Episode 6 - Uncle Bulgaria

I once listened to an entire series - not just an episode people - an entire series, about the history of The Wombles.  God bless Radio 4.  One of the things I learnt was that the Wombles (who have nothing to do with Womulus and Wemus - see episode 2) chose their own names by looking through an atlas and finding names they liked - who knew?

I've been trying to go to Bulgaria for six years, but today was the day.  I had booked myself onto a day-trip and had to leave very early to head for the taxi rank by the Grand Hotel.  My sense of direction does not improve the longer I stay in a place, which left me a little panicked, but I arrived with two minutes to spare.  Had I had a huge group of children with me, be assured that I would have triple-checked the route and arrived half an hour early.  But it's a bit different when it's just me.

I was expecting a coach, until a picture of the vehicle was sent to me early this morning which was of a minibus.  I know people with family cars bigger than our day-trip vehicle, but it was all ok.  As has become the norm, the guide looked like a Spooks villain - I suppose they have to have side hustles in between operations.  I met two friendly Greek / Americans and we waited for another two people.  The family car would have been quite tight with five of us, so I was selfishly quite happy when they didn't show.

We glided out of the city and were soon surrounded by un-ending fields of ailing sunflowers longing for hydration, which was a sorry sight.  There must have been ten million of them.  

I hadn't slept much due to being anxious about the early start, so true to form, I dozed off in the back of the family car and when I woke up we were just pulling into the oldest monastery, in Bulgaria! 

This consisted of a series of rock-hewn chapels, which are chapels carved into the rock.  They each hosted various icons, candles and more, all representing different saints within the Orthodox church.  Various monks floated around reading scripture, singing and kissing icons.  I am fascinated by expressions of faith and enjoyed visiting this place.  

The next stop was Arbanasi village, a quirky, traditional village which is home to the Church of the Nativities where the decor inside and out is unique to this village, apparently.  I went wandering around the village and fell into conversation with a lady selling postcards.  She was happy to speak to me as she has been to London some years ago as a tourist.  

I asked her how business was at the moment; she replied that it wasn't great because of the River Danube being down; usually her summer is punctuated with cruise ship passengers from nearby stops but the ships are not running because of the water level.  Tough times.  

We bundled back into the family car and headed for Veliko Tarnovo fort.  Uncle Bulgaria parked up and told us we had three hours to explore and that he would meet us at his mate's very expensive restaurant up the road.  

I headed for the fort and went to buy myself a ticket.  The fort is a huge sprawling mass of bits of fort and there are all sorts of bits you can climb on.  The panoramic views over the surrounding area are spectacular.  I was intrigued to have an aerial view of Mini Bulgaria Park which I now know to be an open-air miniature park at the foot of Tsarevets Fortress in Veliko Tarnovo, showcasing over 60 hand-crafted replicas of Bulgaria’s most famous landmarks at a scale of 1:25.  But this didn't seem to be on the agenda.  There's no punchline, it just wasn't.

At the fort, there was a fantastic announcement in a British accent with a hint of a northern twang (Andy's influence has reached here already):

'Remember, that whilst the fort is well preserved, you are in nature, therefore it is possible that you might meet reptiles'.

I had visions of a lizard coming up to me, greeting me and having a good chat.  This happened to me in Costa Rica a few years ago, although he only spoke Spanish.  It didn't happen today, but I was ready for it, thanks to the Tannoy.  

I wandered through the village, stopping at a cheap pavement cafe for some Bulgarian cuisine, then was reunited with my Greek/American friends who insisted on buying me a delicious ice-cream.  I chose salted caramel flavour and it was divine.  

We piled back into the family car and drove for some time, again past fields of a million sunflowers desperate for rain.  I'd packed my little neck pillow - I thought I left it in Serbia last year but found it down the back of a drawer when I was packing - so I had a good snooze.

We were held up for what felt like hours at the border.  I'm not sure what they were doing as we didn't have to show our passports or answer questions or anything.  I think maybe they were just holding up the traffic for fun.  Once we were across the border and over the Danube, our Spooks villain was in an incredible hurry to get back to Bucharest - may he had to go and shoot someone or something.

We were deposited back at the starting point and we all said goodbye.  I took a new route back to my lodgings - not intentionally new, I just went the wrong way.  Again.  I popped into the supermarket to get myself a dinner picnic which I have enjoyed whilst writing this for you.

Sleep well everyone, thanks for reading.  

Episode 5 - Wrong Direction

My passport was placed sincerely back in my hand by a gruff Moldavian border guard and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then when we crossed the border, a couple of Romanian border guards bundled into our cabin - they checked the documents of my roomies - the underwhelming Italian couple and the un-naturally hairy Romanian man, then it was my turn.  I handed him my passport with trepidation.  He looked at me; he looked at the photo; he looked at me; he looked at the photo.

"It's me, but my ears are different! See, somewhere in Romania there's a small creature flying around with a chunk of my ear cartilage.  Now my ears are not symmetrical'.  

He just stared.

'I go, I come back', he confirmed, then disappeared.  He came back five minutes later, with a huge antique camera which looked as though it had just been swiped from a museum of ancient relics.  

'I need to take picture', he said, pointing the giant lens at me.  I froze, was temporarily blinded by the flash, then he was gone.  

The train started moving again, so I headed to the buffet car.  There is nothing like sipping a cold Moldavian beer on the Chisinau to Bucharest overnight train, in the buffet car, in the middle of the night, particularly when you have been admitted back into Romania, despite having non-symmetrical ears.  

I fell into conversation with a team of young Italians who were on an adventure through Romania, Moldova and then to Turkey.  

'We are all students in our 20s', one of them told me as we chatted.

'I used to be in my 20s', I told them.  

'How old are you now?'

'I've been 36 for some years now'.

On several street corners in Moldova there are cages of puppies and kittens, supervised by people from an adoption charity trying to find good homes for them.  I wanted to scoop them all up and take them home.  There were also lots of very old people begging outside the cathedrals which troubled me.  I'm not sure what WizzAir would say if I turned up with three kittens, four puppies and seven very old people, but we'll see.  I'm good with compression socks.  

I alighted at Bucharest North, which is the exact opposite of Chisinau as stations go.  Bucharest North station is buzzing with noise, music, beeping sounds, train horns as they depart every few minutes, flurries of footsteps as people of every description dash in different directions.  Chisinau has two fish tanks, a double bass, two pianos, and two trains a day.  

Intent on taking a bus back to my little hostel, I wandered around looking for the M1 which would take me very close.  I wandered purposefully as though that is possible, failing to find such a bus.  On double-checking, M in fact stands for Metro and the M1 is an underground train, not a bus.  What a muppet.  

I followed the signs for Gare du Nord, purchased myself a ticket and was soon on a train.  True to form, I realised fairly soon that it was going in the wrong direction. In fairness to me, I did this twice on the District line earlier this month, once with 30 kids, so it is easily done.  The District line is a mystery to me.  

I enjoyed the best shower of my life, made coffee and cracked open a croissant, then slept like a baby (a compliant, sleeping baby, not the difficult sort) for a couple of hours.  

I then did some reading and some actual tangible work on my dissertation.  Just 15,000 words stands between me and an MA and I am slightly closer to 15,000 words now than I was this morning.  

I decided to go and have a filling dinner as I'd had train picnics for the last couple of nights, so I headed to Bread and Butter restaurant, and enjoyed a delicious dinner whilst watching the world go by, in thirty degree heat.  I had an accompanying salad of indeterminable vegetables.  

I spoke briefly with a young German-speaking couple next to me who asked if I knew of any good bars locally; I said that I was not cool enough to know things like that but there are a lot of bars in the Old Town.

Then suddenly, the underwhelming Italian couple from my train carriage appeared, out for an evening wander in Bucharest.  Of all the streets in all of Bucharest, there they were.  They were still underwhelming.  

I'm off on a mini-adventure tomorrow, to Bulgaria! I tried to take a group there in 2020 - everything was booked but then the world shut down, and the time which should have been used for sorting the specifics, was used for sorting the insurance claim.

Goodnight team.  

Episode 4 - The Hokey Kokey Train

When we reached the Romanian border, a Romanian Border Guard (that just autocorrected to Border Collie, but it was definitely a border guard), popped into the cabin and took our passports. Within a few minutes, he was back with our passports and all was well. 

We crossed the border and I said farewell to the family I'd shared with as they were heading to their grandmother's house close to Ungheni.

A young, spritely Moldavian Border Guard appeared at the door, 'Passport?' she quipped.

Without a thought, I handed her my passport.

A few minutes later, the train started doing a dance - backwards, forwards, shimmy, crash, crunch, bleep, ding-a-ling. Various overall-clad men covered in dirt hurried in and out of the train, wielding bits of metal. I watched on agog, all whilst gently fretting that the spritely Moldavian Border Guard had disappeared with my precious passport.

The train did the Hokey Kokey for what felt like a couple of hours. It was a feat of engineering and a sight to behold. I like trains but I think this journey is an enthusiast's dream - you cross a border, the train does a dance, and there's a bar.

I booked myself into a long walking tour on arrival, to give a bit of context to the city which is always useful. The guide was very knowledgeable and proud of her city. She also had a very cute little dog who came on the tour and did many cute things, from posing for photos to chasing pine cones.

Moldova became independent in 1991, gaining independence from the Soviet Union, of which there are still signs, juxtaposed with modern buildings, a number of abandoned buildings. It's a fascinating mish-mash of styles. The city has also been helped by other governments at times, such as by the Turkish government after the 2009 Revolution which resulted in there being no President for two years. I confess I don't remember this - I think it's easy to get consumed with our own lives and not think about complex political situations in nearby places. I learnt a lot today.

I also decided that I could drive a trolley bus, as they have overhead cables, so it would be impossible for me to get lost. Although I haven't put this to the test, I'm sure I could find a way to get lost, but that would result in a terrible tangle of cables.

We visited two cathedrals on our tour - one the Orthodox cathedral where pilgrims hurriedly moved between icons, kissing them, then  lighting candles.

We also visited the Roman Catholic cathedral where I was intrigued by a stained glass window dedicated to the four gospel writers - Matthew, Mark, Luke and - who knew - Joanne! Well that turns my recent in-depth study module of John's gospel on its head!

The Pope was sitting on bench outside and we had a short chat. I had Afternoon Tea with the Archbishop of Canterbury a couple of weeks ago, so I couldn't not have a quick catch-up with the Pope.

The walking tour also introduced us to to the delicious local speciality called Plăcinte - a rolled up pancake with lots of filling options. I chose potato & onion and it was yummy.

We ended the walking tour in the Coffee Museum where a coffee expert who allegedly had a TV show on the subject told us about the history of coffee in Moldova.

I had a little time, so took myself for a wander through some of the multitude of green parks. Chisinau is one of the greenest cities in the world, with many green havens dotted around including lakes and accompanying wildlife.

I popped into the souvenir shop next to the Tourist Information centre to purchase my mandatory souvenirs. I Google translated 'thimble' - the lady shook her head aggressively. She definitely didn't have any - then she beckoned that I should follow her over to a basket of thimbles. 

There was a little cafe in the shop which looked very inviting for a cool Coca Cola and a spot of blogging in my final hours here. Plus I thought they'd have a nice toilet - the one at the station was devoid of a seat & most of a door.

'Could I sit up there for a while?' I gently questioned. 

'No. Closed.'

This made me wonder what the other customers were doing there. I'm not sure what I'd done to upset her but there wasn't the opportunity to find out.

I carried on walking till I reached the station. I walked twelve kilometres today. Chisinau station is a complete place of mystery. There are almost no trains, which is bizarre as it is the capital city of the country. The building is a huge, gothic-style sprawl adorned with, oddly, fish tanks of aggressive looking fish, and musical instruments. Inside the lighting is dull, as though someone has forgotten to pay the electricity bill. I sat in the 'waiting area' literally alone, whilst various troubled cleaners hurried through every few minutes. 

Soon I was back on the train, making up my little train bed for the night. The train is just finishing the mandatory dance, then hopefully my passport will come back to me & I can have a peaceful sleep.

Goodnight faithful readers.

Episode 3 - Over to Moldova

In an attempt to look less like a panda, I'm trying to sleep as much as possible whilst away. However, my brain doesn't switch off very easily so it's not easy to get to sleep. Plus the air-conditioning unit - a pleasant surprise albeit not in a helpful bit of the room - sounds like a piece of broken farm machinery, so I've been switching it off and sweltering.

I went to fill up my Petal substitute, flipped the tap. There was no water. I flipped it the other way. It gurgled. Still no water. I checked the shower. Nichts.

Fortunately Petal had just enough water for a coffee with my fancy coffee filter. Phew, the important things were covered.

I pottered around for a bit & packed my little rucksack for the next part of the adventure - the sleeper train to Chisinau in Moldova!

I wandered through the Old Town, sweltering in the morning heat. I went into the first shop that looked like it would be air-conditioned. I was right. I spent a few cool minutes instead before realising that I was in the Romanian equivalent of... Hobbycraft. I always feel jittery in Hobbycraft, all that painfully expensive craft stuff you can so happily live without, peering at you with such intensity that you feel compelled to buy something.

I had to go to the Orpington branch once, at the Nugent for the locals amongst the readership. This was some years ago. It suddenly got very dark outside, in the middle of the day. Rain pounded the carpark with such power that I thought this was the End Times - Jesus was coming back, & I was in Hobbycraft!! 

He didn't. The rain eased. I got into my trusty car, Purple, & drove to Rainbows. 

Anyway. 

I brunched at a posh cafe which looked like it might have somewhere I could have quick wash. There was a nice sink but the light wasn't working, so I donned my headtorch and cleaned my teeth. A member of the public walked in, took one look at me then decided they didn't need to be there after all. Story of my life.

I walked to a large park and found a shady cafe where I could sip Coca Cola - a little treat when abroad - and read my book. 

There was an old couple at the next table feeding happy pigeons with the box of peanuts they had purchased from the cafe. I smiled at the lady. She didn't have many teeth, but she smiled back.

If only I knew some Romanian words, I thought. I wracked my brain. Suddenly my phone buzzed with, well, Coronation Street spoilers. Tyrone's mum is leaving; she says a fond farewell to her grandchildren - suddenly I remembered that I've of them is called "Dorin", the Romanian word for "gift" because Dorin was a little surprise when Tyrone and Alina had a thing. 

"Is dorin", I said to the lady with very few teeth, as she continued to feed the pigeons. She beamed. "Dorin", she replied.

I then bumped into a woman who was following a map on her phone. 

"Are you ok? Are you lost?"

I couldn't have helped her if she was lost, but it felt right to enquire. 

"No, me I am not lost, I am just tracking my daughter. She is over there. She is out alone for the first time"; she showed me a bumbling 'A' on her phone screen.

"Ah, ok", I nodded.

"It is hard because I do not want her to know, but is difficult in a park".

"I can understand that", I concurred. "Ideally you should climb a nearby tree", I suggested.

"Yes but I am not good with heights".

She continued, "My husband, he no understand. Do you have husband?" she asked.

"No, but I understand that they can be quite challenging".

She nodded. I said goodbye and headed on to Bucharesti North station. 

I fear someone from Luton Cash Cow management may be reading this as I had a message to say the £1.50 I paid for the Luton Cash Cow has been adjusted, to... £4.90. So if this is the case, just to clarify, I love the Luton Cash Cow, sorry, Luton Dart, like Andy loves buses.

I write from the Buffet Car of the very quirky antique Soviet overnight train to Chisinau where I'm sharing a cabin with a lovely Romanian / Moldavian family who are heading to visit family. We've spoken English and French and sorted out the world.

I wasn't sure this journey was possible, but the man in Seat61 said it was, and he was right! At the border at about 3am they will elevate the train and change the wheels to use different rails, or something. Let's see what happens. 

Next stop.... Chisinau, Moldova.

Sweet dreams people!

Episode 2 - Something has eaten half of my ear

On waking this morning, I fished my fancy individual coffee filters I'd purchased at our recent Summer Fundraiser out of my bag and made myself a rather delicious coffee with the coffee that the miserable woman in the supermarket had sold me last night.  The kettle made a slow start - she's not like my speedy home kettle, 'Petal' (everything should have a name), but she delivered eventually.

As I was leaving the building, I was warmly greeted by a smiley lady wielding a huge pile of towels and a mop.  We chatted about who were are and what we are doing here.  She is from Bangladesh and has lived in Romania for three years.  She has three degrees - a BA and two MAs from universities in Dhaka - and had a scholarship place to go and study in Birmingham, but for some reason I didn't quite understand, she wasn't able to take up the place.  She was delighted to speak English with me and said that she doesn't really understand Romanian.  

I sauntered on towards the Old Town, trying to get my head around the route.  God blessed me with many things, but not a sense of direction.  The Old Town was gently buzzing with place after place to eat and drink, jets of fine mist gently touched those eating in vain attempts to cool the patrons down.  There were plenty of gift shops all selling the same thing at vastly different prices.  

I bumped into two kindly ladies from T'North who may well be reading this! They were enjoying a child-free mini-break in the city for a few days.  They were doing their very own ChatGPT-led walking tour around the city and a gentle automated voice was guiding their way.  They gave me some useful tips about things here including which bits of the Therma Spa place to go to and which taxis are cheaper.  

We said farewell and went our separate ways.  I wandered down a side-street when suddenly I heard a weird buzzing sound by my right ear.  I bashed myself on the ear to usher away the offending insect - not to hurt it, just to discourage it, but I was too late.  It had bitten a chunk out of my ear and my ears are now not symmetrical!

I had my hair cut just before travelling, to maintain my elfin appearance, as it had started to look like live I've been living on a hillside for some months.  And now an angry insect has flown off with a chunk of ear cartilage.  How rude.  Not quite sure how I'm going to problem-solve this one.  People meeting me here will meet me with half an ear.  

I had a hearing test the other day and a overly energetic audiologist stuck a camera in my ear, which was bizarrre, but I saw my own ear drum beating, and some strange light, which apparently is a good thing.  Turns out my hearing is almost totally fine.  So, either people are mumbling or I'm just not listening.  

I enjoyed a traditional Romanian breakfast of sausages, cucumber, cheese and, well, the lighting was a bit funny and the jets of spray were quite intense, so I'm not entirely sure what else I ate, but it was yummy and filled me up for the rest of the day.  

I spent some time reading and resting, then booked myself onto a quirky walking tour of Bucharest.  This was a true 'Helen Walk' as they are known.  More than two hours of history, stories, winding streets, near-death experiences with ubiquitous e-scooters and more.  The guide was incredibly knowledgeable and spoke with great enthusiasm.  

We met by the statue of Romulus and Remus.  I first learnt about them with a history teacher who couldn't pronounce the letter R, so for years I thought they were called Womulus and Wemus - till today actually.  

We went to all sorts of fascinating buildings, some several hundred years old with intense, beautiful architecture; others concrete blocks from relatively recent communist times.  

We went to the church of St Anthony who is - the patron saint of... things we have lost.  But the guide said that this is only on Tuesdays.  Apparently you can queue up and pay homage to him if you have lost things.  But only on Tuesdays.  I should have queued up really, but it would have taken more than a bit of a Tuesday.  

We were guided into some huge wooden multi-layered building where hundreds of people were ordering very fancy meals and drinks, and the upper layers are I think rooms which people can book to stay in.  On the way out we were shown the wooden paving used to protect visitors from the noise of people arriving on horses.  The guide said we could test this by pretending to be a horse.  Naturally I did this.  No-one else did.  

The next stop was the ruin of a Palace.  We were informed that it had been left exactly as they had found it.  There was a KitKat wrapper shoved in a bit of the ruin and I wanted to ask if that was part of the original find.  Maybe someone just needed a break.  

Our party nearly got run over by a LandRover full of people.  The guide told us that the car was driven by nuns who live in the nearby nunnery.  She described them as 'not normal nuns' and proceeded to explain that they drive and have food deliveries.  I think there's a lot more that she didn't explain about what the are nuns are doing there.  I didn't ask, so I'm nun the wiser.

The guide explained the significance of the symbols of Bucharest - it was a metal plate and doubled as a drain cover.  Bizarre.

The modern history was fascinating - I'd lost track of how recently communism ceased here after the Revolution - it was in 1989.  Thousands lost their lives and we were shown a giant memorial of all the names of those who died.  

Romania has developed in some ways, having joined NATO and the EU, but the guide said that many are leaving if they can, for more opportunities elsewhere, and that people are arriving from south-east Asia to work here.  This world is a fascinating place.  

'That was really interesting', I complimented the guide at the end, 'you have really great knowledge'.

'Well, it's my paid job, I'm paid to have great knowledge', came the terse reply.  

Nice.

Awkwardly the tour ended miles away from where it had started, so I had no idea where I was.  I walked until I found somewhere to have some yummy dinner and a nice cold Romanian beer.  Nearby, there was a violinist playing familiar tunes over a backing track, from everything Ed Sheeran, to 'My Heart Will Go On', to 'Memory' and I thought that would be a pleasant sound to accompany my dinner.  Unfortunately just after I'd ordered, the restaurant started pumping out electronic hip-hop versions of all sorts of indeterminable songs, creating a terrible cacophony in my brain.  I was also people-watching a couple who seemed to have run out of conversation.  I so nearly went over to give them some ideas for conversation starters.      

'Please could I have some tap water?' I asked the waiter politely, as I was ordering my dinner at the restaurant.

'No, we have only bottles'.

'You don't have a tap, with water in it?'

'No'.

Goodnight friends.

Episode 1 - Airport adventures

There I was, adventure-bound, on a Thameslink train, direct from Plumstead to Luton Airport.  The Tannoy kept telling me to message 61016 if I saw anything unusual - most of the general public look fairly unusual, but God loves them all.  

On arrival at Luton Airport, expecting to be ushered straight to a check-in desk, I had to jump on something called the Luton Dart.  It was shaped like a Japanese bullet train, the Luton version.

'Is this free?' I asked the attendant. 

'No', but you can use your card.

'What, my Oyster card?'

'No, this is not London'.

'Well I know that'.

'Your bank card is fine'.

'Great'.

I jumped aboard and sat right at the front - I thought I'd be next to the the driver but there wasn't a driver.  So I was basically driving a Japanese bullet train, in Luton.  My trusty Revolut card (which still won't authenticate me despite me twice having the friendly phone shop pixies fix my phone camera) informed me that I had spent £1.50 on this journey.  It took 4 minutes.  It should really be shaped like a giant cow, a cash cow.  

I was perturbed already as the app I'd booked the flight through had decided to check me in automatically the day before! There I was, lovingly watering my thriving kitchen garden - am intent on living off the land, rather than off Tesco - when I got a message saying I was all checked in! Faithful readers will know how I object to online check-in, on the basis that Jesus might come back in the interim.  I hadn't even decided to definitely go on this little sabbatical but I was already checked-in.  Great.  

Purple was still adorned with her orange ribbon from the last Guide adventure I led - thirty of us went to Cape Verde in May.  It is very odd travelling by oneself when one is used to taking a crowd.  The sound-off is very lonely - 'Sound off - one! Yay!'

Poor Purple, despite being the ultimate woman's fitted adventuring rucksack, she is not usually allowed with the regular baggage, so she's quite used to being taken instead to 'oversized baggage'.  Abdul on check-in assured me that she'd be much happier with the other oversized bags and he knows because he used to work in baggage.

So Purple and I trundled along, following the 'Oversize Baggage' signs, where the kindly supervising lady and I shared a few thoughts on the breakdown of society and the phasing out of paper and pens, before I said farewell to Purple.  

I happened upon the Prayer Room, so thought I pop in for a few quite moments before embedding myself back with the general public.  There I fell into conversation with Lesley and Malcolm who are part of the friendly chaplaincy team who do great pastoral work supporting people across the airport.  In December, local schoolchildren gather at the airport to sing Christmas songs to travellers.  Always a good time to do so.

I bumbled my way through security where they seemed to have to do an entire body search which took quite a while; fortunately I didn't have 30 children waiting for me as usual, so it didn't really matter.

I was sitting down, contemplating opening one of the multitude of books I have with me, when I heard a lady in her 80s behind me ask the man opposite if he could help her with something.  I'm not sure if he understood, but he declined.  She looked at me and I said 'are you ok? Do you need something?'

'Well yes, I need someone to put my socks on.  I can't do it myself.'

'Right', I hesitated, feeling sad that she had no one with her to help her.  Could I help a complete stranger with her socks, in the middle of an airport waiting area? I asked the lady next to who had a small child on her lap to whom she was reading a pink Fairy Magic book if she could keep an eye on my stuff.  She agreed.  

The older lady gave me some gloves and I proceeded to haul a giant angry compression sock with a mind of its own onto her foot and eventually into the shoe.  Whilst I was doing this, she said that she was thinking of getting a cat, to which I said would be a nice thing as they are good company, but that I preferred dogs.  But she said "No, a tat, that's what they call tattoos these days".  

She then, whilst I was wrestling with a giant angry compression sock, continued to tell me that she can't get a tat (not a cat) because of what it says in the Old Testament about tattoos.  I suggested that perhaps that reflected the nature of when the Old Testament was written, to which she said "could you do the other sock please?"

A man turned up.  "That's my husband", she said; "Thanks for doing my socks".  And off they hobbled.     

The lady reading the pink Fairy Magic book had gone now, and been replaced by another lady similar to my age, with a man and two sons.  She said she was looking forward to reading books by the poolside whilst the family were in the pool.  She said, 'I struggle to see the letters though, I have to use this'; she produced a piece of tired plastic - 'I got this in Sainsbury's - it's really helpful for magnifying the words'. 

"That's good", I chirped.

"I should sort it out really, for work", she said.

"What do you do?" I enquired.

"I'm an optician", came the reply.  

The time came for me to advance to the gate.  There was an anxious French lady trying to wake a potentially dead man who would not stir, at the edge of the corridor.  

"Are you with him?", I asked her.

"No but he is not waking", she replied.

Mutually agreeing that we needed to do something, I headed to the first person I saw in uniform - I like to think that you can generally trust them but usually first check that they are not on their way to a fancy dress party, as I've made that mistake before - but this was an international airport, so that was unlikely.  However, it was a Krispy Kreme Donut uniform.  

"Sorry, there's a man over there and he looks a bit, well, dead".

"I can't really do much", said the man in the Krispy Kreme Donut uniform.

"Well, you work here, so you can probably tell someone".

"Right", he said, thought for a moment, then picked up a radio.

"Sorry I'm not buying a doughnut" I apologised.

"That's ok".

Boarding seemed to take a long time, but I'd lost all concept of time, so I didn't really matter.  I slept almost the entire way, then made an origami crane for a small child who I hope will take good care of it, though I fear she may have left it on the plane.  I just hope it ends up in the recycling rather than in landfill.    

Queuing up at border control at Bucharest, I fell into conversation with a group of friends who are all A&E Nurses at Kettering General, here for a few happy days together.  Probably best to take a lot of care if you live in Kettering over the next few days.

I looked at my hostel reservation and it said something about re-confirm 24 hours before - well, I hadn't done that and I was already in the country! I have various, fairly tenuous links to Romania, ok very tenuous, so hoped the reservation was in some system somewhere.  I was surprised a rogue app hadn't already checked me in whilst I'd been watering the vegetables.  Then the hostel manager guy, Alex, messaged me and all was well.  I have three relatives called Alex so think you can generally trust an Alex, with some exceptions.  

I had been warned about airport taxi scams and all sorts, but needn't have been.  I think it's more lucrative to scam people online these days.  I confidently followed signs to the bus stops and jumped on the no. 100 bus into central Bucharest.  The journey lasted about forty minutes and cost 50p. I like buses, just like Andy.     

I checked into my little budget hostel, found some dinner nearby and made friends with the kindly Sri Lankan staff.  Then I found a supermarket and stocked up on milk and coffee.  The supermarket lady didn't seem to be having a very good day, or maybe that is her regular expression, it's hard to know.

Thanks for reading, sleep well all.  

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.    

Episode 10 - Here endeth the blog, for now...

I did something I never do.  I checked in online, people! Jesus didn't come back, but here's hoping it won't be long.

 

The reason I did this was because my Chilean travel agent friend who I met on the long-awaited bus from Jaco (did I mention the amount of time spent on buses?) said that the flight from San José is always overbooked and that I should check-in online to be sure that I got a seat.  You can generally trust #BusFriends, so I took a deep breath then checked in via my phone.

I wouldn't stay in that particular budget hotel again - it wasn't the delightful one I stayed in on arrival where they treated me like long-lost family.  My last night was spent in a hotel where the walls were so thin I thought someone was breaking into my room every time anyone moved, anywhere in the hotel.  The bedding was clean but tired.  I checked-out and, as I have with every taxi in Costa Rica, ordered myself an Uber to the airport.  The joy of Uber is that you don't need to speak the language of the country; the app does it all for you.  Regular taxi drivers are not overly happy with Uber's presence, nor are the government over the whole tax situation, but for an adventurer with limited Spanish, it was fantastic, and recommended by various friends I made.

On arrival at the airport, I obtained my bag sticker from the magic machine, which knew exactly where I was going.  I recruited a staff member to help me affix the sticker as I have failed with these in the past and really wanted a reunion with Bluebird once in London.

I joined the 'Bag Drop' queue, having locked Bluebird closed with her two little padlocks.

A rotund uniformed woman with a 'Security' badge neatly sewn on her right pocket looked me up and down,

'Pasaporte'

'Si', I quivered, showing her my passport.  This wasn't the time to confirm that the angry moomin in the photo is in fact, me.  I'm not sure she'd have seen the funny side.  

Her eyes fell on the giant green 'T' sticker which the magic machine had churned out additionally, just for Bluebird.

I tried to lighten the mood - 

'I'm a bit like a Tigger because I bounce around a lot.  Hence, T for Tigger!'  

She stared at me.  I realised that her belt was not just a belt - it was home to not only a 2-way radio, a truncheon, but also, a gun.  I couldn't help wondering if it was loaded, but it didn't feel like the right time to ask.  

'Your bag.  I need to search your bag'.  She grabbed one of Bluebird's padlocks.  

'Where the key?'

'Here', I hurriedly reached into my pocket and removed the padlock.  Let's be clear - I had nothing dodgy in there, nothing to hide.  My bag hadn't been out of my possession since I'd locked it.  

Suddenly, I froze.  What if she thinks that my 165 'Inflatable Fun' cloth badges, only available for delivery in the US (hence my trip) are LSD patches?! They are iron-on so have a shiny back.  That looks dodgy.  Oh Lord, how will I explain this? I really haven't got time to be detained, I've got residentials to organise! I need to get back to my set of checklists (rather than to-do lists, which are worse, according to the time management guru who wrote the third book I have read in the last nine days) - if this means nothing, I suggest you read the rest of the blog for this trip.  She won't believe that I have 165 children in the UK waiting for their 'Inflatable Fun' badge.  

I unlocked Bluebird's main compartment and smiled at the rotund uniformed woman.  She didn't smile back.  Instead, she rubbed something over the top layer of my clothes, washbag, towel.  I held my breath.  She placed it into a machine which bleeped.  I'm being detained, I thought.  I've got to take Purple in for her surgery tomorrow! 

She looked back at me.

'Is ok'.

'Is ok?' I retorted.

'Si'.  

I went to open Bluebird's other compartment but the rotund uniformed woman stopped me.

'Is ok'.  

I looked, questioningly, if that is even a word.

'Is ok', she repeated.  

'Ok', wow this is a deep conversation, I thought.

I re-locked Bluebird's main compartment, handed her to the rotund uniformed woman and watched her put Bluebird onto the conveyor belt.

And breathe.

I headed to security which was straightforward.  When I led a group of 37 young people to Switzerland in May, I was loaded with epipens, insulin, enough Piriton to sink a battleship (well, 100ml in my hand luggage), but it being just me, it was very chilled.  

On going on into the airport, you are enveloped into an enormous gift shop on every side.  Smiling staff are there to ply you with free and delicious Costa Rican coffee whilst you peruse their colossal expanse of stuff you have lived quite happily without for your whole life.  

I purchased my standard souvenirs - a pin badge with the flag of Costa Rica, some cloth badges and a postcard.  I was disappointed to not find a thimble to add to my burgeoning collection - more than 600 thimbles document my life since the age of 7 - not that I can sew; in fact I struggle to thread a needle.

I queued up at a Currency Bureau to magic my remaining colones into pounds.  The woman behind me said -

'I'm just changing up some currency for my mom - she loves to collect different money from different countries.  I'm just after the yellow one'.

'Awww, that's nice', I said.  What I wanted to say was, 'there's a reason you're not meant to take cash out of this country.  It's people like your mother who will crash economies! Do you know how many millions of dollars is lost due to being in personal collections for no apparent reason?!'

Mind you, you can source most worldwide currencies in Plumstead High Street.  

I soon boarded for Houston - the family in front of my row were headed to Thailand.

'We have another nine hour flight after this one - we are changing in China', they said.

'To where?'

'Thailand'.

'Is it not quicker to go the other way?' I questioned.

'Oh yes!' they said, and left the plane.  

On the Houston flight, I was at the very back of the plane.  It didn't matter - we got extra snacks.  I spent the entire flight trying to finish my second Jesus book which has really stretched my thinking.  

An air hostess turned up -

'Would you like some water?', she asked me.

'Yes please'

'Still?'

'Yes, I still want it please'.  

Changing planes at Houston was not pleasant.  We were shouted at by angry guards to get into pairs with the nearest person, whether or not we knew then.  We then had to walk between two giant angry guards with two giant angry spaniels who had a good sniff of us.  If I had a spaniel, I would call it Daniel.  Daniel the spaniel.  I wondered if either of these angry spaniels with their 'DO NOT PET' coats were called Daniel, but it wasn't really the time to ask.

I was paired with someone who said upfront - 'I'm scared of dogs'.

'You'll be ok, I assured her', praying that she didn't have anything dodgy on her, as Daniel would not be happy.

Once at Houston, I was in need of a sugar hit.  I headed to Dunkin Donuts.  

'Hi there, do you have a little doughnut please? I just need something little'.

'Yes maam, we have a little blueberry finger'.

That sounds a little uncomfortable, I thought. 

'Thank you', I nodded, confident that a little blueberry finger would ease my sugar hunger.

I dug out my Revolut card (let me know if you want one, did I mention the ongoing fundraising?)

'It's ok Maam'

'Sorry?'

'There's no need'

'Sorry - no need to pay?'

She nodded.

'Is there anything I should know?'

'No Maam'

'You are very kind, thank you'.  I strolled away, with my exclusive blueberry finger.  I sat down on a thoughtfully-placed bench and opened my Dunkin Donuts bag.  Oh goodness.  There was no blueberry finger.  Instead, there were not 1, not 2, I could go on, but I'll skip to 9, yes, 9 blueberry doughnut balls! Oh wow.  I couldn't eat nine of those! I resolved to share them with the next person who sat next to me.  But everyone who sat next to me turned up wielding a bag of freshly-purchased snacks, or looking as though offering them a doughnut ball might not be in their best interests in the longer term.

The plane was delayed due to it needing to have a big wash.  I know the feeling.  I didn't mind because it gave me a chance to finish my second Jesus book - it's called 'If you want to walk on water, you've got to get out of the boat' and it is a good choice (if you are into that sort of thing - if you're not, it probably isn't)

Eventually, I boarded and made friends with those in my row.  We had some great conversations.

I'm back home now and picking up the threads of reality - five inboxes of e-mails I have studiously ignored, gazillions of actions for my ever-changing time management systems, in part thanks to my eclectic selection of books about Jesus and time management.  Jesus seemed to do well with time management, although there is no evidence that Jesus used social media, which is a commitment, let's be honest.  That said, He didn't really need to; He had loads of followers.  

So that's it, friends.  Thank you so much for sharing the adventure with me, I really do appreciate it.  Until next time.