manali used to be just a couple of huts before the hotel builders turned up. It's faintly depressing, and makes me wonder why on earth these people keep coming back to places that have been 'destroyed'.

It's hypocrisy of the first degree. These people lament the coming of the backpacker age, harping back to the sixties and seventies when you had to drop out of society to get on the trail: these days easy air travel and a more relaxed attitude to the concept of 'career' means everybody with a little bit of motivation can hit the Asian trail, even if you don't want to hang around in an ashram and dig Ganesh. But who's responsible for the tourist invasion? It's the people who are at the forefront of the invasion, the vanguard of the tourist attack: the explorers. The nostalgia addicts rant at the Lonely Planet, blaming every spoiled place on their proliferation of the facts, but guess who started the Lonely Planet? Vanguard travellers...

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Upminster Park (click to enlarge)

Written on 30 June 2008, 1 year ago.

Well, I really wasn't expecting to enjoy this walk as much as I did. I mean, look at the facts. It's the Monday after a heavy weekend, and I should have a personal black cloud over my head; it's a long commute to the start of this walk from west London; it's hot and humid, and I hate hot and humid; and, most of all, the heart of this walk goes through Dagenham, and all anyone ever talks about when I mention Dagenham is the closure of the Ford factory in 2002, and they don't tend to smile as they mention it.

But it turns out that this is a great part of the world to explore on foot, especially when the sun is out, because this is zone 5 and 6, and it feels like it. The Metropolitan line equivalent is the stretch from Harrow to Moor Park or the section through Ruislip, and for walking, the two ends of the capital compare favourably... and that, I guess, is the real surprise. Perhaps west London simply has better public relations people, because I didn't see this coming at all.

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Yardie Creek, home to great views and the rare black-footed wallaby (click to enlarge)

Written on 29 June 1996, 13 years ago.

The North West Cape juts out northwards into the Indian Ocean like an extended middle finger on the top-left tip of the mainland. There's one town, Exmouth, which used to be an American naval base and looks like it, and bugger all else except Cape Range National Park. If you're going up the Cape you have to follow the road that goes up the east side, passing through Exmouth and curling round the end of the Cape before finally coming down the west side and stopping at the southern end of the Park. There's nowhere else to go: to get back, you have to retrace your skid marks. Perhaps that's why it's so beautiful.

Cape Range has some of the most stunning beaches you're likely to see, as well as a few interesting gorges such as Mundu Mundu and Yardie Creek, which aren't on the same scale as the monsters of Kalbarri or Karijini, but are pleasant to explore nonetheless. I camped just behind South Mundu Mundu Beach, a spot where the only amenity was one bin. There was absolutely nothing else – no toilet, no camping sites as such, no water: no nothing – and after Coral Bay, it felt like I'd found paradise. After driving through some very strange sights, such as the hundreds of termite mounds surrounding the road – I thought I was back at the Pinnacles for a moment – the serious rain I'd been dodging on the way up started to clear, and the sun eventually made an appearance as I approached the coastline.

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Cross Fell and Great Dun Fell, the latter with its distinctive golf ball radar (click to enlarge)

Written on 29 June 2003, 6 years ago.

I think this is the point where I conclude that I simply don't get the Pennine Way. The journey from Dufton to Alston goes over the highest point of the Pennines – at 893m above sea level, Cross Fell is also the highest point of my planned route from Land's End to John o'Groats – and for most people this part of the walk is a highlight... but I'm afraid it just leaves me cold. It can't be down to the lack of punchlines because last time I walked over Cross Fell the visibility was so terrible I couldn't see my feet, let alone what I was walking across; no, I'm afraid it's just another section of the Pennine Way that fails to light my fire.

From Dufton it's a long, long climb back up into the Pennines. Dufton lies at 180m above sea level and the first peak of the day at the top of Green Fell is over 600m higher up a steep mountainside path, but throughout the climb the view over the Eden Valley to the west gets more and more impressive, with the distant peaks of the Lake District slowly homing into view on the horizon. I was more obsessed by the dark clouds lurking over the peaks we were heading for, but I kept my fingers crossed for good weather; Cross Fell is no place to be caught in the wind and rain, something I know from bitter experience.

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In India, horns aren't just for cars; they're a way of life (click to enlarge)

Written on 28 June 1998, 11 years ago.

One of the biggest mistakes you can make when visiting a country like India is to try to apply your own set of values to society. Hard though it seems to be for some westerners to believe, Indians don't live by our rules, they live by their own, and this is probably responsible for the most discord between travellers and Indians.

It is sometimes difficult to appreciate that you when land in a new country, your own set of values is irrelevant and simply not applicable. If there is one reason why the British failed to turn India into a duplication of Victorian England, it's because Victorian values were just not relevant to India: you might as well try to get a cricket fan interested in the footy scores. In India the things you'll notice the most are the different personal habits, a complete lack of personal space, the flexibility of truth, the sheer volume of life, and a totally bizarre concept of taste... and after a while, you'll start to celebrate the fact that things are not the same as back home. It's all a part of what makes India so enduringly fascinating, but everyone who visits has to go through the confusion of throwing out their preconceptions and starting again.

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The River Tees near to Cauldron Snout (click to enlarge)

Written on 28 June 2003, 6 years ago.

The biggest problem with walking a track for the second time is the lack of punchlines. The last time I walked from Langdon Beck to Dufton the wind howled straight into my face all day, and I remember it being wet underfoot, freezing cold and one of those days where I was too tired to be happy when I reached the end; instead, I remember falling into the Stag Inn at Dufton in a state of exhaustion that even a couple of pints of Bass failed to cure. But ignoring the physical demands of the day, I remember the River Tees being beautiful, I remember the climb up past Cauldron Snout being interesting, and I remember the sight of High Cup Nick being incredible. Unfortunately, because I remember them all so clearly, it rather took the thrill out of today's walk, because although the sights were as good as I remember them, they just weren't as interesting second time round.

This is what I don't understand about serial walkers. On my fateful attempt at the Pennine Way in 2000 I met a group of lads who were doing the Pennine Way for something like the fifth time, and back in the B&B in Lothersdale I had breakfast with a man who was doing the Pennine Way for the eleventh time. I'm sure that your appreciation of a walk like this changes the more you do it and no doubt you start to notice things that you wouldn't spot on your first few trips, but with all the wonderful walks available in this country and abroad I fail to understand why anyone would keep on doing the same old track, time after time.

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One of the most common questions round northern Rajasthan was, of course, 'What do you think of the nuclear tests?' Regardless of my personal feelings on matters nuclear (which amount to an idealistic disgust at nuclear weapons, an intellectual fascination with sub-atomic physics and a realistic acknowledgement of modern science's unavoidable existence in the modern world) I always answered in the positive, saying I thought it was fair enough that India had done its tests and that Pakistan had reacted with their own.

From a completely dispassionate viewpoint, the whole nuclear situation in the subcontinent is understandable. India and Pakistan are mortal enemies, and defence is a major concern: it wins elections, the BJP is exceedingly pro-Hindu and hence anti-Pakistan, and becoming a nuclear power would be so popular with the masses that it would rank alongside the Falklands as a serious vote winner. It's obvious why Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee went for it, and Pakistan's reaction was utterly predictable.

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Close to Coral Bay, the Tropic of Capricorn crosses Highway One (click to enlarge)

Written on 27 June 1996, 13 years ago.

Today I drove north again, to a place called Coral Bay, a lovely little tourist spot with an idyllic beach and tourist prices to match. My current project is to plan a route that will cost me just A$5 per day (plus petrol), perfectly possible with a bit of dossing in the scrub and staying in National Parks as much as possible, using creeks and the sea instead of expensive amenities. I'm going through a financial crisis, but if everything was free, there'd be no challenge, would there? I can't rely on a job in Sydney, but I can hope...

I was led to believe that Coral Bay was a paradise, and indeed, it had a cute little bay, with the Ningaloo Reef passing quite close to the shore – so you can snorkel the reef from the beach – and a pleasant enough sandy beach. But it's really just a tourist hole, and not a great one at that. It took me one night to figure out why it had been recommended: there's a hostel there, a big – and very expensive – caravan park, and it's not too far from the northwest coastal highway. It's perfect if you're a coach traveller, or a city dweller in search of a family holiday on the coast. But it was far from perfect for me.

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A small contingent of the Karni Mata Temple's rat population (click to enlarge)

Written on 27 June 1998, 11 years ago.

With my camel safari completed, I headed east to the town of Bikaner. I'd decided to stop here on the unavoidably convoluted way to Amritsar, and reading about it, it had sounded like a fun place to visit. In the event, Bikaner itself was overshadowed by the Karni Mata Temple in nearby Deshnok, which is one of the most astounding sights I've ever seen. A 30km bus ride out of town, the Karni Mata Temple is, on the face of it, just another Hindu temple, but go inside and it's a scream. Literally.

In this country of animal worshippers, it's obvious why some animals are holy. The cow gives milk, an incredibly useful product; the monkey makes for good stories; the elephant and tiger are wild, mighty and graceful; and the swan, garuda and others are slightly mysterious and look great in pictures and carvings. Indeed, worshipping animals has always struck me as a great way to ensure that devotees live in harmony with nature, and that's a good thing, even if you aren't a believer in the religion itself. But the rat never struck me as a holy animal however hard I thought about it, and that's why Karni Mata is so intriguing.

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Low Force on the River Tees (click to enlarge)

Written on 27 June 2003, 6 years ago.

The Pennine Way's a funny beast. It's as if the designing committee – and surely it was a committee – took a handful of really good day walks and mixed them together with a much larger helping of pointless drivel, simply to create a long-distance path along the backbone of Britain. But does the whole end up being greater than the sum of parts? I don't think so and I won't be darkening the Pennine Way's door again, but it's fair to say that the gems are truly wonderful and are well worth remembering.

The short walk up the River Tees from Middleton to Langdon Beck is one of these gems, especially after the dirge from Keld to Middleton. For the first few miles you can't really see the river, but from the moment the Way reaches the banks, it's great. OK, so I have a serious soft spot for river walking, and as the Pennine Way seems to avoid waterways like the plague, the novelty of walking along a proper river for more than a few steps is no doubt an influence; but the Tees is a genuinely picturesque river, especially this part of it, and even the most cynical walker has to fall for its charms.

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The main square in Amanu, home to the all-important volleyball pitch (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 1997, 12 years ago.

Picture the street scene...

There are dogs wandering about the streets, searching for food scraps and sex from the various bitches around, whose reaction to the males' interest is to sit down violently, turn round and try to bite the male's neck, an effective prophylactic. The same dogs can be seen chasing a black pig down the main street – if 'street' is the right word for a dirt track that carries the one communal car – as the pig squeals and cries, unhappy as the dogs yelp and snap, acting in much the same way as cats do when cornering a wounded rabbit. The pig escapes back into its pen, where the owner shuts the gate and stops the canine invasion, much to the pig's relief. If only the pig knew what its owner is planning for it, it might not be so keen to go back home.

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The turrets of Jaisalmer Fort are an excellent vantage point from which to observe life in the city (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 1998, 11 years ago.

Having escaped from Jodhpur with my travellers cheques intact, I took the night train to Jaisalmer and found myself a delightful room inside the walls of the fantastic fortress, a perfect place for a spot of writing (it's a great way to avoid the overpowering heat of the midday desert sun). Enjoying the strong southerly wind blowing through my window and out of my door, I was suddenly jolted upright by a loud, heartfelt screaming. It didn't sound human, but it was obviously a distress call, amplified by the gusts as they blew headfirst into the battlements below and shot straight up into my penthouse.

I ran to my porthole and soon identified the source as a scuffle of dust clouds on the battlement slope. In Jaisalmer Fort the citadel walls stand on the top of an 80m-high sloping hill, so below the walls is a steep slope of scree that becomes vertical for its bottom 30 feet. This vertical bottom has been fortified by another wall, but there are no battlements here: if you were to be pushed off the citadel, you would fall from the battlements to the slope, roll down the hill and finally drop another 30 feet vertically down onto the plains (and no doubt plenty of marauders met their fate in exactly this way). It was from this slope that the noise was squealing.

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One of the antennae from the OTC Earth Station (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 1996, 13 years ago.

On Tuesday 25th I decided that although there was a little bit of Shark Bay that I hadn't seen – some homestead with hot artesian wells, apparently – I wanted to drive, so I set off back down the peninsula, back past Hamelin, and onto the highway again. I took a left turn to head north, and after countless kilometres arrived in Carnarvon, a very pretty little town on the coast.

My traveller's conditioning can sniff out the tourist bureau anywhere, and it wasn't long before I had an armful of goodies and leaflets, all telling me how easy it would be to spend all my money on so-and-so's wonderful glass-bottomed boat tour, before dining at the most wonderful seafood restaurant 'in the southern hemisphere'. Nothing's ever the biggest, best, fastest, loudest or whatever 'in Australia' – no, it's always 'in the southern hemisphere'. Sometimes I wonder if the Australians are aware of Southeast Asia, Africa and South America.

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The pass at the entrance to Amanu (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 1997, 12 years ago.

The ocean passage from the Gambier Islands to the atoll of Amanu – some four days' travel north-northwest to where the large atoll Hao dominates the map – was as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. I only lost one meal to the fish, and we didn't get hit by any storms, but having already done one hugely unpleasant ocean passage (and a particularly long one too, judging by the reaction of the other yachties in Rikitea) I wasn't exactly keen on doing any more.

At least this time the yacht didn't pitch and roll as badly, and there were only two of us on board, which prevented overcrowding, but even though it was only a four-day trip to Amanu, I was desperate to hit land again. Memories of the trip from New Zealand flooded back – getting up at 3am while waves crashed over the side of the boat, the three of us desperately trying to reef the main sail while the wind whipped us to the bone for an hour; or having to put up with the sheer, exasperating boredom of 28 days on the sea – but while these feelings didn't apply to four days ambling through the smooth, pleasant-weather sailing of the trade winds, I still had to grit my teeth and persuade myself that Zeke was simply a means to an end, that end being the islands of incomparable beauty that we were exploring.

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The fairy-tale fortress at Jaisalmer overlooks the Thar Desert (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 1998, 11 years ago.

Jaisalmer is right out there on the frontier with the Thar Desert. Go west from Jaisalmer for some 100km and you hit Pakistan, but by the time you get halfway there you'll be detained or possibly even shot; the India-Pakistan border is hardly what you would call a relaxed part of the subcontinent. It certainly makes for an interesting area.

Perhaps it was the effect of the desert heat on the population, but I found most of the Jaisalmer locals to be either plonkers of the highest degree, sex maniacs, or both. It didn't take me long, however, to develop a defence mechanism to this potentially infuriating attitude of a town tainted by western tourism but reeling under the off-season: I just laughed at everybody. It worked, too.

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A sign near Middleton, which I took to heart (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 2003, 6 years ago.

There aren't too many opportunities for short walking days when you're trying to cross an entire country, but today and tomorrow are both tiny walks. I didn't plan it this way; I'd actually hoped to have a rest day around this time, in preparation for the long days over the Pennines that are looming in the near distance, but a combination of fully booked hostels and a dearth of B&B vacancies has forced me to walk for two short days instead of one long one, and it's turned out to be a masterstroke. I've just had a great day.

This had nothing to do with today's walk, though; the hop from Baldersdale to Middleton-in-Teesdale is a most forgettable walk, a continuation of yesterday's tedium that winds through farmland, past yet more reservoirs, over a number of hills and down into Teesdale, when the view finally opens up into something worth writing about. Luckily I didn't really care about the walk because I had company; soon after climbing out of Baldersdale I spotted Matt ahead on the trail, and he had a tale to tell that made this boring walk feel almost welcoming.

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Mayesbrook Park (click to enlarge)

Written on 26 June 2008, 1 year ago.

Ha! And I thought this section would be pretty boring, and possibly a bit grim. How wrong I was, which only goes to show you shouldn't always believe what you hear. For weeks people have been asking me about my route, and specifically whether I'm going to be walking through any dodgy parts of town, and the two areas at which people tend to suck in their breath are the eastern stretches of the District and Central lines, and the East London line. Thinking about it, though, most of those doing the sucking haven't actually been to east London, they just get their news from the Evening Standard or the Daily Mail, and assume that everyone east of Aldgate carries a knife. They are, of course, completely wrong, and it's a real shame.

Today was my first real walk in one of those areas, and I loved it. OK, there are some areas where the paint is peeling a little too much, and there are others where giving up and starting again might be the best course of action, but these are in the minority. For the most part, the eastern London boroughs are a fascinating cultural blur, and on a sunny June day, you can't go wrong. I can't wait to explore the rest of it.

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Sagra (left) and Ali cooking up a desert meal of vegetable curry (click to enlarge)

Written on 25 June 1998, 11 years ago.

A lot of people quite rightly come to Jaisalmer for the fortress, and a lot of people come for the wonderful desert atmosphere, but it feels as if the majority of tourists come for the camel safaris on offer.

I was no exception, but visiting during the off-season proved to be a blessing. I'd met a friendly girl called Veronique on the Jodhpur train, and we were both interested in going on a safari, so we booked and waited to see if any more tourists would turn up. They didn't, and as a result we had a much more personal experience: with just the two of us plus two guides and three camels, it felt like a real adventure as we headed off into the stifling heat of the Thar Desert.

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Sagra feeding the camels at the start of my trek in the Thar Desert (click to enlarge)

Written on 25 June 1998, 11 years ago.

''Ello there sir. You look like the sort of man who knows what he's looking for, if I may say so. Let me be the first to say that you've come to the right place: here at Old Nick's New and Second-Hand Camel Emporium we've got 'em all, from super-charged top-of-the-range ships of the desert to more affordable economy models.

Now what sort of camel were you looking for, sir? A new one perhaps? Let's see, your baby camel starts at 3 ft tall, and all you have to do is to feed him cow's milk until he turns into one of the strapping young lads we've got over there. If you're looking at a nice adult camel, we've got 'em starting at Rs7000 and going all the way up to Rs20,000, depending on the strength and age of the model: I'm sure we can find something to suit your needs...

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The stromatolites of Shark Bay may not be much to look at, but without them we humans wouldn't even exist (click to enlarge)

Written on 25 June 1996, 13 years ago.

I set off nice and early for Denham, on Shark Bay, further up the west coast. Denham is on the northern tip of a long peninsula that juts west and north from the mainland, creating this sheltered bay, Hamelin Pool. The result is an idyllic blue ocean, and a large number of unique natural phenomena, hence the area's World Heritage status. It's a very famous area – at least, it's famous to readers of National Geographic – and as I turned off the highway onto the peninsula, the clouds cleared, and that good old blue sky appeared for the first time in a few weeks.

My first stop was Hamelin, a tiny place up a dirt track, on the south end of the bay. Normally this place wouldn't be that interesting – a nice beach, a couple of buildings – but there are two completely freaky aspects to Hamelin. The first is the collection of stromatolites on the beach, and the second is the shell mine.

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Looking back towards Keld (click to enlarge)

Written on 25 June 2003, 6 years ago.

What a perfect day. Last night the wispy cirrus view from the large windows of Keld Youth Hostel hinted that today might be pleasant, and it most certainly was; the sun shone all day, the clouds were few and far between and the wind never rose above a gentle breeze. As far as English summer days go, today was the business.

But beautiful weather isn't always what you want. If you're stuck in an office with no air conditioning then hot weather is a nightmare, and it's the same for walking; perfect walking weather is slightly overcast with a gentle breeze and clear views, and sunny weather is far from ideal. There's a serious risk of sunburn, you have to carry a large amount of water with you, and the heat makes climbing those hills just that little bit more exhausting. Beautiful summer days might be fantastic for lazing by the river and having picnics, but they're not that great for long hauls across the moors.

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Looking back to Snaizeholme Fell from the slopes of Great Shunner Fell (click to enlarge)

Written on 24 June 2003, 6 years ago.

I remember this section clearly from my abortive attempt to do the Pennine Way in 2000, because this leg was where things started to go wrong. The first day of that fateful walk – from Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes – went fine, though in retrospect I sunk into the hot bath in my B&B in Hawes with a little too much ooh-ing and ahh-ing for someone who was supposed to be taking the Pennines in his stride. Day two, though, was where the Pennine Way started sinking its teeth in, and that was when the pain began in real earnest.

Interestingly, David had the same problem at the start of his walk; his first day was fine until the last few miles, but day two turned out to be much harder, because by then his body hurt and the blisters were already in place. I had exactly the same experience in 2000 and the long, hard descent up the slopes of Great Shunner Fell a few miles out of Hawes nearly did me in. I can still remember the sinking feeling as I had to climb out of Thwaite towards Keld; my legs hurt, my pack was heavy and I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be such a fun walk after all.

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Kalbarri's coastline near Red Bluff is almost Martian in its appearance (click to enlarge)

Written on 23 June 1996, 13 years ago.

On Thursday 20th I offered Andreas a lift to Kalbarri, 400km north of Cervantes, as we were both planning to visit the National Park there. Little did we expect such terrible driving conditions: at times, I couldn't see a thing through the driving rain, and had to use the Force to see the road. However, we got there in one piece, and managed to fit in a visit to the coast to see Red Bluff before sunset: Red Bluff is a large, jutting cliff that gives you a good view of Kalbarri town and the Indian Ocean. It was pleasant, and followed by a mean, lean spaghetti bolognese à la tent.

Friday morning came, and the rain actually held off, so we drove out to the ranger station to see which roads were open. Unfortunately the road to the most spectacular area of the park was closed, but the ranger suggested a walk from Ross Graham Lookout to Hawks Head along a gorge, so we set off.

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Ling Gill Bridge (click to enlarge)

Written on 23 June 2003, 6 years ago.

I set off this morning an emotional roller-coaster. Having my girlfriend visit me as I chip away the miles is wonderful and it recharges the batteries in top fashion, but it comes at a price: I hate goodbyes.

In fact today my emotions were on a double roller-coaster, because Horton-in-Ribblesdale is where I set off on my abortive Pennine Way walk back in 2000. I wondered how much I would remember from the last time I tackled the Way – after all, it's nearly three years ago – and the answer surprised me. I remembered almost everything, from the long ascent out of Horton and the Roman road across Cam Fell, to the path along the western edge of the Snaizeholme Valley and the descent into Wensleydale. It was uncanny.

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Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament (click to enlarge)

Written on 23 June 2008, 1 year ago.

I've finished today's walk with a pain in the base of my neck, just above my left shoulder. It's a familiar pain that I tend to get after long hikes, but today's trek through central London was under ten miles long, which normally isn't enough to trigger this particular niggle. I think I know the cause, though: it's the constant stopping and starting.

This isn't so much because of traffic lights or problems walking through a cityscape; actually, I've found (much to my surprise) that I can get up quite a speed walking through the city, particularly on the backstreets where there are fewer people and the traffic isn't so heavy. But even when I've got some speed up, I keep having to stop to take photographs, and I don't think my body is used to it. Sure, the countryside is photogenic, but if you go for a walk through the English countryside and take a picture every couple of minutes, you'll end up with hundreds of photographs that look almost exactly the same, with the top half blue and the bottom half green. In a city like London, though, every corner reveals a unique and often stunning building that I just have to photograph (particularly as I'm using a digital camera and I'm downloading the photos every night, so I don't have to exercise the restraint I have to when carrying film or a restricted number of memory cards). The result? I'm not getting into my normal, natural walking flow; I tend to look up most of the time, rather than watching where I'm putting my feet; and every few minutes I'm stopping to snap another landmark. Put it all together, and it's straining my neck muscles.

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Malham Cove (click to enlarge)

Written on 21 June 2003, 6 years ago.

At last! This is where the Pennine Way stops being a bloody miserable plod through bogs and moors and turns into a much more enjoyable walk. I'm glad; I was getting close to thinking it was nothing but a walk for masochistic idiots.

There are three main attractions on the walk from Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, namely Malham Cove, Malham Tarn and Pen-y-Ghent. The first is a semicircular 80m-high limestone cliff that was once home to a monstrous waterfall but which is now a dry and attractive interlude just north of Malham; the second is a large lake – a rarity in porous limestone country – that boasts a stately home on its shores; and the third is a huge limestone hill that towers over Horton-in-Ribblesdale and gives great views of the Yorkshire Dales National Park. Even the most cynical walker has to enjoy a day like today, especially when that cynical walker is planning to meet his girlfriend at the end of the walk for a romantic weekend in the dales.

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Nearby Nambung is full of phallic shapes; perhaps this explains the strange customs in Cervantes (click to enlarge)

Written on 20 June 1996, 13 years ago.

Ah, the local pub in Cervantes. Funny things happen in the country, not least of which are some of the methods publicans use to entice people to drink in the pub, a slightly unnecessary thing to do seeing as there's hardly any choice anyway. Andreas and I were sitting at the bar minding our own business, and he nudged me and said, 'Hey, check it out! There's a girl getting changed in the room behind the bar, but I don't think she knows we can all see her. How embarrassing!'

And sure enough, there was this blonde getting changed in the bar office, stripped down to her underwear, completely oblivious to those of us at the bar who could see everything – though, of course, being gentlemen we didn't look. Much.

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Yogi (on the left) and Urma, during our visit to Urma's urban farm (click to enlarge)

Written on 20 June 1998, 11 years ago.

In reading the story of Yogi and Babaji, bear in mind that throughout the experience I had a song going through my head, namely Sheryl Crow's ode to kiss-and-tell journalism, 'The Book'. Here's an excerpt:

Never again
Would I see your face.
You carry a pen and a paper
And no time
And no words you waste.
You're a voyeur,
The worst kind of thief,
To take what happened to us,
To write down everything that went on
Between you and me.

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]]> Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.moxon.net/india/yogi_and_babaji.html http://feeds.moxon.net/~r/traveldigest/~3/RujdGq51p7c/nambung.html Written on 20 June 1996, 13 years ago. My first destination after Perth was Cervantes, some 200km north up the coast and home to the incomparable Nambung National Park. It was also home to serious amounts of wind, and torrential rain. In Cervantes it was obviously payback time for all the good weather I'd been having, as it was all I could do to get the tent pegged down in time for the downpour. The rain out here comes in very short, very sharp bursts: it may only rain for one minute, but you'll be utterly soaked to the...

The Pinnacles Desert is surrounded by gently rolling coastal dunes (click to enlarge)

Written on 20 June 1996, 13 years ago.

My first destination after Perth was Cervantes, some 200km north up the coast and home to the incomparable Nambung National Park. It was also home to serious amounts of wind, and torrential rain. In Cervantes it was obviously payback time for all the good weather I'd been having, as it was all I could do to get the tent pegged down in time for the downpour. The rain out here comes in very short, very sharp bursts: it may only rain for one minute, but you'll be utterly soaked to the skin by the time the rain stops, and there's absolutely no warning that it's about to rain. It's just like there's someone up there with a tap, and this is the time of year he gets to play with it. Then again, this is a desert, so you can't really complain; the poor place really needs the water.

After spending the first night huddled inside my tent, I got up early and headed out to the park's main attraction: the Pinnacles Desert. There are mountains in Australia, but everyone's seen mountains. There are rivers, deserts, gorges, forests and lakes, and everyone's seen this sort of thing somewhere, though probably not to the scale of those in Australia. But unless you've been to the Pinnacles, you'll never have seen anything quite like it. Imagine a gently rolling, sandy desert, with the odd bit of green scrub around: it's actually a dune system, but one that's now a few kilometres inland, though the sea is visible in the distance. Now imagine over 4000 limestone stacks, ranging from tiny to about four metres high, dotted around for as far as the eye can see. These stacks are all sorts of shapes, from long and thin, to stubby, to something out of the caterpillar's hookah smoke in Alice in Wonderland. There's a suspension-challenging dirt road to the desert, and you can then take a short loop road through the desert. I drove it once, and decided it was so impressive I'd walk it.

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]]> Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.moxon.net/australia/nambung.html http://feeds.moxon.net/~r/traveldigest/~3/Z3tqbzMkgew/jodhpur.html Written on 20 June 1998, 11 years ago. Jodhpur isn't only famous for its trousers, it's also home to one of the most staggering fortresses you will ever see. The Mehrangarh Fort dominates the city, sitting atop a 125m-high cliff-edged hill that catches the rising sun beautifully. Not only that, my hotel, a beautiful 250-year-old haveli right in the centre of the city, was a classic of its type; a haveli is a traditional Rajasthani or Gujarati building, consisting of a number of floors based round a central courtyard....

The magnificent Mehrangarh Fort dominates the skyline of Jodhpur (click to enlarge)

Written on 20 June 1998, 11 years ago.

Jodhpur isn't only famous for its trousers, it's also home to one of the most staggering fortresses you will ever see. The Mehrangarh Fort dominates the city, sitting atop a 125m-high cliff-edged hill that catches the rising sun beautifully.

Not only that, my hotel, a beautiful 250-year-old haveli right in the centre of the city, was a classic of its type; a haveli is a traditional Rajasthani or Gujarati building, consisting of a number of floors based round a central courtyard. Most havelis used to be mansions; these days they're more likely to be hotels, offices or home to many families, but a good haveli manages to retain its atmosphere and makes for an interesting place to stay, especially if you can get one of the lower rooms, tucked away from the searing sun.

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]]> Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.moxon.net/india/jodhpur.html http://feeds.moxon.net/~r/traveldigest/~3/9k-F0-G5s7M/33_kirkby_malham.html Written on 20 June 2003, 6 years ago. To be honest, I really don't know what to think. One minute I'm effing and blinding about the bloody Pennine Way, screaming at the weather, the bleak landscape and the relentless effort of it all, and the next I'm enjoying a pleasant pint in another beautiful Yorkshire village and wondering why on earth I keep getting so stressed. My mind is an optimist and only wants to remember the good parts, so as I sit down to type this outside the Victoria Inn in Kirkby Malham, with a pint of...

St Andrews Church in pretty little Gargrave (click to enlarge)

Written on 20 June 2003, 6 years ago.

To be honest, I really don't know what to think. One minute I'm effing and blinding about the bloody Pennine Way, screaming at the weather, the bleak landscape and the relentless effort of it all, and the next I'm enjoying a pleasant pint in another beautiful Yorkshire village and wondering why on earth I keep getting so stressed. My mind is an optimist and only wants to remember the good parts, so as I sit down to type this outside the Victoria Inn in Kirkby Malham, with a pint of Black Sheep ale and the bells of St Michael the Archangel for company, I can't quite understand why this morning's walk got me so worked up. But it did, and I'd better get it down on paper before the filtering effect of nostalgia turns it all too rosy.

The main problem with this morning was the weather. This is June and tomorrow is the longest day of the year, yet there's a freezing wind smashing into the Pennines from the west. From here in the pub garden all I can feel is the odd chilly gust, and although the clouds above are racing past, it's not unpleasant; this morning, though, it was a different story. I started out in my trusty T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms combo, but by the time I'd started the climb up Pinhaw Beacon, just outside Lothersdale, I'd already lost the feeling in my ears.

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]]> Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.landsendjohnogroats.info/northern_england/33_kirkby_malham.html http://feeds.moxon.net/~r/traveldigest/~3/ZnPYgqoE0bc/hindi_pop.html Written on 19 June 1998, 11 years ago. There is only one music cassette in use on the buses in India, and I hear it everywhere; the result is that despite several months of inserting my ear plugs whenever the bus boys crank the latest Hindi pop hits up to eleven, I still know the latest hits backwards (which, incidentally, improves the sound). It isn't confined to the buses, either. I hear it in shops, I hear it in buses, I hear it in rickshaws, I hear it in restaurants, and on bad nights I hear it in my sleep. It's a...

I saw this sign on a bulldozer in Jaipur, an incongruous sight in a land where the pop music can feel like a steamroller (click to enlarge)

Written on 19 June 1998, 11 years ago.

There is only one music cassette in use on the buses in India, and I hear it everywhere; the result is that despite several months of inserting my ear plugs whenever the bus boys crank the latest Hindi pop hits up to eleven, I still know the latest hits backwards (which, incidentally, improves the sound).

It isn't confined to the buses, either. I hear it in shops, I hear it in buses, I hear it in rickshaws, I hear it in restaurants, and on bad nights I hear it in my sleep. It's a compilation of Hindi pop hits of 1998 (that's hits with a silent 's') and I'm almost tempted to buy a copy simply so I can glare at it.

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]]> Fri, 19 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.moxon.net/india/hindi_pop.html http://feeds.moxon.net/~r/traveldigest/~3/WuOVA1hkiUg/turnham_green_and_kensington_olympia_to_victoria.html Written on 19 June 2008, 1 year ago. Things started off on the wrong foot this morning, and I have to admit it spoiled things for a little while. As I lined up to take a shot of Turnham Green station – more to make a note of my starting time than anything else, as I already have a shot of the station from yesterday's walk – a man, who was unloading flowers from a white van, walked up to me and said in a fairly brusque manner, 'Oy, why are you taking pictures of the Tube?' 'Well,' I said, putting...

Hammersmith Cemetery (click to enlarge)

Written on 19 June 2008, 1 year ago.

Things started off on the wrong foot this morning, and I have to admit it spoiled things for a little while. As I lined up to take a shot of Turnham Green station – more to make a note of my starting time than anything else, as I already have a shot of the station from yesterday's walk – a man, who was unloading flowers from a white van, walked up to me and said in a fairly brusque manner, 'Oy, why are you taking pictures of the Tube?'

'Well,' I said, putting on my best smile. 'I'm walking the Tube for charity and taking photos of all the stations as I go, to prove I've been there.'

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]]> Fri, 19 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT Mark Moxon's Travel Writing http://www.tubewalker.com/district/turnham_green_and_kensington_olympia_to_victoria.html