Around the world in eight and a bit flights

First stop: Thailand

A muggy Phuket night after 24 hours door to door from home and a cold beer on the balcony. In the buzzing street outside, a covers band in the bar opposite is blasting out a reasonable approximation of The Doors in competition with Frosty the Snowman, playing on the street tannoy. Frosty is winning at the moment (presumably, it's still Christmas here as Lunar New Year is still a couple of weeks away). In the bar, the band's singer stands down as they turn into a karaoke outfit. The first volunteer at Communication Breakdown is brave, but Zeppelin's Rock and Roll is humiliating: everyone knows that vocal is far too high-pitched for mortals. Frosty has left the building but Santa Claus is Coming to Town. 

I remember a number one single called “January”, by Pilot: a jaunty, happy kind of tune, but, being Scottish, they knew the harsh reality of a British winter: the infectious excitement of grandchildren's Christmas and perhaps even a bit of early snow gives way to groundhog days in which a late dawn and an early dusk are held apart by a few hours of damp gloom. And nobody ever sang about February. So a chance encounter whilst doomscrolling with a bargain air fare out to Thailand and back from Fiji via California didn't need much selling. With plenty of ideas to bridge the gaps between Phuket and Nadi, all aboard the evening Qatar flight from Manchester to head eastwards and, by accident, all around the world (and there won’t be any more Oasis title references).

Time to inject a little jeopardy into this mission. We’re in a minivan for the 200km trip from Phuket Town to Ao Nang dock, there to catch a long-tail boat to Railay Bay, which is only accessible by water. Two hours in and the driver has already had to coast to a halt on the hard shoulder six times, there to switch everything off and try and restart the engine, pumping furiously on the gas. He’s been on the phone and presumably his IT help desk have told him to turn everything off and then on again. However, looking over his shoulder, the little engineer symbol on the dashboard is lit up, which generally means get this vehicle to someone who knows what they’re doing soon, or you’re screwed. Oh, and it’s now 4pm and the boats stop for the day at somewhere between 5 and 6pm, presumably depending on mood, tide or demand. After ten minutes' toilet stop, we expect to return to find the driver with a fistful of spanners or a cam belt in his hand, but he has just bought himself a huge fizzy drink takeout and it’s all smiles and back on the road. 800 metres further and we’re back on the hard shoulder. Scenery starting to look pretty good, though, with sharp limestone stacks and ridges rising up and towering over the palm oil plantations, so at least we’ll have something to look at if we get stranded.

But we didn’t, of course. Further jeopardy to follow though. The road to the quayside was blocked, so with profuse apologies, our driver dropped us a hundred metres short. Of the wrong dock. And he has now disappeared. Forgive the cynicism, but I’m never quite sure when locals all start shouting at once whether they’re trying to be helpful to the hapless tourists or looking to scam us. On this occasion, luckily, the former and a guy with no teeth threw our bags in the back of his truck and drove us to the right dock for two quid. Although this being Thailand, there wasn’t a dock and it was shoes off for a knee deep wade (with heavy bags) to a shared long-tail boat. Then another wade at the other end, across a beach and a couple of hundred metres to aircon, smiling faces and a beer. That’s enough fun for one day.

The scenery at Railay Bay looks somehow familiar: tree clad limestone cliffs rising vertical from the sea to a couple of hundred metres either side of a horseshoe white sand beach. Like a scene from Jurassic Park, which is fair enough as the last episode was filmed around here. No roaring dinosaurs or screaming idiots here, though: the soundtrack is the angry buzz of dozens of long tail boats scuttling back and forth to the “mainland” (well, the nearest road), a dozen reggae sound systems and the sussurus or a thousand pages of The Housemaid being turned at once. The sea is blood warm and crystal clear. In a clear cut case of nominative determinism, the one thoroughfare is Walking Street: a few hundred metres of ramshackle bars, smoky restaurants, massage parlours (“No sex”) and cannabis shops. The clientele mainly young, some backpackers, a few families and the odd invariably male hippy type who got lost in an Alec Garland novel sometime in the 1980s, sports a long and questionable plaited goatee and hasn’t heard that that look went out of style when Gary Glitter got nicked. 

Away from the beach and the lingering smell of weed and up the hill to meet chef Chef Bonchuay (“Call me Chuay”) at his swanky modern kitchen, for a Thai cookery class. My Thai restaurant repertoire is pretty limited and there were no great surprises here, but four of us were guided through Thailand’s greatest hits very quickly and in two hours, we managed to cobble together four actually-not-bad dishes. Efforts at home are usually limited to a splash of soy and a sprinkle of fish sauce: here was a veritable arsenal of seasonings. And the flavour and technique are greatly improved by issuing all instructions three times: chop-chop-chop, stir-stir-stir, scrape-scrape-scrape and so on. Some bits were more fiddly than others: neatly wrapping prawn wantons in spring roll pastry, like an NHS bowel cancer test, requires three hands. The end result was more pleasing. Three hours of fun and conversation to stagger back down the hill, avoiding the monkeys, absolutely stuffed.

The Railay peninsula is completely cut off from the mainland to the north by a range of steep mountains. Similarly, the allegedly beautiful Phra Nang beach to the south seems to be cut off by a wall of rock. However, follow the hand painted signs from Railay East beach to a highly improbable looking path burrowed into the bare of the cliffs, passing underneath rocky outcrops and huge stalactites and the beach is finally revealed. There are more stunning views out towards rock stacks and islands in the bay, but the real action here is rock climbing. There is a whole local  infrastructure here built up around climbing tourists, both novice and experienced. We watch a couple of apparent beginners get kitted up on the sand and then guided up the sheer face by instructors on the ground, using laser pointers to highlight hand and toe holds. Even if we were tempted (we’re not), time to get another boat and minivan to the airport for the next leg, five hours into the future in Australia.

Wine and wildlife down under

On a grey, rather blustery afternoon, crowds are gathering on the lawns and steps outside the entrance to the Bondi Beach Pavilion building, to listen to an acoustic band playing Yiddish songs while police, some of whom may have been involved on the day, stood back to watch over this memorial to the grim events of December 14th. While the rest of us were getting ready for Christmas, fifteen innocents were gunned down here at 6:30 on a summer's evening. An hour later, in a nearby supermarket, we are invited to join in a minute's silence to remember Australia's biggest mass murder. Without realising it, we had crossed the footbridge from where the attackers were firing in one of the most powerful images of the day.

But it’s business as usual here otherwise. The buses, shops and bars are busy and we passed a constant stream of other walkers on the coast path from Coogee to Bondi Beach. A very strong south westerly wind stirred up some spectacular seas and made for a bracing couple of hours’ walk.

Elsewhere, today we saw koalas, wallabies, kangaroos, a giraffe and some lions. Taronga zoo is just a short ferry hop across the harbour from the main Circular Quay terminal and is the perfect way to fill another day of less than perfect weather. We were a bit disappointed not to find the platypus in its advertised pool. But a keeper grabbed us and led us the wrong way up and down paths and stairs into the dark of a nocturnal house. “There” she said: and there was the platypus happily playing at rolling a small log back and forth in the water. Nice place, for a zoo though, with fabulous views through the trees across the harbour. Bit odd, though, seeing a giraffe against the backdrop of the Harbour Bridge.

Three days in Sydney, staying in Chinatown just on the edge of the Central Business District, ten minutes walk from Darling Harbour and a short tram ride (that wasn’t there when we were last here twelve years ago) to Circular Quay, the ferries, the Bridge and the Opera House. Like all big cities these days, public transport works seamlessly: tap on and off to buses, trams, trains and ferries and there’s a daily charge cap: all dead easy to navigate with Google Maps.

We go to meet a friend in the nearby suburbs of Surry Hills and it is striking how quickly the tower blocks of the city centre give way to the three or four storey buildings of the arty looking suburbs, slightly shabby in places with lots of fading wrought ironwork and festoons of potted plants.

Two hours north of Sydney and the clouds and wind have given way to blue skies and brutal summer heat. So a perfect day for wine tasting (?). 18 months ago, we visited the grave of Mongol warrior Timburkaine in Samarkand, Uzbekistan. Today, we are visiting a winery of the same name, for no obvious reason. We marked Australia Day last year with a tour of Margaret River wineries, way over in the west. We’re a day early this year (“’straya day is tomorrow”) and in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales. Semillon and chardonnay are the weapons of choice, but a couple of nice surprises with verdinho and tempranillo. However, with the temperature hovering around 40°C, it’s hard work.

We’re staying a couple of nights in a cabin about 1km away from Reception across open grassland, so plenty of opportunity for creepy crawly and slithering phobias. However the only wildlife we encountered was a trio of kangaroos, grazing in the dusk in the evenings. On the second evening, they wandered to within a few yards of our terrace and were joined by a fourth, which Google Lens tells us is a female Eastern Grey, with a baby joey in her pouch. By morning, no sign of them, presumably sleeping in the shade somewhere.

The Aussie coast and an unexpected medical interlude

Today is Australia Day, which seems to be a much bigger deal than St George's day or indeed, most other feast days in the UK. On breakfast TV, Prime Minister Albanese is taking the salute while a regimental band delivers a crisp brass version of Down Under. In scenic but cloudy Nambucca Heads, back on the Pacific coast, everything is shut for the holiday, apart from the Returned Services League, a sort of Aussie British Legion and housed in quite a flash three-storey building overlooking the river and the sea. Even at visitors’ prices, it’s a bargain. We enjoy a glass of wine in the in-house betting shop (racing live from somewhere in Japan), but we've missed the Cold Chisel (?) tribute band in the restaurant. Still, we can enjoy the exuberant costumes and post-party staggerings with our fish and chips. A 350km drive north to get here from wine country, through seemingly endless eucalyptus forests. Plenty of signs saying look out for koalas, but we didn’t see any. We did pass the Slim Dusty Interchange, with signs to the Slim Dusty museum and visitor centre. All for a bloke whose one international hit seems to have been A Pub With No Beer. Perhaps the M5 should have an Acker Bilk junction and the A1 a Tony Capstick service centre. And while we are on the subject, why is Waltzing Matilda not in waltz time?

Not in the plan was a visit to Macksville hospital emergency department, with a persistently bleeding lip wound. They didn’t want any money, but the doctor couldn’t help and recommended a skin cancer clinic at our next stop. Managed to get an appointment within two hours of arrival in Byron Bay. The doctor (ex-Welsh GP but happily settled here for 14 years) recommended a biopsy and cauterization on the spot (he said the anaesthetic might hurt and he wasn't joking), which he did for a ludicrously low fee compared with the UK. The repair should get us through the rest of the trip until I can follow up in the UK.

An afternoon drive to Dorrigo Rainforest National Park and we stop for lunch in Bellingen. The guidebooks decribe this place as Bohemian and artsy: Totnes meets a jumble sale, with lots of floaty dresses, harem pants, dreadlocks and bare feet.

Thursday morning farmers’ market in Byron Bay has a similar vibe, albeit with rather more footwear. In the town centre, however, it’s obviously completely OK to wander round bars and shops in nothing but swimwear. It’s a pleasant enough town but there’s not much here by day beyond surf and walking trails, until the evening. The streets were livening up, with lots of restaurants and bars spreading out into the streets where the traffic had been, and the swimwear has been replaced by posh frocks.

Then we found the Great Northern Hotel, a grand old two storey Victorian edifice with wraparound balcony, where all of Australian nightlife is happening at once. We get easily enough into the crowded public bar, where Dan Hannaford and his mate (who looks like Bernard Bresslaw) are hammering out guitar and harmonica swamp blues to the general appreciation of the crowd. Across the lobby, the other bar is carnage: we're forty years too old to get in. Two guys are pounding away at amplified grand pianos with some sort of beat box accompaniment and a sea of kids, with arms aloft, are screaming along with Wonderwall, I’m Still Standing and the rest. According to our Uber driver, it’s like that every night.

We are promised a good chance of spotting wild koalas in the treetops on the climb up to Cape Byron and the lighthouse, but sadly they are shy today. We even went back for a second try the next day and chanced upon a Park Ranger who assured us he could find us a Koala. Nope: not his lucky day either. Despite marsupial disappointment, the walk up through the trees is lovely and the views at the top are worth the climb. There are long views out to both north and south from Cape Byron, but although this is reputedly a good vantage point for spotting dolphins, rays, whales and even sharks, the sea is so churned up by the weather that nothing is visible apart from spray and crashing waves. There is a trail off into the woods behind our hotel that passes a scenic lake on the way to Tallow beach, but the story is the same with the sand being pounded by south Pacific breakers. The weather has been consistent for the last few days: mainly cloudy with the odd sunny break, and strong winds. However with temperatures hovering around 28°C, it’s seemingly much better than the continuing storms in the UK and Portugal.

A health and safety warning : Aussie e-bikes are enormous with huge chunky tyres and are driven almost silently along the pavements at at least 50kmh: I checked the car speedo while following one. There must be accidents and, at those speeds, they won’t be minor.

A reminder of how vast Australia is: we’ve changed time zones between last nights hotel and today’s and won an extra hour in Queensland (we’ll lose it all again en route to New Zealand Tuesday). The weather has improved and apart from clear skies this afternoon, we have dined with a bright full moon reflected across the rippling waters of Noosa. Prices also noticeably cheaper than New South Wales: is that a thing?

Last Sunday, we attempted a wine tour in 40°C heat: today it’s a coastal walk. Noosa is reputedly the food capital of the area. However, the collection of small towns around the river estuary are more like some high end Mediterranean resort. But head just a few hundred metres out onto the cliff path for clear, blue sea and rolling surf under the shade of eucalyptus and palm. Still 40°C, though. After ten days in Oz, the worst of the usual phobias are largely dealt with. Open toed sandals for a walk? Fine. Rustling in the undergrowth? Probably just a brush turkey. Massive spider web? Probably still fatal.

A river cruise to mark the end of the stay and the end of the Australia leg culminates with a vivid orange and yellow sunset behind the hills to the west, accompanied by a huge new moon rising across the water to the east, with a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc to hand. G'day.

A week from Cape Reinga to Coromandel

Can't offhand think of another three hour flight, which with time differences, lands six hours later, but that's Brisbane to Auckland. Have said this before, but why can’t all countries make immigration tech work (I'm thinking UK and EU). Two short forms to fill in online to get into New Zealand, then it's a quick scan of the passport (no queue) and we're in. The only delays were waiting for bags and then queueing to get our bags sniffed by the illegal food imports dog: he was very cute and very quick.

Last year, we headed south from Auckland, to the geothermal country (Rotorua, Taupo) and the spectacular south (Queenstown, Franz Josef): this year, it’s four hours’ north on not the best of roads to the Northland. Mild excitement at the car hire collection: a Portuguese driving license (it’s a Brexit thing) needs to be accompanied by an official translation, which I don’t have but ten minutes' Internet and WhatsApp sorts. The journey wasn’t promising but arriving at Doubtless Bay on the east coast was worth it. This is a very tranquil corner: two kilometres of golden sand around a smooth bay, backed by gentle hills, forested with Torbay palms (OK, New Zealand cabbage trees) and overhanging greenery. Given the ten degree drop in temperature and the glassy sky, it could be Devon. It is very quiet, with just a few dog walkers on the beach and a lone kayaker on the water.

70 miles north, Cape Reinga, the nothernmost point in New Zealand is reached by the ever quieter Highway 1 as traffic dwindles as the road heads into nowhere. Such traffic as there is, is mainly logging trucks and camper vans. The logging truck drivers pull in occasionally to let faster vehicles past, camper van drivers sadly do not. Lush pastures and gentle bays give way to wilder heathland and dense patches of forest before the road climbs sharply to the cliffs at the end of the world. There are 360° views from the top of the headland before descending the steep track to lighthouse. From here, it is said you can see the junction of the Pacific and Tasman Sea, as they are subtly different colours. Today, though, is another day of blustery showers, so the water is too churned up tell. Back via the so-called 90 Mile beach, which is actually only 55 miles long, but who’s counting. It is possible to drive along the sand the whole length and a couple of 4x4s did go past, but our car rental agreement specifically rules out trying it, so it’s back to Doubtless Bay for a walk on what could once again be a South Devon beach.

April 6, 1840 saw the signing of a treaty agreement between the British settlers and resident Mauri population, at Waitangi on the Bay of Islands. Waitangi Day is now the national day and a public holiday and the Waitangi Treaty Grounds are ground zero. By an accident of planning, we are trying to pass Waitangi on the way to our next step, but get funnelled off the main road and into the event parking. There are probably tens of thousands of people here, but it’s all very well (and very amiably) organised, to get everyone parked up and onto shuttle buses as painlessy as possible. Our arrival is marked by a 21-gun salute from a naval ship in the bay, but that is probably just coincidence. We missed the dawn opening service but met the arrival of six long canoes paddled by shirtless and barefoot Maori blokes. Forty or so of them then drag the boat up the hill out of the water then perform a pretty fearsome haka. A fifty strong choir then assemble by the main stage and perform flawless a capella traditional songs, with close harmony and counterpoint before they too get cross and go all haka, with lots of Hoo! And Huh! Great place to be by accident.

And then back onto the water to see the Bay of Islands properly. Third boat trip of this adventure, after Sydney Harbour and Noosa's canals, and this is a bit more high octane. Four huge Suzuki outboard motors blast us across the bay in a hail of spray under clear blue skies. Throttles eased for a couple of drive-bys of smaller more scenic islands, then full welly to Hole in the Rock island, which does what it says on the tin. The passage through the hole is tight, but the skipper has obviously done it a time or two before and on the other side, we join three fur seals, one basking on the rocks after a hard nights squid hunting, with two more cooling and playing in the water. Interestingly, all public facing workers, specifically the boat skipper here, seem comfortable dropping in and out of speaking Maori and all signage is in both languages. It would be nice to think that some of the themes from Waitangi Day (“cooperating together to build a better New Zealand”) were more than just slogans, but hope that’s not too naive. Back via a coffee stop at chilled Otehei Bay, then on to Russell beach on the mainland for a much needed dip in the sea. UV today is classified “extreme”.

It’s a slow, seven hour drive back through the city to get to Auckland’s summer and weekend playground, the Coromandel peninsula. Judging by the nose to tail traffic coming in the opposite direction, it looks like summer has come to an end and the place is being locked up for the season. Indeed, the two beach towns we visit, Whitianga and Whangamata, both single street, single storey kind of places, have the feel of abandoned frontier towns. The swanky holiday properties are shuttered and locked and the glorious beaches are almost deserted. The weather seems to be on the turn as well, but good for cliff walking and checking out some of the remote coves and rock formations. And I got a nice haircut in Whangamata.

On an Android phone, long press on the “torch” icon to increase brightness. You may want to know this before venturing onto the Kagurahaka Gorge Windows walk, or more specifically, the narrow, low abandoned railway tunnels. The walk is easy enough but the old tramway tunnels, left over from gold mining days, are very, very dark. The gorge is the middle of yet another set of very major roadworks fixing the damage caused by landslips during the recent heavy rain. It seems normal to hit two or three of these a day, each one with a ten minute or so wait at the lights. Once off the road, the gorge is reached by a couple of precarious swinging suspension bridges from the car park, then steps carved into the gorge sides up to the old tramway, with the roar of the swollen river in the rocks below. Good fun once the torches are sorted.

After the twisty turny roads of Coromandel, back onto the fast, smooth roads of the centre of the island for quick detours to Hamilton Gardens and Waitomo Glowworm Caves. The gardens are a bit of fun: twenty or so small self-contained exhibition gardens (Egyptian, Chinese, Japanese, English etc etc) on the banks of the Waikato river with plenty of shade from the extreme UV. The caves are very much like any other commercial cave system, until the last bit: in almost complete darkness, onto small boats which are dragged around by hand by the guide under ceilings covered with a constellation of small glowing lights. They’re really fly larvae, but as the guide says, the Waitomo Maggot Caves won’t really pull the crowds in. That was just over 1,000 miles around the northern half of the north island. Car returned, flights checked in and onwards (but back one hour).

Some islands in the sun

The instructions in our Fiji apartment include a suggestion to visit the nearest town, Nadi, using the local Yellow Bus. “Just give the driver $1.50 (about 50p)” we were told. An ancient vehicle wheezed into view almost immediately, but was sporting a sign that said “From February, no cash. Card only”. The driver emphatically shook his head at a proffered credit card, pointed to a nearby shop and said “bus card”. Fair enough and we tried the second bus with the newly acquired card. And the price had gone down. The tech – card reader and screen – looked completely out of place on the ancient vehicle. No door or windows and the Christmas tinsel garlands draped across the windscreen could not hide the maze of massive cracks. The driver sits in a hole in the floor, presumably to be near the mechanics and wrestles effortlessly with a crunching gearbox and unpredictable brakes. The graphic on the back of the bus declares “Proudly carrying you since 1966”. I’m quite prepared to believe this is the original bus. Twenty minutes later on Nadi's main street and we quickly conclude we should not be here. Like the lost tourist in Dreadlock Holiday, we weren’t exactly confronted with outright hostility, but got some enquiring looks and one passer by firmly asserted “go back to your hotel and pool and have a beer”. He didn’t need to ask twice. The return fare was only 30p.

Fiji is made up of 330 islands and we’ve only managed one and a bit. We are

only about 1,000 miles south of the equator, so the weather forecast is predictably the same every day: a mixture of sun, clouds and thunderstorms. Today, the sky is blue so a day boat trip to “South Sea Island” (presumably it has a proper Fijian name but I can’t see it on the map) is an opportunity too good to miss. Coral sands, kayaks, snorkeling, barbecue lunch and a free bar all day. Horrible.

However, last week was a different story. Very heavy rains caused landslips and washed away part of the main coastal road from Denarau to Sigitoka. Our driver was forced on a 30 minute detour on gravel tracks, but it ran deep into the jungle for some close up fabulous views. Villages and houses typically south east Asian: timber or breezeblocks, some on stilts and, as our driver pointed out, no fences. Amit was third generation Indian: his grandfather came over age 14 more than 50 years ago to work in the sugar cane fields. Now, full-time education runs to 18 or 19 and there is an expectation of college or university, and a profession, possibly in Australia or somewhere. At least half of Sigatoka town appears to be of Indian descent. Had another go on the local bus to visit the town from our small resort a few miles away: much more successful this time. The bus card still had a bit of credit on it and someone helpfully directed my to the right shop to top it up with more. The town market was stocked with a few unrecognisable things, but not too many. There were more obviously western tourists around and at least one coffee stall catered for our refreshment needs: flat white hot, no sugar. Everybody seemingly busy and moving with purpose but pausing to wave to friends and hug their kids. Happy to shout “bula” at passing tourists: we were told it just means hello, but it might be part of some great conspiracy to get tourists calling “bollocks” in the street. Waiting on the bus at the stand for the journey back, and Asian lady in the next seat fired up some TV soap opera on her phone, very loud and without earphones. I thought of responding with an episode of the Night Manager, saved for the next plane journey, but didn’t want to appear petty.

As mentioned, our slightly faded but otherwise lovely hotel is about 10 miles from the nearest civilisation, opening directly onto the beach, lagoon and surf breaking against the coral reef 200 metres beyond. The dead-end passing road is laughably called Sunset Strip. Too hot for sun loungers this afternoon, so stood in the lukewarm pool swapping travel stories with other guests, American and English. All agreed that Fiji may have been a slightly unintentional destination, but a great find. Don’t normally use TripAdvisor but the reviews about this place are spot on: unbelievably relaxing, joyously friendly staff, good food and a very slow pace to everything. Sunset over the ocean was over two hours ago and the sky is now illuminated with lightning flashes from afar, which is fine: we’ll happily take the storms and rain at night. Overhead, massive bats are swirling in the gloom, their wings close enough to hear as they pass. Google Lens says they’re Pacific Flying Foxes, with a 1.2 metre wingspan. Not aggressive or dangerous unless they scratch you: rabies and worse. Google Lens again as we’re attempting a walk in the lagoon in special reef shoes: that could be a 30cm snake sea cucumber, but then again could be a rattlesnake. Let’s go with the former, although highly venomous snakes are reported to inhabit the reef.

Another glorious sunset through broken clouds as one of the staff picks up his guitar for a few lazy tunes to accompany Happy Hour. Not a bad end to a week here.

The following day, however, will technically last 45 hours as we fly across the International Date Line to San Francisco.

Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

Never make assumptions. I thought dissent was verboten under current circumstances, but this morning's Uber driver is playing a satirical podcast about the leader on the car stereo and, when we said we'd just arrived from Fiji, said his family had a place in the Bahamas. Lots to talk about.

The elevator ("lift", Limeys) at the Coit Tower is broken, so it's 247 steps to the top, on top of the slog up Lombard Street to the base. The views across the city and bay are clear, bright and lovely, but the sound of firecrackers and fireworks from Chinatown, for the Lunar New Year, below is compelling. 

The two consecutive Fridays thing is very disorientating, such that we forgot rule #101 of American restaurants (one portion is enough for two) and ordered sufficient fresh pasta and sauce on Union Street to feed Inter Milan and most of their fanbase. Remembered the second night, but even so, one "starter" and one "entree" would have fed at least the goalie as well.

Around two years ago, we visited Robben Island, the former prison just off Cape Town, where Nelson Mandela, among others, had been incarcerated. Once a tool of the oppressive apartheid regime, the Island is now staffed by many ex-prisoners and is open as a symbol of reconciliation and a shared future. I'm not sure what Alcatraz is a symbol of, other than a stark reminder that per capita, America imprisons more of its citizens than any other country in the world and five or six times more than comparable European countries. No explanation is offered and although The Rock was only used as a prison for about thirty years, it is a compelling shorthand for a brutal and cruel system. The audio commentary accompanying a walk around the cell block doesn't pull any punches: conditions were grim and attempted escape never ended well. Even on a warm spring day, there was a chill indoors.

The compulsory ride on a 150 year-old streetcar, after the equally compulsory queue, was good value as the car laboured up then clattered down the steep hills, accompanied by the smell of burning brakes. Being childish, it was necessary to ride on the footboard, hanging off the handrail for added frisson. 

At least the streetcars have operators. Not so Waymo cars. A fleet of specially designed white Jaguar i-pace cars are conspicuous for their rotating radar turrets and numerous cameras and sensors, but look closely: no driver. Download the Waymo app and away you go. As the car approaches, it flashes your initials on the turret, press the "unlock" button on the app and jump in. The novelty of an empty driver's seat (but don't worry: the invisible driver's seat belt is plugged in) quickly wears off and the ride is impressively cautious, pausing for crossing pedestrians and even at one point, stopping for ages while it considered if there was enough room to pass a row of parked cars. And you don't have to tip. There is a multistorey car park opposite our hotel and Waymo have taken over the top floor as the charging point for the fleet. If this were a Stephen King novel, their comings and goings would suggest the presence of the evil creatures' nest.

And that's it: checked in for the last one and a half flights (Heathrow to Manchester in 30 minutes doesn't really count). Fifteen hotels (should have been fourteen, but one was beyond the pale). Fiji is top of the recommendations list but, as ever, nowhere disappoints, with the possible exception of Nadi town. Back to the UK, to see if winter is over yet.