Chapter 5 - Queue O'Clock

'So, there will definitely be someone here tomorrow when I check out', I said to the guy on reception who looked like a cross between Mr Bean and an onion.

'Yes, you can pay for your transfer then'.

I was a bit disappointed to have been charged EUR 1.50 for a tea bag, just because I had run out of my Earl Grey - still, this tea bag professed to be 'Lord Grey', so I had splashed out.  This was yesterday evening as I approached my room for my final sleep in Riga.

I say sleep, but it sounded like there were 16 stag-dos in my room (for the avoidance of doubt, there weren't any), but combined with it being Friday night, the noise was unbearable.  It's a weird juxtaposition if you think about it - the streets are lined with history, monks in medieval dress, fairy-tales about cockerels, all sorts of churches and monuments, yet Riga has become a stag-do destination of choice, with the streets awash with people drinking beer and wearing matching t-shirts saying 'Barry's Groom Support'.  I hope Barry's aware of the divorce rate these days.

I had set my alarm for 4.30am and had a cab coming at 5.15am.  I decided against the eye mask and ear plugs in case I missed sunrise and the alarm.  After what felt like five minutes sleep, the alarm was buzzing and I started getting ready to leave.  I'd packed, laid out my clothes, so just had to have a rapid shower then dash downstairs.     

I thanked my room for hosting me, as one does, then bundled downstairs ready to check-out.

Reception was deserted.  Adele was squawking out of a radio in the room behind reception.

'Hello - it's me', I called out.

Nothing.

I sat down - someone will be here in a minute, I said to myself.

No-one came.  

I got up and started knocking on the desk.

Nothing happened.

I hoped my cab was waiting up the road (much of the Old Town is pedestrianised so you can't always get too close to buildings in a vehicle), but I hadn't yet paid for it and you're meant to pay reception, then they give you a little voucher to give to the driver.

I know, I thought - I'll call them - someone is bound to come running when they hear a phone at what was now 5.15am.  I googled the hotel and started calling.  The phone on reception started to ring.  Should I answer it? I thought.  No, that would be silly.  I did that once at a conference at the Bromley Court Hotel when the phone in the restaurant started ringing - I found it very funny but the hotel staff less so.

I let it ring and ring and ring.

I hung up.

I heard a snuffle from just outside the dining room along from reception - I crept over there - there was a middle-aged man slumped in a chair.  He looked just a tiny bit, well, dead really.  I felt on his neck for a pulse and was reassured that there was one.  I then noticed a rucksack next to him so he must have just arrived, realised there was no-one on reception, found a chair and fallen asleep.  Or maybe it was Barry and he'd had enough.

I started to worry - this was already more tightly timed than I wanted, I couldn't check out or pay for my transfer, plus I didn't know if my cab had come.

As Adele continued to squawk, I went round to the other side of the reception to see if I could say hello from the other side.  No joy.

What would Jesus do? I thought.  Jesus would have got up earlier and taken the bus.  

My eyes fell on a post-it note; I grabbed a nearby pen and wrote them a note explaining the situation.  I stuck it onto the sleeve with the dodgy key-card in, along with 25 EUR cash which I had forgotten I had on me.

I walked outside and there was a cab a few hundred yards up the road.  A gruff, skinny greying man was leaning against the car.

'Hello - are you for Helen?

'Yes but where is voucher?'

'There is no-one on reception, so I don't have a voucher'.

He rolled his eyes and huffed and puffed, 'waiting here', he commanded, then stormed towards to the hotel.  

Two minutes later he stormed back again - 'There nobody is there', he retorted.  I raise my eyebrows, saying nothing.  

He proceeded to make some frantic phone calls - I didn't understand a word but I don't think they were social calls.

Begrudgingly and voucher-less, he drove me to the airport.   On arrival, I thanked him warmly, apologised that there was no voucher, and gave him a crisp £10 note I had in my wallet - 'go and change this to Euros and buy something nice' - his expression changed completely - 'thank you - is good flight' - and we parted.

Riga airport consisted of queue after queue.  If I see a long queue, I usually join it, just to see what it leads to.  

I'd checked in online, reluctantly as ever, then had to join a queue to drop Purple, my fairly new travelly rucksack who is too soft to go in with the solid, rugged big bags so had to go in the oversized baggage bit along with a plethora of pushchairs, surfboards, a cello, even some dogs and cats.  

The next queue was for security - when it was my turn, the young security man said, 'do you speak English?'

'Well yes, rather well, I like to think.  I write it too; in fact, I'm writing a travel blog which is being read by at least three unconnected people.  Would you like to read it?'

Realising this wasn't the time, the security people had unearthed my suncream which I had failed to move into my checked bag, so it was confiscated.  This was less embarrassing than in Estonia in 2018 when I'd failed to move my penknife from my day-bag to my checked bag, in front of the entire Guide group.

The next queue was for tap-water.  A couple were faffing with the water machine and couldn't seem to get it to work.  I turned around to the lady behind me - 'You look miserable, are you Latvian?' - 'Yes', she sullenly replied; though her expression changed when we got to the front and I managed to get the machine to work.  She pointed at the couple who had been faffing with the water machine  and said, 'I think maybe they were idiots'.  We giggled.

The penultimate queue was immigration and it moved slowly to the point that I was worried that I would actually miss the flight - on arrival at the front, the border official looked as though she had just finished her Gold Award at Guides and was moving up to Rangers next September.  

'Helen?'

'Yes please'

'To London?'

'I hope so' - I smiled, she didn't smile.

'Next please', she shouted over my shoulder as she handed me my freshly stamped passport and dismissed me through the wooden door. 

In the final Latvian queue of my life, I found myself in front of the couple who had been behind me at immigration when we arrived on Tuesday! They proudly told me that they have been to 161 countries.  This was impressive, but seemed a little implausible.  But they went on to tell me that they are in the club for people who have been to more than 100 countries - I've checked and there's even a badge available.  It later transpired that this 161 includes all sorts of islands and dependencies which are usually part of other countries, so the true number is 109, which is still quite impressive.  They told me that they also went to Lithuania this week - 'so did I', I retorted.

The flight was uneventful - I was desperate to sleep, having had about 10 minutes, so tried to fashion a bed out of my coat and the spare seat next to me, without much success.  I have a cosy neck pillow somewhere - I haven't seen it since I was in Serbia in May - I think it might still be in Serbia; not helpful.    

The last queue of the journey was for the e-gates, which never let me through despite having a funky passport with a magic chip.  I tried three times - 'Seek Assistance' it said, and I turned round - a kindly young man in a turban directed me to another queue - actual Sikh assistance, I thought.  

At Gatwick, I jumped onto a London Bridge bound train, then a Plumstead bound train, then walked home.  I couldn't help noticing that there's a new chicken shop in the high street.

Farewell friends, thanks for sharing the adventure with me.  Until next time.  

Chapter 4 - Train to the Beach

Honestly, if I had a sense of direction, I'd be dangerous.

On group trips I am leading, the first thing to check out, even before you've left the UK is - where's the nearest hospital.  The second is generally - where's the beach (we even manage this in landlocked countries); the third is - where is Lidl?

I realised yesterday that there is a beautiful stretch of beach a train ride away from Riga.  I'm not one who will lay toasting in the sun, but there is something very beautiful about walking along a beach, marveling at the stupendous beauty of the seascape, juxtaposed with the strength of that water.  This is more powerful when a beach is deserted, not when the population of Latvia is covering it.

After my square scrambled eggs (it can't be comfortable for those chickens laying square eggs), plums and coffee, I asked the curious man on reception how to get to the train station.  He pointed me in the opposite direction to the one I was anticipating, which was discombobulating. 

I set off wandering in a direction sort of between what he said and what I thought.  I started to recognise bits from my guided walk the other day with Krista the tour guide - I'm realising that most women here are called Krista, it's like Avas at Brownies.

I passed the Medieval Restaurant with the curious medieval monk man outside - maybe he was on the way to a fancy dress party, or maybe he always dresses like that - who knows.

I then passed the Swedish bridge.  I then happened upon one of most famous statues in Riga.  From Krista's description, it is a bronze representation of four animals from a fairy story who had to run away to the circus because they were going to be put down.  They all climbed on top of each other to make a tower of animals.  Legend has it that the higher the animal you can touch, the more luck you will get.  Well - firstly, what a load of nonsense; secondly, that's heightist; thirdly, the animal at the top is a... flipping cockerel!!

I carried on walking and realised that I could actually see trains, so I couldn't be far from the station.  I walked down a huge underpass but took the wrong exit, twice.

The curious man on reception had said something about Omega, and I'd assumed he'd been talking about fish oil.  When I eventually emerged out of the right exit of the underpass, I realised that the station is part of an enormous complex called Omiga which contains a plethora of shops, restaurants, and, predictably, a KFC.

In case you're wondering, another very famous statue in Riga is that of the 42.7m high Freedom Monument, which consists of a woman some know as Milda holding three stars which represent the three historic regions of Latvia.  She overlooks the Old Town at the edge of which is MacDonalds, so useful if she fancies a quick McFlurry.

I purchased a train ticket with some trouble -

'Please could I have a return ticket to Majori';

'So you want to go, then come back';

'Yes, I won't come back until I've been';

The ticket office lady grimaced.  My humour doesn't work in any language, hence why my stand-up career failed.

'So you go - you stay - you come back'.

'Yes please'.

'Four Euros'.

This struck me as quite a bargain as it was about thirty minutes each way.  The train was waiting and was very exciting as it had stairs, which most trains in the UK don't.  I think I was meant to validate my ticket on a bleepy thing, which I duly did.  Later in the journey, my ticket was checked by a girl who looked the age of one of my Brownies, albeit an older Brownie.

The train had electric points and a series of helpful signs - you can charge your mobile, your laptop, but not any household appliances.  I swiftly unplugged my kettle and iron and hoped that no-one had noticed.  The sign also implied that you can't plug in a baby - fortunately I didn't have one of those.

On arrival at Majori station, which is more of a pavement than a train station, I followed the surge of people with beach-bags and soon found myself on a perfectly sandy beach stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction - it is in fact 21 miles long.  I didn't walk all 21 miles, but did a reasonable Helen walk westwards before settling at a beach bar for Coca Cola (which I only drink when abroad, so it's a little treat, though disappointingly they don't stamp 'Latvia' on the rims of the lids), a pastry, then a coffee, whilst sitting reading my Jesus book.

I fell into conversation with an Italian couple backpacking their way from Vilnius to Helsinki, but they weren't very interesting.

They asked if I'd been to Estonia - I said that I'd taken my Girl Guides there on a trip in 2018.  They asked what we had done there.  I tried to explain that we had gone for a long walk on a wooden path through an enormous bog.  

'What is bog?' she said.  

'Well, it's, erm, like a big expanse of water which is, sort of boggy, and still; but you can walk through it, on a wooden platform.  It's fun!'

She wasn't convinced.  

'It was a few years ago though, but I don't think bogs move, it's probably still there'.

She nodded with trepidation, still not convinced.  I went back to reading my Jesus book.  

After a few hours at the beach, I took a wander around Jurmala then went back to the pavement train station and took the next train back to Riga.  I navigated my way back to the Old Town without incident, google maps or cockerels and was quite proud of myself. 

Feeling hungry, I installed myself at a quirky cafe overlooking St Peter's Basilica and asked if I could order.  'Is here', came the brisk reply, as the waitress thrust her finger towards a QR code stuck to the table.

'But it's things like that which epitomise the breakdown of society - I want to place my order with a human person, not via a QR code', I protested.

'Is here', she pointed again, and walked off.

Begrudgingly, I placed my order via the QR code.  Meantime, three elderly German ladies arrived and sat at the adjacent table.  I smiled and they looked away.  

The waitress championing the breakdown of society arrived at their table - 'Here is for you a menu', she said to them as she handed them a paper menu.     

Chapter 3 - Cross Country

Having hardly slept again as it sounded as though there was a stag do in my room (for the avoidance of doubt - there wasn't) throughout the night, by some miracle I managed to stir on time, pressing the snooze button just once instead of the usual seventeen times.

I hastily got ready then was at a breakfast table by 7am, happily devoid of the 'beknackt' woman from yesterday - in fact, the room was empty so I didn't have to table-surf, brush past anyone or do anything apart from munch my diverse breakfast - square scrambled eggs (I think the chickens must lay square eggs here), tiny hot dog sausages, cucumber, tomatoes, rice, plums plus a vitamin C-recalibrating orange juice, water and coffee.  It was sumptuous.  I then remembered that I was going to be on a bus for a significant chunk of the day so started worrying about what happened when I was in a vehicle the other day, so I packed a magic spoon as I haven't seen a newspaper here.

With a clandestine coffee smuggled into Thermy my thermo-mug (everything should have a name), passport stashed accordingly, notebook, funky bucket hat (funky in my eyes anyway, that's debatable in some circles) and suncream, I bundled out of my budget hotel and made the three-minute walk to an awaiting mini-bus outside St Peter's Basilica.  

I was heading to, that's right... Lithuania!

The tour guide looked like a villain from Spooks.  But he was warm and friendly, incredibly knowledgeable about all things Latvian and later, Lithuanian.  The other passengers started to arrive - an eclectic bunch from as far afield as Japan, Germany and Hertfordshire.

One lady seemed a bit cagey about what she does for a living, so I think she's possibly an assassin, but has to keep it quiet.  I'm not sure if you've seen 'Black Doves' on Netflix, but it makes you think.  Just be wary of anyone who tells you they work in insurance, and remember that Sarah Lancashire isn't necessarily living it up in a golf buggy at the Yorkshire Tea offices.  

Another lady had all sorts of intriguing tattoos.   She seemed to have a raccoon tattooed behind her ear.  I wanted to ask her about this but the considered that maybe she had had a difficult experience with a raccoon.  Another of her tattoos adorned her leg - she obviously didn't think she was going to get varicose veins when she had that one done.  

Tattoos eh.  There was a man from the council outside my house last week scraping away the plants from between the paving slabs; we coincided as I was doing the bins - he has a tattooed face! That must have really hurt.  I'm not sure he thought that through.  The neighbour with the baby Bedlington terrier turned up and we had a little three-way chat about the state of the world whilst the puppy bounced around thinking we had all met up just for him.

Another member of our bus crew was an American lady who looked as though she hadn't been on a same continent as a hairbrush for about forty-five years.  I mean, I haven't used a hairbrush since 1996 but I think I would have if my hair was long and straggly.  I think she had been scammed as she had signed up and paid for a different tour yesterday, which never turned up to collect her.  That happened to me in the Ivory Coast once - I arrived at a massive church in Abidjan (I like massive churches, you may have got that) - and paid my entry fee to a bloke in the grounds.  On entering the church they asked for my entry fee and I informed them in my best French that I had already paid - turned out the bloke in the grounds was a passing scammer - whoops - and was now several thousand CFA better off.  Hey ho, maybe he needed it for something important.

We stopped off at several quirky places on the way to Lithuania.  At the Bauska Castle we were able to climb right to the top and see beautiful views of the winding river.  We learnt - right at the top - that the structure was entirely held together by wooden joints - impressive and a bit terrifying when several hundred feet off the ground.  It reminded me of GCSE DT Resistant Materials when I made, well, tried to make, a magazine rack and used dowel joints to secure it.  Unfortunately I was overenthusiastic with the belt-sander and the thing got smaller and smaller as I kept having to sand each side.  Maybe if I ever meet a Borrower, they could use it.  If you've not come across the Borrowers, they are tiny humans who live in your house.  They are friendly and borrow things as and when needed.  In the original book, the mother was called Homily - she features in a lot of church services these days.

We had some time to wander round and I went into a downstairs storage area and was face to face with an enormous mutant horse.  My grandad used to describe horses as 'unpleasant at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle'; I agree.  I said this to someone recently and she said that sounded like a description of her husband.   

Our next stop was the spectacular Rundale Palace museum where we had a couple of hours to explore this incredible place and peruse the rooms and gardens.  It was heaving with tour-groups, so after a while I decamped to the cafe in the crypt, away from the hubbub and made friends with a Spanish tour guide who was trying to hide from her annoying tour group of serial complainants.  We mutually agreed that anything involving other humans is often complicated.  I then went and sat in the chapel and read my Jesus book - seemed like a sensible thing to do.

We clambered back into our minibus with blacked-out windows (the driver was a Spooks villain after all) and were now Lithuania-bound.  We drove through the agricultural landscape punctuated by speeding tractors and huge white storks.  

I looked out and saw a huge red and white structure - we were approaching the border!  Excitedly, I reached for my passport, eager to bounce out and embrace a new country.  But our bus sped past the huge red and white structure because it wasn't the border - it was a car wash.

There wasn't a border - the Spooks villain just said - 'we are now in Lithuania - welcome!' There was no-one (wo)manning the border, no line, no surly border guard in uniform wielding a rubber stamp, no checks, nothing.  There was what looked like one of those sports cones I keep in the boot for ball games by the side of the road which apparently meant that we were now in Lithuania.  Talk about underwhelming.  Well at least I didn't have to make up any stories about who I know in the country, my three children April, May and June (told to multiple border guards over the last twenty years, along with my awaiting husband in whichever town I am heading to).

We soon made it to the place of pilgrimage which had been the purpose of this trip - the breath-taking Hill of Crosses.  There are various legends as to why people started putting crosses on this hill - it's more of a gentle incline than a hill really, but there are upwards of 100,000, probably nearer twice that now, crosses of every conceivable description placed here - this has been happening for nearly two centuries and it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  

One could spend days there reading inscriptions, looking at the tens of thousands of individual crosses dedicated to individuals, couples, people who have passed on, organisations, teams; dedications are in thousands of languages and any cross, of any material, from wood to metal to cloth, even Lego crosses can be placed there.  I don't think there are many World Heritage Sites which are growing every day.  There are crosses as far as the eye can see, bazillions of them.  Visitors gently competed to take photos of the crosses - I took a photo or two but mostly soaked up the humbling feeling of standing in a place where millions of believers have stood, surrounded by the most powerful symbol of faith.

This blog post is dedicated to my beloved Dad who passed on nine months ago today.  He was consistently supportive of my adventuring, even that time in 2002 when I didn't realise I was technically missing in Burkina Faso.  Rest in Peace Dad.

Chapter 2 - Cats and... Cockerels

Well.  Quirky as this place is, I could not sleep.  The light crept in from the edge of the curtains, to the extent that I ended up locating the sleep mask that United Airlines kindly gave me a couple of years ago when I (wo)manned the exit row and didn't even get a badge - I fixed the mask to my face, then started to worry - how will I know when it's morning? A colleague I've spoken to about the new cockerel a few doors down said that owners can be encouraged to keep their cockerels inside so that they don't know when it's light so can't start cock-a-doodling too early.  It's a similar question about these new black-out tents - you could stay in there all-day waiting for it to get light.

It transpires that the 'free gift' promised on my key-card holder is... ear plugs, and that makes sense now as the noise throughout the night was a lot, and I slept through an earthquake once, in Japan in 2003.  That said, when the church bells started peeling at 8am, it was kind of beautiful even though it sounded as though they were actually peeling in my room.

I toddled downstairs for my awaiting, included-in-the-price breakfast to find the dining room heaving with strangers.  There didn't seem to be anywhere to sit.  I gestured to a rotund bespectacled woman with a spare seat on her table to ask if I could sit there - she looked at me and said what sounded like the German word for deranged - 'beknackt' - bit rude, I thought, so I found a seat with someone who didn't even look up from his phone whilst munching a doughnut.  I ate scrambled egg bizarrely cut into squares, and some local plums.  Yummy.  

I had booked myself a walking tour of Riga Old Town.  I do like a walking tour and have admiration for the guides who have so much knowledge about every aspect of Latvian life and culture.  That said, the Segway guided tour which kept gliding into view might have been a bit more fun, although my risk assessing brain wouldn't have enabled me to do it - I can just about handle a Nissan Juke on a good day, and that's debatable.  

The history of Latvia is fascinating and it gained independence in 1991.  Two years earlier, what is widely considered to be the world's first ever 'flash mob' was created when two million people joined hands across Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia to protest for independence.  The last flash mob I saw was on that advert for KFC (Kentucky Fried Cockerel).

Speaking of which - there are cockerels everywhere in this city.  Cats and cockerels, both of which are symbols of the city.  Legend has it that a dispute between a land-owner and the council resulted in a building being built with two angry cats looking away from the town hall.  It's very famous here, although the girl working in the cafe where I had my morning coffee couldn't direct me to it, but said it was somewhere in this area.  Google maps told me that it was thirty seconds walk away, which it was.  Maybe she didn't work there after all.

I tried to orientate myself on this walking tour, using the massive churches and pavement cafes, but there are multitudes of massive churches and pavement cafes, so failed on that front.  

As for the cockerels everywhere - I mean, glaring down at you from the spectacular roofs of the massive churches - most massive churches have gargoyles, these massive churches have... cockerels.  They also glare at you in souvenir shops, on badges, tea-towels, key-rings, even thimbles!! You may know that I have my entire life documented in thimbles, from the age of 7, but that's a separate story for another day.

Why are there cockerels everywhere here? I have today learnt that cockerels are symbols of the Lutheran church and the majority of people identifying as Christians here, are Lutheran.  This came about in the 9th century, so a while before my neighbour thought it was a good idea.

After the tour I wandered back to my budget hotel and was perturbed when my trusty keycard wouldn't open my room door! I dashed downstairs to the reception lady and told her - she produced a magic gadget which looked like an extreme version of a DYMO label printer crossed with a Geiger counter - we went to the room door and she couldn't get the door open either!

Oh my goodness, I thought, my room door has been hacked.  It was a bit like when Rose Ayling-Ellis had her hearing aids hacked in Code of Silence by the baddie-who-turned-out-to-be-a-goodie.  Well, not that similar, but that's what sprung to mind.  

Fortunately, I hadn't been hacked after all, and after another key-card was re-programmed, I was safely ensconced and started working on the service sheet and sermon for Sunday.

I'm writing this whilst sitting in a pavement restaurant adjacent to a couple of silver-haired ladies who were on my flight yesterday.  They've got a look of Trefoil Guild about them.  They look like they're having a deep and meaningful conversation right now, with their glasses of tap water, so probably not the time to go and play 'six degrees of separation' with them.

I've nearly finished my first book so hope to get stuck into the second book tomorrow, depending how the day goes - I've booked something intriguing for tomorrow!

Cock-a-doodle-doo friends!

Chapter 1 - RIGArous

Well friends, it's been a while but here I am, adventuring again.  In previous years you may recall that I would go to California to visit my sister and her family for a few days, then disappear off to Central or South America for a bit.  Last year, they relocated to Tonbridge in Kent, which, whilst it is wonderful to be able to dash down the M20 to visit rather than than have to fly to the other side of the world, it makes travel planning more challenging.

'That's near Russia isn't it?' said a few people, when I mentioned that I was going to Latvia on Tuesday.  'Well yes, it sort of borders it, but only a little bit, only about two centimetres on the map'.

The flight was early morning, so I splashed out and booked myself a cab to save a 4am awakening.  It was seamless, well, seamless until I felt quite unwell.  I opened the windows for some fresh air, which didn't really help.  I pushed down the central arm-rest and curled up, trying to keep my head still to ease my throbbing headache.  The motion wasn't helping.  I do not get travel-sick - I should have sat on some magic newspaper, I thought - in case you've never come across this phenomenon, sitting on magic newspaper prevents travel sickness, as does clutching a magic spoon (in case you forgot to fish the magic newspaper out of the recycling before the Recycling Pixies came).  

Then I realised that I really was going to be sick, in the back of this pristine white Kia driven by a kindly young man who had come to collect me even earlier than planned at 6am - I looked around hopelessly - my eyes fell on a sign, 'CCTV recording' - oh great.  We'd chatted up to this point, about he'd just had his car cleaned by the Car Wash Pixies on Thamesmead.  Great, just great.

Feeling green with nausea, I had a sudden brainwave - I dived into my rucksack and pulled out.... an Air Serbia sick bag! Un-used, at this point.

'I'm really sorry about this, but I'm going to be sick, but I have this Air Serbia sick bag, so I won't make a mess' - the driver looked blank, but nodded.  I was duly sick.

He still dropped me off at the airport - rather swiftly I felt - and I headed to check-in.  I told a kindly lady with big teeth at check-in there that I hadn't felt too well - I left out the bit about the Air Serbia sick bag.  We chatted a bit and concluded that I was ok now.

I had checked-in online - which, as devoted blog followers will know, I never like to do in case Jesus comes back between checking-in and boarding the plane - but only because there seemed to be a fee for checking-in in-person! I wasn't going to pay to do that! That said, the kindly lady with the big teeth at check-in said that if people turn up without having checked-in online, she tells them to do it there and then on their phone to avoid the charge.  Top tip.

I thought I had booked a BA flight - my favourite airline - (my least favourite in case you're wondering, is Spice Air.  Never fly with them, ever.  Long story.) Anyway, it wasn't a BA flight so I'm not quite sure who I'm flying with, nor was the kindly lady with the big teeth and she works there and everything.

I slept almost the entire flight, having had limited sleep recently - the new neighbours who moved in recently have arrived with a menagerie which includes a plethora of chickens and a rather vocal cockerel who cock-a-doodle-doos from the early hours.  You might expect that in a rural area, but not in a terraced house in urban Plumstead, south-east London.  I just hope they are going to supply eggs rather than the abundance of local chicken shops.

On arrival at Riga immigration, I had to perform that awkward maneouvre of manipulating both thumbs onto a tiny screen to enable my entry.  I have curious double-jointed thumbs which bend backwards, so it's always tricky to do this and 'I've got thumbs like a pterodactyl' doesn't always translate for a sullen border guard.  That said, this border guard looked younger than most of my Rangers - I'm sure people are getting younger.  

I'd booked myself an airport transfer - twenty years ago I'd have hitch-hiked into town, but there's something very reassuring about seeing a sign with your name on it on arrival in an unknown land.  I bundled into the transfer vehicle and he dropped me close to my budget hotel which is in the heart of Riga old town, a very characterful, quirky capital which I will learn more about tomorrow.  The old town is mainly cobbled and car-free, making it pleasantly walkable.  

I checked-in then had a good initial wander, getting my bearings, to the extent which I do, which is limited at best, then found some food and spent a happy few hours sipping cold Coke at a pavement bar, reading the first of my huge pile of books.

It feels odd to be in Europe without a bulging file of paperwork and thirty-one teenagers.  I keep thinking, 'ok, sound off: one!'

It also feels quite liberating to be writing without having to reference every single thought to avoid plagiarism - some of the above could even be considered to be genuine 'original thought'.  RIGArous.