Guest writer: The one previously referred to as Shell.

Yet another early start. We’ll be glad to get to Goa where our time will finally be our own. It’s a 5.45 rude awakening today as our first flight of the day leaves at 8.10.

Inder is as prompt as ever and ready and waiting for us at 6.30 along with the rep. The tour company have been excellent throughout with reps meeting and assisting us at every stage. Today as we are leaving so early they have even arranged a packed breakfast to take with us. The rep provides a final bit of Jaipur sightseeing on the way to the airport, although we are too bleary eyed to take much in.

Taxing times
Once at the airport we bid farewell to Inder, our companion for the past week. He has taken us hundreds of miles across three Indian states safely negotiating every conceivable obstruction that was thrown in our way. He shyly poses for a last photo before we head into the terminal, juggling rapidly-disintegrating cardboard boxes containing our breakfast as we go. The rep arranges an airline assistant for us so we are whisked to the front of the check in queue. We are booked in for both our flight to Mumbai and the connecting flight down to Goa. We head for security but our assistant is still with us waiting for his tip. We pay him but no sooner has he gone than we are accosted by another airline assistant asking for Miss Powell. Turns out we need to pay 52 rupees tax each to the Indian government. So we head back past security to pay at a ticket office. Once there, we are told it’s actually going to be twice as much as we are taking two flights. We pay up and make sure we get a receipt as we don’t want to get hit with this again in Mumbai. We make off for security for a second time but again our latest assistant drags us back as the check in clerk needs proof we’ve paid our taxes. Third time lucky at the security queue but once again our assistant is there looking for recompense for his help. We begrudgingly fork over about 7p. Well it’s not like we asked for this to happen and he wasn’t a huge deal of help. We finally make it through security making sure that everything that needs a stamp, gets stamped, learning a lesson from earlier in the week when I was refused entry onto the plane as my boarding card hadn’t been stamped by security (not that this was ever mentioned to me at any point).

The flight is uneventful and arrives in Mumbai with plenty of time to spare before our 12.05pm flight to Goa. Flying over Mumbai we saw huge areas of shanty towns on a scale that we had not seem before. I don’t doubt they were there but the size could not be perceived from the road.

The gate escape
After landing we amble off the plane – for the first time ever there is no need to rush. We don’t even have to pick up our cases as they are checked through to Goa. We follow the signs to departures and join yet another security queue. I get through quickly as there is a dedicated ladies lane. It evidently either offends delicate Indian women’s sensibilities to be searched in public or Indian men get too excited by the sight of a woman getting a pat-down from another woman… Whatever the reason, I go behind the screen to be searched and wait on the other side for the other half of my party to join me. However, there is a problem with Andy’s ticket. I have a brief sense of deja vu where one of us can get through security but the other can’t. It turns out there is more than one terminal and our connecting flight doesn’t leave from any of these gates in this terminal. To be fair, the gate number is on our boarding cards but it didn’t occur to either of us to check this or that we were in the right place. Sometimes following your nose isn’t always the best idea. For the first time this trip, we are thankful for the Indian bureaucracy that has highlighted our error. It obviously isn’t 100% foolproof as I made it through security without question and who knows how long we may have sat there waiting for a flight that was departing from another terminal…

We retrace our steps looking for the correct gate. We make it through security and triple check we are in the right place this time. Our flight is listed on the departures board so we have nothing to do but wait to be called.

The flight is a short one, only 55 minutes. Despite the shortness of flight we get a three-course lunch, although as we are near the back we are only just tucking in when the captain puts on the seatbelt sign in preparation for landing. Never one to be parted from my food, I end up hanging onto my pudding just so the cabin crew can take my tray before we land.

Good game, good game
We are finally back in Goa and our arrivals experience is slightly different to the one we had less than a week ago. Then, it was just package holidaymakers all desperate to get their cases so they could begin their holiday. Due to a small delay in our flight we landed at the same time as two other internal flights and at baggage claim it is every man for himself. It’s also not just cases that we see coming round the carosel. Indians evidently pop to Mumbai from Goa for a spot of shopping as we would to London. There are huge boxes coming round the conveyor belt and we see amongst other things a large fan and a 42-inch flat screen tv, but alas no cuddly toy.

Reunited with our cases we head outside where all hell has broken loose with cars and people everywhere. A week ago we’d have been shell-shocked by such events but we now see this as a mere nothing after our adventures. We try to avoid the porters but one gets a hand to the rucksack as it goes into the boot of the car. He immediately demands a pound coin for his assistance. We refuse and our driver makes his way through the carnage and we are on our way to the hotel. After a week of feeling safe on the anything goes Indian roads with Inder, our latest driver is trying to break the land speed record in delivering us to our hotel.

Room with an ooooh
We somehow manage to get to the hotel without incident. From reception we walk for ages to reach our room taking in the facilities as we pass – several bars, restaurants, a mini cinema, gym (we won’t be needing that this holiday at least), spa, two swimming pools. We finally reach the room which is an oasis of air conditioning. We are led into the bathroom first, which is about the size of our previous hotel rooms to date. It’s my dream bathroom with a huge shower, double sinks, a large wardrobe each complete with bathrobes, a dressing table and the piece de resistance: a free standing bath in the centre of the room. We are then taken into the main room which is even bigger with high ceilings and the biggest bed we’ve seen in a while. We sit on the sofas to complete the check-in forms and I make a mental note to buy a big bag of sweets for my contacts at work. We didn’t book this luxurious accommodation – I had a word with a few people and they’ve done me proud.

Finally left alone to explore, we wander round the hotel taking in the stylishness of the place. Andy rates it even more highly when he finds out there is free wifi throughout the hotel.

The catch-up with our holiday rep has some useful advice and information for us, especially concerning good places to eat. We were not sure what to expect having only eaten in our hotels up until now. For our first outing we cross the road to Fish-Ka. With a name like that I didn’t think I’d find much to my liking but the menu is extensive and the food pretty good. Even more of a surprise is the bill which is less than half what we’d paid previously for a great deal more food. Tired and full, we wander back to the hotel and fall sound asleep in our giant bed, dreaming of the relaxing days to come.

Q: How do you know if an elephant’s been in your minibar?
A: The Jumbo peanuts will be missing.

Our final leg of this great little tour ends with Jaipur, known as the Pink City for the colour of many of its buildings. It promised more culture, architecture and maybe the odd big, grey lumbering creature. But first I had to get out of bed…

I’m not sure how much sleep I’ve had, but it’s not much after being a slave to my bowel movements throughout the night. I leave Shell to do breakfast on her own whilst I down another set of Immodium. Not wanting to miss a thing, I decide to risk it and get ready. By 8am we’re out.

OMG
Our guide, Karim, is half an hour late meeting us. Grr…I could have stayed in bed longer. He’s laid back, quiet and a change from the previous guides. Despite us starting a trip round the city, he decides to begin with a religious lesson on Hinduism. It’s not exactly my bag, but I respect the culture and am fascinated to hear that it has 330 million gods. Karim talks about the origin of the word GOD – Generator, Operator, Destroyer – and these being the three types of gods. All this info is background for some of the things we’re going to see today, apparently. Either that or later I’m gonna have my first R.E.test in 25 years.

Our first visit is little more than a pit stop to see Hawamahal Palace – Palace of the Winds. This is arguably Jaipur’s most iconic building, a pretty, towering, pink facade with lots of windows. We cross another busy road at rush hour, dodging the usual bikes, cars, mopeds, trucks and camels. I take a few rushed pictures whilst Shell turns white at the glimpse of a snake slowly coming out of a charmer’s basket. We play Frogger again with the road and head off towards Amber Fort, but stop just short of it for a bonus event: an elephant ride.

Trunk road
Coooool! This place is like the taxi queue in Stevenage Leisure Park on a Saturday night, except with elephants instead of cars, cash-laden tourists instead of McDonalds-laden drunkards. I’m amazed to see so many, having only really seen a few in zoos before. I bet there hasn’t been this many elephants together since Hannibal took some for a stroll over the alps.
Coaches of people unload and queue to walk up the steps and hop on a mount. It all seems a massive production line: pay money, sit down, get taken for a walk up the road and come back again. Elephants with painted ears march one by one a few metres away, directed by shouting drivers, fair-haired strangers swaying on their backs. A pang of animal exploitation guilt hits us both. But the desire to experience the new overrides the conscience; ride now, ask questions later.
We perch ourselves side-saddle on a wooden seat on its back, and take our place in the caravan. A local looks up and takes our photo, promising to see us later, not that we posed for the shot. It’s a slow, hot and noisy ride with the drivers all shouting between themselves about goodness knows what. Amongst the rocking back and forth, I decide to send a text message, simply because of the uniqueness of its origin. On the return journey, the driver decides to put a spurt on, and we overtake as if in a remake of Jungle Book with Lewis Hamilton. The photographer barks prices up to people still riding, waving the photos as if proudly capturing a life-changing moment that you just have to buy. “500 rupees! 500! 500 sir! No? 500? Ok, ok, 400..” We get handed ours and from the gormless expressions captured we instantly regret being caught on the hop. We don’t want them, despite it capturing a cool event. We return to base and park.”You tip me now,” the driver says, English subtlety obviously not being one of his finer points. We climb off and down the steps and I take some photos, a particularly interesting one of some elephant poo, for some reason. We get inundated with sellers once again. The photo guy approaches us, but Shell the Hustler takes over.
“Sorry, we don’t like them,” she says, trying to hand them back.
“300! 300 to you! Look! Look! Quality!” I nod in agreement at the print, but Shell’s still not budging. We only have a big note or two others that amount to about 20p. Four quid for photos we’d cringe at and probably hide away isn’t worth it.
“Ok, ok – 200!”
“No thank you.”
“Come on. 100 then. 100. Very good price.”
“No! We don’t like them! We’re not even smiling! They’re horrible pictures! WE DON’T WANT THEM!” I love it when she gets assertive.
We get hounded as we walk through the masses toward the car. I suppose they can do nothing with the photos if we don’t buy them, unless a weirdo happens to want them for his Bemused, Pasty English Couple 2011 collection. However, we didn’t ask them to be taken. We get in the car and we’re still pursued, more and more desperation as we appear to be getting away. Shell holds up two 10-rupee notes, “That’s all we have! Twenty or nothing!”
“50! 50 then! Please!”
“Nope, sorry. We only have twenty”. We start reversing. We’re almost away when he finally capitulates, handing us the photos for the two notes. Bargain…although did we just rip off a poor Indian? I’m sure if we’d had change we’d have given in much, much earlier and it wasn’t as if we really wanted them. As we drive away, I then remind myself that for every us, there’s a sucker who’s paid the full 500.

Amber-lievable
Amber Fort appears above us, hugging the hilltop and stretching out for miles. We climb a hill and Inder drops us off amongst the crowds. We start off with the market square, loud Indian music blaring out. Karim gives us a lot of information on the place, and as promised the prior information comes in handy as he describes the artefacts that have religious connotations. The fort is large, but the surrounding wall is akin to the Great Wall of China, albeit on a smaller scale of 22km. There are some great views here of countryside, the fort, wall, gardens, lake and our elephant trail. Once again my Canon is happy.
Karim tells us of the summer and winter halves of the building. The summer part had a cooling system using water and air flows, which seems very advanced. Good job too, seeing as it might not rain for two years and can reach 50c in summer. Maybe we’re too lazy these days, relying on electricity all the time? For the winter, a mirrored section containing thousands of small pieces reflect light and warmth. It took 2000 men 2 years to put together. Hopefully the women there never complained about the lack of mirrors in the morning. Someone obviously had an excellent grasp of physics and science in designing this place. As per much of the stuff we’ve seen on this tour, there’s a lot of detail around. Wooden doors are intricately carved. Paintings on the walls decorate the place, although not all have survived over the centuries. It’s a fascinating place, lots to explore. My heart sinks, though, at all the scratched graffiti left by ignorant people wanting to leave their insignificant mark at this historic sight. We make our way out, dodging the obligatory souvenir sellers. On the road out, we see an elephant coming towards. Ok, that’s another first. Karim explains they’re only used for tourists for a couple of hours a day and then go back home. I feel slightly better about this, although a little skeptical.

Deep blue something
Next on the agenda is a quick stop to see Jal Mahal – Water Palace. Built in 1799 for royals to hold events such as duck shooting, it appears to be floating on a man-made blue lake. We walk past the edge of the water and a group of young women see us and all say hello to Shell. Being white and blondish is obviously an attraction here! We’re not stopping for lunch, but Karim has in mind a break for himself as he takes us to what be promises to be two places where we can see some of the arts and crafts being made. First up is a textiles place, and the owner kindly shows how a cloth is printed with an elephant pattern entirely by hand. We see carpet makers laboriously add a pattern strand by strand. Some take two months to do. Why not use machines? It would be so much faster but the government wants to create jobs and not lose these ancient skills. I’m not sure if these workers are enjoying making them, brain dead from the boredom of the repetition or simply grateful they’ve got a job. After the demonstrations, we get taken into the shop where of course we are welcome to buy anything we want. “Which floor do you want to start at?”
We wander around looking for potential presents. To be fair, they didn’t hassle us. I found a perfect gift but turned out to be way out of my price range. We settled on a couple of small items, perhaps to the owner’s disappointment.
We needed to exchange money, hotels not giving the best rate (you can’t bring rupees into the country) so Karim suggested a shop nearby. The “shop” was a small room with a man and a tin box of money. Travelex it ain’t.
Gem cutting and polishing next, seeing how it is done. Again, very time-consuming and fiddly. But whadya know – they too have a little shop behind this tatty screen here. Must be some old shack. We walk into a grand entrance, old but highly decorated and sparkly. We expected it to be just for show, but when we’re shown through it turns out to be a front for what looks to me like Tiffany’s! Rows upon rows of rings, bracelets, necklaces. Gold, silver, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. Cases and cases of lit-up jewels sparkle away. Shell’s eyes light up. I hang on tight to my wallet, although I’m assuming we’ll politely be saying goodbye in a minute.
“Take a look. I’ll leave you alone,” the owner says. We start at the rings. Gulp. Move along. We shuffle over to the bracelets. Funnily enough, the man who is leaving us alone is shuffling in perfect formation with us. Having worked out her birthstone, he’s determined to show her sapphires. “No thanks – I like pink ones!” Shell spots a nice pink one with lots of stones that she really likes. I thought we were just being polite?
“How much is this one?” Shell says, putting it on.
“In pounds?”
“Yes”
“£3000. It looks good on you!”
Shell suddenly tries to take it off like it’s on fire, much to my relief. We find out that nothing in here is in our price range, so we eventually make our escape. I breathe again.

Hall of the mounted king
Our next destination takes us to the City Palace museum. It’s another grand complex, this time with largely plain pink walls. Well, pink-ish – one of the royal family called it pink, so it stuck, though it clearly is more like terracotta. We see weapons, a huge pot and women getting henna’d up for the festival later – fasting for their husbands to have long lives, or if they were single, to get a husband. They ask Shell to join in, but she declines. I’m not sure if she’s just not after a husband or is simply hungry.
Karim take us into a huge room where the king holds meetings. Very grand, gold and portraits mounted everywhere. There’s a trendy king that looks like John Lennon. There’s also a fat king that must have been the size of an elephant. We then get shown a portrait of one that was painted in a special way so that whatever angle you look at it at, he appears to be facing you. He tells us the history and I notice a guy hanging around us for a free lesson. Polite as always, Karim carries on. We see costumes, gowns, dresses, polo photographs, and the trousers of the fat king that were so large they could probably be made into curtains. The now mandatory gift shop with another demonstration of how drawings and paintings are made using a single hair from a squirrel. “You know squirrel? It’s like a chipmunk,” Karim says, informatively.
We go in and to our surprise some of the stuff we like is reasonably priced. All nice and smiling, the artist sketches out a simple example for us, and we um and arrrr about buying an elephant picture. He’s hopeful for a sale. When we decide on the cute-but-small one that happens to be the cheapest, he’s not so smiley when he bags it up. Sorry, India, we’re not ones for bringing back lots of expensive souvenirs.

Instrumental
The final stop was one of interest with me: a massive observatory. The biggest sundial in the world – accurate to two seconds – plus many other scientific instruments laid out in a massive park that looks like a cross between a kid’s playground and a skateboard park. There are dials and marble arcs, markings for time, moon and sun positions. Ways of finding your perfect star sign match. Everything is precise and perfectly lined up. The science, mathematics, architecture and construction are magnificent. It’s like a geek god has been playing with a science set and positioned all these larger-than-life instruments around here. Of course as luck would have it they were all pretty useless today due to the slight flaw in the design: it was cloudy.

By mid afternoon, Karim had completed his tour of Jaipur. We said goodbye, taking his business card and promising to email, as making friends is his hobby, apparently. Shall we go on and see the festival this afternoon? We decide not to. With my stomach, lack of sleep, a punishing schedule so far and two flights tomorrow, I think we’ll head in.

So that was India, or at least a little flavour of the sub-continent. It’s been an eye-opener in the extreme and a tour we’ll never forget, from the stunning sights to the chaotic streets to the friendly, industrious people. Maybe we’ll never again experience five days like those just past. Now, I’m content in having banked all this and looking forward to the next relaxing week in Goa.

It’s not often I get out of bed before Shell. Nor at 5:15am. But when the incentive is seeing one of the most famous places in the world, you kinda make an allowance. Just a shame the sun wasn’t considerate enough to rise a little bit later.
By 6am it’s fairly light and we stumble down to meet today’s guide who introduces himself simply as DK. He seems very enthusiastic and instructs our driver, Inder, to a point which we are informed is a shortcut to the Taj Mahal. “Six minutes’ walk from there,” DK tells us. Camera fully charged and ready to go, I can’t wait. The rush hour traffic is still in bed, so we have no problem getting there quickly. The air is cool but comfortable and we march quickly past several locals on the way to the main event.

Gorillapods in the midst
As we arrive in the courtyard at the entrance, we get pounced upon. “Hello sir – do you want book? Lovely book.” A seller flicks through a souvenir book of many photos in front of my face. I decline but he is persistent, “Maybe later? My name is Raj. You remember that when you come out later: Raj.” Ok, Raj, how about you let me go in so I can take my own photos? DK sorts the tickets, we step through the metal detector and have our bags searched. We have a spot of trouble with my camera bag, containing my extremely dangerous and potentially lethal Gorillapod. Obviously not recognised as a small tripod, the security guard bends it curiously, perhaps waiting to see what weapon it can transform into. It has to be confiscated. DK manages to sort out where it can be collected later, assuming it has not been subjected to a controlled explosion.
The courtyard is assembled from a deep-red brick, sandstone local to here. The first thing we see is a huge square arch through which promises the Taj itself. All around the edge of this entrance is large Arabic script from the Koran. It’s not painted on, though – it’s black marble inlaid into white marble. We marvel at the effort and the detail. This place was clearly not done half-heartedly. Time to enter…

Strike a pose
We’re here! I’m looking at the view of the Taj Mahal that you see in the photos, the movies and all the postcards: facing the front with the water leading up to it. Where do I start clicking? The sun is weak still from the east but is gradually lighting up one side. The sky is blue with a few streaks of cloud. More importantly, not too many people are here yet. I am like a starving kid in front of a buffet table of all his favourite dishes. I start to snap away, but I soon discover DK has a menu of his own he wishes to share with us. “Go down there. Take one here then I shall take one of you two up here. See the reflection – get a good shot there.” Blimey. Well, he has said he’s been here about 4000 times, so I guess he knows the good shots. We are soon hurried to the Diana table, as it’s now known after Diana, Princess of Wales visited here and her now infamous pose in 1992. DK takes our photo there, after a short wait behind a woman desperate to recreate Diana’s sad look. Next, DK delights me in offering to take photos of an Andy/Shell Speciality: the star jump pose. Cue lots of energetic jumping, checking, different angles and looking like a fool. He even takes a cute dangling-the-Taj-from-our- fingers photo. I begin to think of others but we’re off again, this time for a closer look.
The eastern corner of the main building now sparkles as the sun’s rays hit the detail of the building. As we walk up to the plinth, we begin to appreciate just how beautiful and detailed the outside is. It’s so clean, so immense, revealing more and more as you move nearer. But DK doesn’t want us to go too near just yet – more silly photos are needed! We then sit down and listen at length to the history of the Taj.

Kiss and tell
Some people order a nice headstone when their spouse dies. Others dedicate a park bench in their memory. Shah Jahan decided to construct a mausoleum for his third wife, Mumtaz, taking 20,000 people 22 years and 85 million rupees to build. Fair play – after producing 14 kids for him she probably deserved more than just an obituary in the local newspaper. DK proceeded to tell the whole love story, from the king’s first sighting at the women’s market to his vow on her death bed to never forget her. If his love was as beautiful and perfect as what is now in front of us, he was a lucky man.
DK seemed intent on ensuring we were to show each other the same affection. “No wife, no life!” he said many times to me. Every section of the story demanded a kiss between us. He then took my camera and started taking more photos of us with the eastern side in the background, demanding we give him a good subject. “Pose number 1…” We stand side by side. “Pose number 2…” We embrace. “Pose number 3…” We kiss. By pose number 7, I begin to wonder if he wants to get us arrested.
We eventually move to the guest house and get more history, from plans for a second Taj across the river (which we had unknowingly visited the night before) and how the king’s son didn’t like his father spending so much on his obsession and his eventual imprisonment as a result. More kisses ensued. Was DK just getting a kick out of this? As nice as it was hearing the story, after a while I just want to see and explore further and of course capture more of its beauty. Soon, we enter the mausoleum.

Dead gorgeous
Intricate doesn’t do it justice. We aren’t allowed to take photos inside which is a shame because there’s so much detail here I’d love to record. The light within is neither strong nor weak, just enough for respect and warmth. An entire slab of marble has been carved with delicate patterns. Flowers aren’t painted – they’re made from small, cut precious and semi-precious stones and stuck within the white marble with unerring precision. What’s more is that they are arranged to form heart shapes, allegedly to indicate the king’s broken heart at her death. The two tombs lie side by side in the centre, forever encapsulated by this beauty. Above the chatter of tourists I detect a gentle whooshing sound rebounding off the upper walls. Everything perfect, quality superlative. The effort and craftmanship is outstanding. I shuffle around with my cloth overshoes in awe.
Outside I get more shots, dropping behind Shell and DK, determined to get as much as I can. We see the Agra Fort in the distance, our next destination. More poses, more silly shots and kissing. Some of them are quite cute, I think, maybe a future picture for our own castle. But time ticks on and we soon have to go. I marvel for the last time at the symmetry and scale of the site. As we leave, I’m relieved to have my Gorillapod returned to me unscathed. We then see Raj, back as promised, eager to sell us books of images we’d just seen. I decline after a brief viewing, a tad disappointed we didn’t have more time to take more photos; I could have stayed for hours and filled a hard drive of pictures. Still, the laughs, the poses and the memories will live forever, hopefully like this wonderful place itself.

Hold that fort
After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we’re plunged into Agra traffic on the way to the fort. This time it’s special: an impromptu bit of roadworks have apparently popped up ahead so everyone is turning round. I’m no longer sure which direction is which as the road now resembles a rugby scrum. If it was in England, the ref would have blown and it would have taken an age to sort out. Here, we slip through like a skilled pro and arrive at Agra Fort.

Blimey. There’s nothing small scale around here. A huge gate, long slope and massive courtyard is just the start. Moved as a display piece in front of one of the buildings is the king’s bathtub, with probably enough room to hold the synchronised swimming Olympic final. DK shows us the queens’ rooms and the dancing square where the ladies strutted their stuff whilst the king watched. If a girl was lucky, she was taken behind the screens for the king to entertain her. A gentleman’s club for the 1500s. DK was keen to emulate his event. “Pretend you’re the king! Take your lady behind the screen!” I begin to wonder if he has hidden cameras around here.

That’s bazar
The views from here of the Taj Mahal are cool, reminding me of the Eiffel Tower views from Notre Dame in their closeness to the cities’ main attraction. We see where the start of the king’s love affair began, overlooking the green square that was the women’s bazar where he first saw her. We also see its end, the prison where the king was held by his son, where his final sights were of his creation in her memory. We peek in a mosque again and also where the king held his public audience, all the time DK describing the history. It sounds like the king was happy to talk to his people, listen to their problems and try to help them, like a live Dear Deirdre for the masses. I take my opportunity and ask DK for fifteen minutes of photos on our own, and the schedule allows it. We’re free! I run off with Shell and take a few shots I had my eye on when we were going through. Content with the collection, we head out, contending with more beggars and sellers of tack as we wait for the car. We’re off to Jaipur, five hours’ drive away, but we’ll stop en route to a ghost town called Fatehpur Sikri.

Another journey, another chaotic section of road. This time the road had pretty much descended into a rough track through a small village. It feels like we’re driving through a market as people, shops, camels, horses, carts and bikes are on every side. We’re the widest vehicle here. As always, the chaos is navigated and we get through. A little later we arrive at the foot of what is actually a walled city. Getting out, we navigate through a group of yet more sellers before jumping on a bus full of locals to the top of a hill to see the main buildings.

It’s a trap!
The city was built by Emperor Akbar, who also built Agra Fort, and was the grandfather of Shah Jahan, he of Taj Mahal fame. Akbar had three wives, one Christian, one Muslim and one Hindu, and built a house for each, sized accordingly to the children each gave him. Nice way to cause resentment between women there, then. Due to a promise to a priest who predicted three children, he had to stay here ten years. When he left, the place eventually deserted. This was pretty lucky for us, seeing as we were nosing around today. The parliament house with its raised walkway, public audience courtyard, market square, the king’s own house and bedroom, complete with awesome raised bed were all very interesting to walk around and hear DK’s explanations. (plus less enforced kissing). Everything ornate and pretty, except for some bats up a chimney I was asked to photograph.
We forgo a bus ride back down the hill which we are told would bring us out into all the shops – i.e. hassle. Instead, we walk, and get escorted by a horde of small children offering to sell us pens. It’s extremely hot, I’m thirsty and I’m not interested, thank you. They soon give up. Unfortunately we get to the car park and attract another group, this time slightly older. “I’m a good boy!” says one, who looks as innocent as Dennis the Menace. We shrug them off and get into the car, saying goodbye to DK down the road with a tip to send him off with. No doubt he’ll be back at the Taj tomorrow asking for more kissing photos. Next up: a long drive to Jaipur to complete India’s “Golden Triangle”.

The roads are losing their wow factor now. I’m nonchalant about trucks and cars coming at us on the wrong side of the road. Men clinging onto the back of cars doesn’t faze me. I’ve given up on planning a Keep India Tidy campaign. And then just when you think you’ve seen it all…”Jesus!!!!” Ok, it maybe wasn’t the most appropriate word to exclaim, but we’ve screeched to a halt on the dual carriageway for a dog that must have wanted to commit suicide. The fact that Inder beeped 300 yards away and that the dog was clearly looking at us didn’t stop it from crossing the road as if one of its parents was a hedgehog. We even had to wait for it to complete its slow journey to the centre, probably for another attempt on the other side. Luckily, the trip passed without further excitement and we arrived for our final leg of the tour.

Spice, spice baby
Jaipur seems a big city, certainly a lot nicer than Agra. It’s richer, too, and it clearly shows in its buildings. We stop at the Golden Tulip for the first of two nights. We’re tired, so we check in to a seventh-floor room with a good view of the city, snooze for a bit and then go down for dinner in the “Spice Loft”. We have a nice meal, even if the service was a bit erratic in bringing out our drinks and dishes at different times to each other. I have an extremely spicy chinese chicken soup and a masala that looks suspiciously like a balti. I say to Shell that I’m so happy that we’ve seen the Taj Mahal today because my biggest fear was to get “Delhi Belly” and be forced to miss out. “So far, so good, though.”
Half an hour later and I feel like I’ve had a chilli enema.

After a wonderful day full of fascinating sights, the inside of the hotel toilet isn’t exactly my idea of capping it off. Now pass me the spare bog roll…

I’ve been on five continents, racked up a few countries. I’ve seen the super rich and downright poor. But today I’ve seen more life in 24 hours than I have since I first stepped outside my home isles 24 years ago.

6:30am, Delhi. Feeling fresh. Goa is behind us, having flown up yesterday afternoon (almost losing Shell in the process as a result of overbearing Indian bureaucracy). We’ll be back there in a few days for the sun and beaches, but today is all about the capital and true India. I play it safe at breakfast, feeling a little curried out for the moment after the last two days.

Inder surprise
At 8:30 we are greeted by our guide for the day, Jussy and our driver, Inder. Apparently this is no coach tour – we have our own taxi the whole way!
We drive from New to Old Delhi. “Clean Delhi, Green Delhi” Jussy announces. He’s not wrong about their slogan – I’m amazed at how green this part of the city is with all the trees and parks that fly by our windows. But that’s not all that’s going past: welcome to rush hour, Delhi-style. Lanes are ignored. Yellow and green three-wheeler tuc-tucs force their way through with their passengers. Women ride sidesaddle, helmet-less on the back of motorbikes weaving in and out of the cars. Beeps sound out, several a second. Push bikes slowly intermingle, joining in the melody with their bells. Trucks and buses add height and width. Nothing is more than an inch apart. And yet… there is no anger, no frustration. Beeps merely indicate one’s presence and indended actions. Everything is calm, everyone gets on. Bizarrely, traffic flows.

Beggars belief
We see a bit of Chandni Chaowk, an area that is regarded as the heart of Old Delhi. Stopping at lights, a small, grubby girl does cartwheels outside our windows in the road, begging for money. Further up, a mother cradles her baby in her arms, miming an action for help to feed her baby. I shake my head at them all and look away, guiltily. The advice we had was to not give money to street beggars, but it doesn’t make it feel right when it’s right there in front of you.
We pass narrow streets with an overhead electricity cabling system that looks like it was installed by a drunken, blind electrician with a death wish. People pick from trees halfway up, a few feet away from pylon wires. Let’s face it: if Health & Safety came here, they’d have to close the whole city down.

Jami dodger
Our first stop is Jami Masjid, India’s largest mosque. It’s huge, red and decorated in fine details. Impressive, but perhaps not quite our thing. I still have memories of many a temple in Kyoto, so we decline to go inside and head on with the busy schedule.
We are taken past the Red Fort, but as our tour will include the identical one in Agra, we do no more than flirt with a small section of it from the car. Next up is Rajghat, where Mahatma Ghandi was cremated.
The place is a small park, green, well kept with a large square and centrepiece that can be overlooked or approached up close. We go up and Jussy gives us some information on the great man and the history of our two countries. It’s a wonder why they still like us so much. We take it all in as we watch a few Indians pay their respects. All is peaceful until a large group of protestors appear and congregate around the eternal flame, chanting, waving flags, tv cameras and all. Something to do with anti-corruption, apparently, but as quick as they appeared, they’re gone, leaving us to go down and see the memorial. It feels strange being in a place with so much significance to a country.
The guide takes us past India Gate – a huge monument to commemorate the soldiers who died. It’s a landmark site in Delhi and one you often see in photos, so I’m looking forward to some good snaps in this blue sky. Alas, we’re only allowed a 30 second stop to take whatever angle we’re given. Hmmm, I’m not sure this tour is really giving me what I want out of Delhi.
Our final stop is at President’s Palace, not too dissimilar to Buckingham Place, and with its own version of Pall Mall. Again impressive, but sadly again we have just a few minutes here before the guide says goodbye and leaves us with our driver and a long trip to Agra ahead. At our request, we go past another recommendation – Humayun’s Tomb – but we cannot see much and we start to go out of Delhi. I can’t help but be a little disappointed. My friend, Rob, had called Delhi “fucking insane” and although it was indeed a culture shock, I felt that maybe we’d only scratched the surface. Little did I know that the journey we were just about to take would shake and exhilarate me like no other.

Life, but not as we know it
This is ridiculous. Amazing. Tragic. Impressive. Every few miles another adjective falls from my lips. We pass through the outskirts of Delhi but the trail of life never ceases as it merges into neighbouring towns. Shops, shacks, primitive housing, people outside everywhere. Everyone is doing something: selling, buying, eating, loading, transporting, fixing, begging, beckoning. They’re there in their hundreds, each place swarming with life. Another man pees by the roadside, yellow arc proudly visible. Litter piles up in grey and plastic mounds. Pepsi battles with Coca-Cola at roadside shops.
Why is that lorry coming straight toward us? We’re on a dual carriageway! Inder merely gives way. Why can’t we go now the light is green? Oh, there’s a herd of cattle slowly going past. I look to my right and there’s a camel pulling a cart. To my left is a man on a bike with a chair on his head. A family of 8 pile into a tuc-tuc. Minutes later, the record is 10. I Iose interest after a mind-bending, axle-straining 17 is left behind in the rear view mirror. Men cling on to the backs of cars. How many on a motorbike? One, two, three…heck even a family of four! Everyone going somewhere, anyhow they can.
We swerve for loose cows. We beep at erratic dogs. Hand-painted trucks, tractors, carts pulled by various animals, motorbikes, pedal cycles, hand cycles, mopeds, cars, tuc-tucs, JCBs. Vans piled high of goods and topped with humans. My eyes are wide open but everyone stares at us as we go by in our comfy, air-conditioned chauffeured car.
The landscape is flat and a mix of green and brown. A dust tornado lazily saunters by. Pink flowers punctuate the carriage divider. Brick chimneys rise up in fields. Women slap mud on hut rooves. Kids of all ages, old men, old women at work. Nothing too big to carry. Broken down vehicles being fixed by the roadside. Large birds roam the sky. Smart religious buildings appear. I dare not blink.

We cross the state border and stop briefly, left momentarily alone in the car as Inder runs an apparent errand. Trucks are stationary up ahead and sellers are alerted to our presence. We suddenly feel like a stranded zebra at a river crossing. Tap-tap on the glass. Do I want to buy a book? Tap-tap. “Monkey! Photo with monkey, yes?” Shell shakes her head, trying not to look at the animals on tight leads, faces inches away. Up ahead, a disabled man shuffles toward us. I hope the car is locked. Finally, Inder returns and we move on, relieved. To him, probably just another drive. To me, the four hours that had just gone by was from another world.

Agra phobic
We arrive in Agra prepared for the worst after a less than favourable review from a friend. It’s the nearest city to the Taj Mahal, though, so how bad can it be? The answer comes soon.
The streets throng with animals, people and vehicles. Grey buildings little more than shacks line each side. A main roundabout makes Piccadilly Circus look like Toy Town on a Sunday afternoon. Vendors sell everything from snacks, drinks, trinkets, clothes, pots, bricks to camera film. Horn after horn. Civilisation seems to be petering out. Then Shell suddenly takes a sharp intake of breath… is that…yes! Over there! Beyond the trees, the Taj Mahal! It’s great to get a glimpse of it, but it doesn’t really do it justice from the car. I want to get near it tonight.

We arrive at the hotel, an oasis of luxury, and get a warm welcome from the rep. Choosing the sunrise Taj Mahal option tomorrow, we also agree for our driver to take us there for sunset a little later tonight. It is the main reason why we came to India, after all. A brief snack and tour of the hotel and we’re ready for a closer encounter.

Play your Taj right
Our driver, surely not fully rested after the long drive, takes us to a spot to get the Taj in the background. (When I say a spot, I mean he stops the car in the middle of rush hour on the inside lane, ignition running.) We get photos of us with the main attraction, but we want more. Inder kindly obliges with a drive into Chaos Central.
We go up a narrow road, flanked by cars, buses and tuc-tucs on each side. People fill in every available gap. We soon hear that they’re making a movie here right now, and the stars’ trailers are up ahead. No room to swing a cat’s whisker, but somehow we get to the end of the road and leap out with a promise to meet up after “somewhere down there”. It’s at this point we suddenly become celebrities.

Maybe it’s the sunglasses we’re hiding behind. Maybe they think we’re part of the film. Or perhaps it’s just the sight of two grains of white sugar in a sea of demerara. “Hello!” the kids say, delighted when we acknowledge. My hand is shaken a dozen times. Phone cameras are trained on us. If only we looked like we knew where we were going, for what we seek cannot yet be seen.
Eventually, we find a ticket booth and pay a small sum for what promises to be a view and start down a green track. As the bushes part and we look to our right, one of the seven wonders of the world is upon us.

Wow. We’re looking at the back of the Taj, across the river, with a few other people who have paid for this privilege. It’s impossible to get a sense of the scale, even when seeing the tiny figures of men and women at its base. Symmetry. Detail. Finesse. Splendour. I’ll save my words until I see her up close.
The sun is setting and birds circle above as I click away at my main prize. Shell seems stunned. We’re finally here! The dome the turrets, the buildings either side all get captured on film. May I return safely to show my efforts. I want to stay longer, maybe for something special, perhaps a little disappointed in not capturing a killer shot. But tomorrow’s shoot is just twelve hours away, and Inder appears to capture us together at dusk before we walk back, through the staring crowds, returning to our taxi and the sea of pandemonium. Back at the hotel, I file away all the scenes in my mind and drift away, waiting for tomorrow’s riches.

From the celebration of one man’s creation to commemorate his lost love centuries ago, to the present struggle for existence in this fascinating land. If life has a spectrum, today I saw new colours.

Most people pop down to their local curry house on a Saturday night if they want a ruby – Shell and I decided we’d go authentic style. By the next morning, we were in India…

It appears to me that the airport bag handlers in Goa have no concept of the carousel. As soon as the bags start their journey on the merry-go-round, they are taken off and put to the side, leaving everyone standing like they’re waiting for the bus that never comes. Chaos reigns. Culture shock? Probably not even started yet. We soon find our Thomson rep and get pointed to Bus A down to the right, so we walk off.
“Sir? Sir? Want a taxi?” someone says nearby.
I smile politely, “No thanks.”
A hundred yards and several similar requests later, my smile is a little forced after each identical response. Ah, Bus A. Some bloke takes our bags and gives them to the guy who will load them into the bus. “Thanks,” I say.
He opens his hand, showing two recognisable coins and looks at me, “Pound coins? Pound coins?”, thrusting his palm towards my face. Oh, it’s like that is it? You do ten seconds of work and expect a tip? I oblige, only because we’re about the first ones here, he looks persistent and I can’t be bothered with the hassle after a long flight. We board and wait.
Palm trees blow in a brown, dusty landscape while mopeds buzz amongst the cars on the motorway ahead. I hear a familiar cry of an unseen bird, and recall the wildlife of the Maldives last year. Bus finally full, we depart.

Within minutes, I discover that it’s probably best to be a passenger in a Goan vehicle with your eyes closed. Normal rules of overtaking don’t apply here – beep, manoeuvre, mirror, regardless if oncoming traffic is near. On a bend? No problem. Just another challenge. Mopeds, pedestrians, trucks, buses and cars all jostle for position on varying degrees of road like an 80s video game.

The rep on the bus supplies us with information on the area in a chirpy but well-rehearsed up and down voice that grates after a while. I gaze out of the window and see fields with cows, herons, other birds and the odd fisherman. We pass sporting fields where goalposts look on untroubled as cricket takes centre stage. We hear that the roads are quiet due to the partying after yesterday’s world cup win. Celebration of a billion people – must have been one hell of a party.

We arrive at our hotel as the only ones from the plane coming here. We’re doing a five-day tour round a small part of India, whereas everyone seems to have come for Goa on its own. We appear to be the only Europeans here in amongst a crown of people checking in or out. Suitcases everywhere. Suddenly, a man sidles up to where we’re sitting and asks us to get in a photo a woman is taking of him. Obviously a white couple are a photo coup around here! We go past the pool and loud pop music accompanied by live Spanish guitar played by some dude outside the restaurant. Different.

The room is very nice – we thought we were being put into a dive, so this was unexpected. Double shower, huge bed, view of the pool, big TV. We take a small nap, tired after our travels, and then venture out after deciding that the dodgy acoustic musak versions of Madonna and George Michael were a bit too much.
“Sir! Sir! Taxi?” We’d barely stepped out of the front gate. No paths to speak of, we slowly stroll down the road, single file, with the sun warming our heads. We pass local stores, shacks, barbers and builders, all with a rough, run-down look about them. Walking past the river, I spot the silvery blue of a kingfisher perched on branch jutting out, bringing a spot of welcome colour.
“Taxi?” another car slowed down beside us. I shake my head. “How about tomorrow? Next week? I take you to waterfalls!”
I’m not sure if these guys are annoyingly persistent, or persistently annoying. Still tired, careful of the sun and not willing to risk playing chicken with scooters and cars, we head back to the guitarist in full swing. “Welcome to the ‘otel California…Such a laarvly place…”

Another small nap and then dinner. Buffet, Indian style. Nothing too spicy, just a few different curries, garlic naan and lime pickle with a kick. The waiters practically fall over themselves to help, smiling all the time, making us feel welcome. We stay for ages, chatting long after the last bit of sauce has been mopped up. Fed, happy and ready for bed, we escape before more loud music starts up. Luckily for us, this soon ceases, and our first day in the sub continent is complete.

Do you remember that bit in Forrest Gump where he just runs and runs and runs? Well, that’s what it feels like sometimes when you’re running, like you can keep going forever. (I also identify with the beard he sported, although mine hasn’t got that long yet.) Other times, you feel as fast as Forrest was when he first sprinted away from the bullies. Lately, it’s been more like the latter as I start my quest for speed.

I’m not a fast long distance runner. My records are pretty poor, but I set out this year to improve them to a decent set of figures. I may want to tackle another marathon in the next year or two (must be mad, I know) and definitely want to break the four-hour barrier this time around, so need to up the pace.  Trouble is, you need good strong muscles for speed – unlike running for distance, you can’t just rely on willpower and sheer guts to get you to where you want to be. And this is where I’m lacking a bit at the moment.

My calves generally take a pounding on every run, but it’s on the slopes that my quads and hamstrings take more of the strain, and it’s these muscles that haven’t had a lot of use recently. So I’m doing more hill work and trying to run as fast as I can over 5K and 10K, and I’m pleased to say it’s resulted in me breaking both my 5K record and my fastest mile last week (you can see the results to the right of my Blog page.) I must say I’ve never been so exhausted after pushing myself up the final slopes in my runs, desperate to beat my times to the point where I almost collapsed at the finish – which is how breaking records should be. None of this showboating over the line, Usain Bolt style!!

The records are still not good, but seeing as I’m still on my way back to regular running after my sabbatical, it’s a start. Plenty of scope to keep lowering them, I say. Can’t wait to get stronger, faster and making running a lot easier by not having to struggle so much over the inclines.

To continue the Forrest Gump theme, life really is a box of chocolates. I’ve had the odd coffee cream day recently, but had some good strawberry centred ones, too. You never do know quite what you’re gonna get.

Finally, happy birthday to Alli, who is probably spending it with leopards, elephants or lions as I type. Hope you had a great day!

I’m currently sitting in the departure lounge at Melbourne airport,
waiting for my delayed flight to Sydney. Once there, I’ll be heading
back home, via a short stop in Beijing. The end of this fantastic trip
is near…

So Melbourne, then. It’s a cool place, I’ve decided, preferable even
to Sydney. My visit to the St. Kilda area was splendid, really
enjoyable. I walked miles and miles along the beach front and really
enjoyed the scenery. I stayed specially to see the sunset, and I
wasn’t disappointed, either. Hope you like the photos!

The hostel I stayed at was unusual – an ex-nunnery! It had a good vibe
about it, very spacious and I met some good people there. The location
was pretty central, with easy connections within the city via the
excellent tram system and walking.

The next day was spent doing a little shopping and then wandering
around the bottanical gardens. The gardens were peaceful, though not
very colourful, which seems to be the theme of my autumn trip and
gardens.

I had a great night, though, when I went to see an Aussie Rules game
with a mate from Nottingham who was in my hostel room. A packed 50,000
crowd crammed in to watch Essendon v Hawthorn. No, I’d never heard of
them either! In fact, we didn’t have a clue what the heck was going on
for the first two quarters! Men in vests running, jumping, kicking and
occasionally scoring was the best we could work out. I decided at half
time to ask an Aussie behind me the rules, and from then on it all
made sense! I cheered the underdog, Essendon, and to our delight they
absolutely stormed them! Most of the crowd around us and red and black
went wild as they ran out easy winners. A bit like Spurs beating
Arsenal 4-0 – no-one thought it was possible! I congratulated our
Aussie mate and left the stadium in the drizzle with the delighted
sounds of the Essendon fans ringing in my ears. Afterwards, we went to
a local bar and sunk a few beers until the early hours. Well, it was
my last night in Oz…

Am I sad to be leaving? Yes. Looking forward to going home? No and
yes. Don’t want to go back to normality, but it will be good to see
everyone again. Plus have some privacy and different clothes! Not sure
how I’ll adjust back, but I do know it won’t be quite the same as
before, after the experiences Travel Andy has had!

Hope to see you all soon and bore you all with my photos and stories…

I’m in the bus with half a dozen others being driven to the sky dive
airport in Tully. I want this journey to last a long time, because I
know once we’re there it will be very soon that I’ll be up I’m the
sky. Unfortunately, the cheerful driver who’s seen this a thousand
times says it will only take fifteen minutes. I begin to wonder if
I’ve got any loose ends I should tie up if the worst happens. I turn
my thoughts to my future blog entry.

We arrive at the “airport” and are told that stretch of grass that
looks suspiciously like a footy field is our runway. I sign my life
away on two forms and hope that my decision not to extend my insurance
to cover this is a gamble I’ll win. Didn’t help that a roomate told a
story yesterday of her mum breaking both her ankles doing this. Oh
well, dems the risks.
“Anyone else want to go in the first group?” the organsier shouts out.
I put up my hand, if only to get more beach time later in the day. No
point hanging around here getting nervous, either.

I meet my tandem partner and instantly forget his name. “How long you
been doing this?” I ask.
“Twenty years. 17,000 jumps”
Is this man clinically insane??!! One jump is bad enough, 100 just
silly. I don’t even want to compute his numbers. Still, right now
experience is good. Very good. I mean, he’s obviously survived that
many times, so unless he managed to kill a few jumpers on the way,
odds are I’ll be ok.

The safety lessons are over way too quickly. Bend your knees, arch
your back, and then lift your legs when landing. Pretty much it. If it
all goes wrong, then I guess I’ll just scream and flail every
appendage until I hit the water and break my neck/drown/get eaten by
shark/stung by jellyfish. Happy thoughts.

We walk to the plane, and get another shock. I’ve built bigger Airfix
kits than that!!! Somehow we squeeze about six pairs of sky divers in
it. Very cosy. We take off.

“2000 feet!” my partner tells me, happily counting down my impending
doom. 12000 feet to go. I admit the view looks good below. So many
greens. As we climb higher, it looks beautiful. The sun is hitting the
water and you can see the ringed patterns of the current. The long
sandy beach stretches as far as you can see. Wonderul. I start to get
really nervous.

What the heck am I doing here? I’m gonna jump out any minute and I’m
basically dead unless the guy behind me does his job. Should I be
doing this? Man, how bad would it be for family and friends if I was
to go splat?I’m sure Alli wouldn’t be too pleased, either. I know this
is one of my ambitions I wrote down when I was 15, but now I’m here
I’m really not sure. Little time for any other thoughts, though, as I
get prepped for the moment. Ohhhhhh crap….

I watch the first one go. I’m gonna be fifth of six. One by one I hear
the screams. Way too soon I’m shunted to the edge of the plane’s open
door. You gotta me shittin’ me… I feel a shove and then I’m in the
air…

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh. My. God!!!!!!!!

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaawwwwww!!!!!!!

This is f**king amazing!!!!!!!!!! I’m hurtling down towards the blue
sea at some unreal speed and it feels like nothing I’ve ever
experienced!! Like the most intense roller coaster drop but 1000 times
better!!! Am I falling? This is just incredible!! How the heck do I
describe this? The wind, the sights, the sensation is absolutely
wicked!!! Cooooool! Let me fall…let me fall…

My partner taps me on the shoulder to tell me I can wave my arms
around now. I make stupid faces and hand gestures to the camera,
shouting every corny dude phrase I can think of. Suddenly, he pulls
the parachute, and we slow down. I wasn’t even worried that it
wouldn’t open, and could have happily fallen for ever, if possible.
Now everything’s different. It’s serene. No sound. Just here drifting,
watching the jumpers below me slowly spiral down. I see islands,
trees, boats, rivers, the strip of beach that is my destination and of
course the sea. Incredible. We circle for a bit, and then swing
towards the landing site. I put my legs up when told and we complete a
perfect landing. I’ve just done my first sky dive and feel
fantastic!!!!!!!!!!! Can we do that again?

Best thing I’ve ever done? Quite possibly. Most insane? Absolutely.
Another ambition ticked off today.

Friday mornings spent in meetings, or risking your life hurtling
towards the ground with just a bit of cloth between you and certain
death? Shove me out of that plane… I wanna live……..

5.45am. My alarm goes off, disturbing a few of the girls in my eight-
berth dorm. Time to abandon ship.

Today I’m doing a sky dive. That’s jumping out of a perfectly good
plane at 14,000 feet with an instructor strapped to your back, in the
hope that the parachute will open ok and we’ll float gracefully down.
Why am I doing this? Well, for one it’s one of my lifetime ambitions.
Secondly, I guess it’s part two of my Point Break Keanu Reeves
experience.

First things first, though. I thought as I’m getting up early today I
might as well go a bit earlier and catch sunrise at 6:30 on the east-
facing beach. So I wash and stroll through the increasing light along
the road to the beach. I find a spot and look out. Unfortunately, it’s
a little cloudy out there, so not sure how it will look, but at least
the clouds will provide some effects. Around 6:30, the sun appears.
Wow. Look at it rising! I’m sure there has been many more stunning
sunsets I’m history, but this one is beautiful. The clouds are lined
with a golden edge as yellow dominates the blue and grey. Rays shoot
out as the disc slowly is revealed. A small boat bobbing a short way
out further sets the scene. If this is my last day alive on Earth,
then it’s not a bad start…

It’s 7:2am right now and I’m getting picked up in a few minutes. This
has been written live, so I honestly don’t know if there’ll be a next
post!!!

I’m in Byron Bay at the moment, sitting overlooking the beach, in
clear blue skies, sun kissing my cheeks with a cool breeze blowing
through my hair and listening to some tunes. Watching the rolling
waves crash on the shore below, I now realize just how much the ocean
can mirror life.

Some days, the water is smooth; the proverbial mill pond. Sometimes
you love the gentle respite this gives you as you float along going
nowhere. Other times, you want the thrill of a full-blooded wave fest
to excite and challenge you.

Diving around in the rough sea today, it was very much like my recent
life. Stuck with a mill pond for so long, it was great being thrown
around in the water. There have been days when I felt I’d mastered the
sea, as if I was untouchable. Everything was perfect, total fun. But
I’ve also had the days where it’s crept up on you, thrown you
violently sideways, and you don’t know when you’re coming up for air
again. You’ve lost control and all you can do is wait until it calms
down.

You eventually come out battered, sometimes wanting more,
occasionally shook up enough to retreat, questioning the decision
taking on a big wave. But it sure still beats the mill pond.

I’ve grown up a lot in the last few months. You meet new people
wherever you go and learn things about life, people and yourself. So
many people here are living life. Most are young, and I admire them
for having more courage than I did at their age. Taking this
sabbatical was a fantastic decision. I’ve experienced so much already,
both at home and on my travels, and I’m loving the fun and challenge
it is providing.

So what is the next wave gonna bring me? Who knows. But I’ll take what
comes. I’m not coming out of the water just yet…