Day One: London, England to Warsaw, Poland

Pole Positioning 

The last time my alarm went at 5am, I was working as a hedge fund manager on Wall Street. Today the pre-dawn glance at my phone was not weighted with suffocating fear of what overnight news may have negatively impacted my stock positions, but it was to check if my flight was leaving on time. It was. My 5am start this morning was decidedly more civilised.

My flight was wonderfully uneventful and I snagged a taxi at the airport without so much as a stumble. As we cruised along into Warsaw city centre, I was overcome by the thought of just how incredible the game of scrabble must be in Poland. For example, 'yesterday' is wczoraj, a casual 28 points. I became obsessed with this and immediately looked up "Polish Scrabble Federation"; it did not surprise me at all that there was one. It turns out the President is Krzysztof Sporczyk. I mean, seriously, of course he is. 

Having a father that used to be General Manager Concorde and a nephew obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine made illustrating my journey much easier than anticipated. 

I decided that I would use only Air BnB on my trip, mainly because I wanted to meet as many locals as possible and, with its explosion in popularity, you are spoilt for choice with whole apartments to yourself as standard. Today, mine is owned by Olga who runs the restaurant downstairs. Here, I ran into the first downside of Air BnB in Eastern Europe. Olga's English is only marginally better than my Polish which essentially allows me to tell her that I met the President of the National Scrabble Federation yesterday. She seemed surprised as she knew I had only just arrived, but we both just paused, took deep breaths and moved on from that scientifically impossible situation. After showing me round the apartment which was delightful and clean, Olga then begins to get rather animated and judging by her actions seems determined to marry me and have a big party. I explain that I'm seeing someone back home now but this only encourages her hand gestures. With the help of pen and paper we get to the bottom of it; there's a fountain show down the hill I really should not miss.

They genuinely made me mime 'Can I have a picture with you?'. Students, eh.

As I ran around the city, I then came across a group of students dressed like a group of young mimers preparing for a show in the park, and there was a very good reason for this indeed; they were a group of young mimers preparing for a show in the park. We exchanged a few comedy mimes but with Olga's acting skills still fresh in my memory, I left before we ended up accidentally planning a group sailing trip to Tahiti.

Moments later in the old Town, I came across my highlight of the day. A young man by the name of Patrick was busking in the street and I couldn't help myself but stop and listen for the best part of 30 minutes. After some appreciative nods from him as I threw 10 zloty into his case, the subsequent 27 minutes bordered on uncomfortable as very few other people were stopping, let alone donating, other than me. I just couldn't understand it; the guy was so gifted. If 'Poland's Got Talent' happens then I'm getting down the bookies to put zillions of zloty on Patrick. See for yourself, I took a video although the quality is very poor and I can assure you he is even better live. 

Patrick could not speak a single word of English, but boy could he sing a few. I loved his version of Valerie.

Given Olga's earlier terrible impression of Swan Lake with splashing noise sound effects, I thought it would be remiss of me not to attend whatever was happening down the hill. I'm actively trying to use superlatives less in everyday conversation in the hope that I can help give back some of their power being diluted away by lazy casual referencing. Everything today seems to be 'the best' or 'the worst' or at the very least 'amazing' - I mean literally everything - ok joke. Superlatives are not required on this occasion though as the light and fountain show was average at best hindered mainly by the fact that the person in charge of timing the music to the spouting of water had the touch of an elephant playing tiddlywinks and it just faded into just pleasant background noise.....by Enya.

Tough to drink, tougher to pronounce.

Time for dinner and it was back to the Old Town where l once again got to use a phrase I was becoming a true expert in using: czy macie Wifi (you guessed it, do you have wifi?). It turns out Peter, the owner, did. Peter was very friendly indeed, something almost certainly to do with the vodka he was enjoying at his table, and he asked me to join him. Trying both not to drink too much and to lose weight on this trip, I thought for a second about accepting his invitation knowing full well this would end in waistline expansion. A second was long enough - I accepted, sat down and immediately ordered a large bowl of pasta and a beer. He told me all about the history of the restaurant being the very first restaurant to be built after the war was over in 1945 but even more about his favourite drink made here in Poland in a place called Bielsko-Biola. The evening's entertainment then became our attempted and repeated pronunciation of Slivovitz, Bielsko-Biola; as Saturday slowly became Sunday, the scene paralleled Prince George in Blackadder III attempting to pronounce antidisestablishmentarianism by the time his far brighter butler returns. (anti-distibulitz... Anti-distinctly minty....). This was me and Peter trying the first vodka I had to have. What was the name of this Vodka, I hear you (not) cry? Well, we are in Warsaw, so like so many things in this city, it is called Chopin. Who else? Click here.

Day one had been a resounding success. 

Day Two: Warsaw, Poland

"Is it raining? Yes, I had noticed"

In 1984 Norman E. Rosenthal formally named a condition still known today as Seasonal Affective Disorder, an acronym rather aptly referred to in the medical world as SAD.  This 'condition' (must we really name everything that separates us from being Tom Brady?) basically means that the weather affects our mood. While I'm happy to acknowledge and encourage such things if they really do help the 'sufferers' to cope with their 'illness', Norman, mate, this might be a step too far. Not even Tom Brady enjoys training in the rain, and by thunder did it rain in Warsaw today. SAD or otherwise, I tried to make do in the wet by taking Peter up on his offer for breakfast and I made my way down to the square. In true legend style, Peter had been up for hours playing with his two angelic looking kids and we sat down for a bite. I ordered the scrambled eggs and the waitress duly brought 2 cold beers (view clip here). Peter called it 'the only way to start a Sunday'; I momentarily wondered if Peter was the greatest lad of all time. 

Peter: The greatest lad of ale time.

After brunch I thought an afternoon at a museum would hit the spot on such a rainy day and I instantly googled 'best museum in Warsaw'. With mixed emotions, this produced several results as Warsaw can comfortably boast some of Eastern Europes's finest museums; hungover on a day wetter than an otter's pocket, I was hoping for a clear winner. Descartes famously argued that Free Will, contrary to popular belief, is not when you have many options open to you, it is when you have only one. Rene, today I was so on your side pal. I plumped for the Warsaw Uprising Museum as the most 'interactive' experience given that my relatively short attention span was even shorter than usual and would need a little hand holding. The afternoon's interactive experience came a little earlier than expected as my taxi driver seemed intent on uncovering my life history.  Markus cannot be entirely held to blame though as I began by trying to ask for the museum in Polish. He answered in almost perfect English and we got in the car. He apologised that I would have to agree a cash price upfront; I replied it wouldn't be a problem at all but inquired why. He said, 'because my meter is like your Polish - it's not verking. Ha ha ha ha...'. I enjoyed that joke a lot; Markus and I were immediate friends. He continued by asking about my life and I told him the basic outline. He was surprised I lived in America but didn't have a job as such and then asked if I had a girlfriend. I replied that I did. He chortled, "Ha, so you do have a job then, ha ha ha....". It was tough to beat the first joke, admittedly, but this wasn't a bad effort. Markus remains the funniest person I have met so far. 

As Brits we suffer reputational predisposition as much as the next country but to those that believe us a nation of queuers, kindly pop down to Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego on a Sunday; I think you'll find that Poland gives us a serious run for our pound sterling. My Seasonal Affective Disorder was kicking back in with vigour as I entered the museum at 4:26pm having arrived shortly after 2pm. I passed the time by wondering what Peter would have done in this situation - had a beer probably. What a good lad. 

The museum itself was and is remarkable, documenting (interactively as promised) the brave yet ultimately unsuccessful Warsaw Uprising of August 1944. The Uprising was the largest single military effort taken by any European resistance movement during the Second World War, but it ended after only 63 days in defeat for the "Home Army" (as they were called) and the demolition of Warsaw. Despite its antiquated look and feel, Warsaw is very much a new city by European standards with 85% of the buildings rebuilt once the war was over - an incredible achievement and it's only right they should take such pride in their resilience. 

Feeling the need for some positive influence, I went back to the spot where Patrick plays but being late in the day and still drizzling, it was not a surprise that he wasn't there. Shame - I would have loved to have seen him one more time and said goodbye. I then made my way back to Olga's apartment to rest and write this. Despite today's grey overtone, I've really enjoyed my time in Warsaw and would highly recommend anyone to come here. Perhaps I'm way off the mark here, but I think Poles have an unfair reputation for being unfriendly - somewhat understandable though given their history. It's true they don't offer smiles as immediately as, say, folks from South Dakota (I can attest), but it's my finding that you are only a word or two away from one and they seem very willing to accept foreign company. I'm going to miss Olga, Peter and Markus and I will forever wonder what will happen to Patrick; I really hope he sees his name in lights one day;  he sure as hell deserves it. 

I didn't need to watch my use of superlatives today. This particular Sunday was pretty ordinary. 

Day Three: Warsaw Poland to Krakow, Poland

Yes, I will do the 'math', thank you very much. 

Don't misunderstand me, I'm a die hard advocate of spontaneity, it's just that unstructured spontaneity is overrated and generally belongs to dreamers who watch too many films. I think having no plan at all is self defeating in that the anticipated surprise so often becomes the missed opportunity. Give me a 90% chance of having the fun you organised over a 10% chancing to have even more any day of the week. It's a percentage game and I like Maths. On that basis, I planned my next 3 days and proceeded. 

After an early night in, I leapt out of bed like the 29th of February. The sun was out, my 8am train was booked and my bags were packed. I still love the rush I get from being on the move and today was no different. The station was emptier than Paris Hilton's library so maneuvering around was as easy as, well, Paris Hilton    . The difference in price between a First and Second class ticket wasn't much at all but that wasn't the point; what matters for this trip is the interactions I have and where more entertainment might lie. I decided not to think too long about this, bought a First Class ticket and immediately went for some breakfast.

Suspicion arose as to the source of his inspiration as Erik comes back from NYC with a spring in his step with an idea for a 'brand new' frozen yoghurt chain.

I bought a coffee and a wrap and as we pulled out of the station it became clear that the only other person in my compartment (there were 6 seats to a compartment) was a balding business man in his fifties. He was on his phone a lot and it was therefore with some caution that I gestured to him if it was alright for me to eat my wrap in front of him (it was heated and so a touch on the pungent side). He looked quizzically back at me so I went into more detail. 'Mind if eat tzatsiki wrap?' was what unexpectedly marched out of my mouth, oddly sounding rather Polish with a hint of Japanese given the high s/w/z content. It really might have been Polish in fact as he picked up his bag, apologised, walked out on his phone and didn't come back until the last 2 minutes of the journey to pick up his jacket. I will never find out what he thought I said but should you need some peace and quiet in Poland, arm yourself with a tzatsiki wrap and apologise for it with confidence. It's like Kryptonite to a business men out there.

I arrived in Krakow and having read up a little about the town on my way knew that my starting point, as with most cities to be honest, had to be the Old Town. Krakow used to be the capital of Poland, but come 1945 it was damn lucky not to have kept such a title, as not being the capital saved it from destruction which sadly fell, as you know, to my last host city, Warsaw. Given this, the city is still fairly in tact and it's charm is contagious. The Old Town is surrounded by a belt of Edenesque gardens and inside it's all cobbled streets and taverns like you've walked into the Hollywood film set of Asterix and Obelix which turned out to prove truer than I thought as the guy who gave me directions had breath to fell a thousand Romans and almost certainly was Unhygenix. 

Rob and Margot

The first thing I noticed on entering 'Milk Bar', was that it had a communal table in the middle, something I'm actually quite a fan of. Of course you can be really unlucky and get a nauseating narcissist (no comments please), but on the off chance that James Franco doesn't sit down next to you, you can often have great conversations with people - but you have the choice (bring earphones for back up). I decided to go for the aforementioned table as I spied a rather affable looking couple just sitting down. In true Jamie style, I apologetically struck up conversation without really being sorry at all. I wanted to know their business. Rob and Margot met a few years back at Philosophy post grad school and were travelling through Europe for 11 days before they head home. Margot (whose birthday it was) lives in Belgium but is moving to England to be with Rob. Rob was studying specifically the Ethics of Asbergers which is a strain of autism where the sufferers display difficulty in social interaction but intense fascination with often mathematical subjects. We ended up talking about psychopaths and I mentioned that I had just read the brilliant book by Jon Ronson 'The Psycopath Test'. Rob mentioned that not only had he read it and taken the test, but he'd delved quite deeply into the behavioral patterns of psychopaths including what newspapers they most likely read. Have you guessed it? It didn't surprise me either. It is, of course, the Wall Street Journal.

I know I've mildly criticised spontaneity today but if there's something I just can't quite stomach, it's a tour, and these two beliefs can happily coexist, as they absolutely coexist in me. As such, I proceeded on Jamie's own tour and I spent the next few hours taking in the Old town and Jewish Quarter - Maciej, a guy I met there, told me that the number of Jews in Krakow now is only 200 having been 60,000 in 1939, 6000 in 1945 dwindling down to sub 1000 in the 70's to where we are today.

Feeling like I should attempt something on the healthier side, I decided to eat at 'Green Cafe' near the train station where they advertised 'healthy pizzas'. Ok Green Cafe, congratulations, you have my attention, proceed. The waiter completely misunderstood my question about what bread they use as he rushed off and came back with a panicked look and a Blackberry charger. I pointed at one of the pizzas and we all moved on with our lives. I thought for a second I had ordered a frisbee with cheese as the only thing this disc shaped air foil was seemingly good for was to distract the attention of your assailants should be unlucky enough to be under attack from a warrior army of flying mice. As I walked off I sang to myself, "Sweet dreams are made of cheeeeese, who am I to diss a Brie....."

My overnight train was on time and I jumped aboard excited to get back on tracks. Frustratingly I had to change at 10:49pm at Kitowice but then I was in a 2 man compartment for the overnight leg to Prague. The price options available to me this time were more varied but faced with the choice of a 1 bed first class compartment, a 2 bed second class and a 6 bed standard class, the decision was tougher. For the sake of authenticity and comedy in this journal, clearly standard was the only option but I would be useless all day in Prague without any sleep so perhaps I go Savoy class for a few extra shekels. I settled on second class and prayed to the train Gods that my companion was not going to be the 'over-50's reigning Rajastan snoring champion' I once had to share with on a fateful overnighter from Udaipur to Dehli. As it happened, I got the perfect room mate, no one at all. With a large grin on my face I built a nest in the more than adequate compartment and bunked down for the night.

If Day 1 had been a 9 and Day 2 a 6, then today had fallen satisfyingly and symmetrically right down the middle. Monday 25th August had been a totally acceptable 7.5. I told you I liked Maths. 

Day Four: Krakow, Poland to Prague, Czech Republic

Travelling alone is like surfing

The train pulled in around 7:30am and if I were scoring a cricket match and entering weather conditions, I would have written: overcast and spitting. Today would definitely have been a day to bowl first. I got off the train and headed for the cash point; as I put my card in I suddenly gulped that I had no idea whatsoever what the exchange rate or even the currency was (maybe they accept Traveler's Czechs?). With a queue behind and thinking that on a day like today I'd want to be quick to the taxi line I just looked at the numerical options and picked the second highest number; how bad could that be? Quite bad as it turned out. With two 2000 notes I jumped in a taxi to my new Air BnB hosts and was then laughed at as the journey had cost 110 and there was just no way he was giving me change for what was apparently the cost of a small plot of land in Wales, $120. He accepted a 5 euro note I had and I scuttled through the rain to the front door of the apartment building.

Anna was about as friendly as anyone I could have hoped for at 8am on a grey morning and she explained that the American hosts Andy and Taylor were not here at the moment so it was just me and her. I had opted for American hosts this time as I thought I would measure the different experiences from staying with a local and staying with, say, a bar owner from Seattle. 

True to form, I got up and went for a run to explore my new home for the next 3 days. Predictably, I ran across the Charles bridge; Charles IV was basically the greatest ever king of the Czech lands putting Prague well and truly on the map and taking the country into a Golden Age in the 14th century building cathedrals, universities and, of course, this incredibly famous landmark bridge. I'm not on Tinder but I do know that it very much exists in Prague and thought as I ran across that you must be an idiot NOT to meet on this bridge given she'd be wishing she'd worn better underpants before you can say 'fancy a Pilsner?'. 

John Lennon Wall / Post It note convention

Coming off the other side I must have taken a few wrong turns as I had planned to be in a riverside park but was now standing next to a heavily graffitied wall with Beatles lyrics scrawled all over it. I had stumbled across the elusive John Lennon wall - and so had George. George had gone to Uppingham School in England and was sporting a top that signaled he'd also been on a rugby tour around South Africa. I knew immediately that George was a good egg. Worryingly though, he was travelling by himself around Europe being keen on, of all things, cliff jumping. I thought momentarily to say be careful as it that didn't turn out well for Humpty Dumpty, but thought egg-ainst it. OK, that's the last one I crack, promise. Incredibly, he leant me some waterproof paper and we both added to the wall of quotes and remarks originally meant as a place of rebellion as of course Western music (and particularly that of the anti-establishment Lennon) was forbidden while Czechoslavakia (as it was then) was under communist rule. I wrote "Rest In Peace John - you can't Imagine what the world is like now. I think you had it better." I spent the rest of my run wondering if I believed what I had written or not.

Imagine my surprise then when, on reaching the top of the Olympic mountain overlooking Prague, I was invited by 2 fellow runners to join them for a tour of Prazsky Hrad (Prague Castle) at 3:45pm. It was already 2:30pm by the time I'd climbed the mock Eiffel Tower structure commanding panoramic views of the red-roofed city, so I upped my pace to make it home and change before being at the Castle Gates well before 3:45pm. Without any way of getting in touch, I didn't want to be late for my new best friends in Prague, Marketa and Nat. 

Nat was only a few minutes late and immediately apologised that Marketa was still straightening her hair. I could care less being happy that for the first time in recent memory, I had met someone without exchanging a single method of communication. I tried this once before in 2007 with a girl called Daisy Hambro; she never showed up and I have subsequently wished her a life of marginal discomfort. Still, one out of two isn't bad. Nat is Canadian and looks like the exact cross of Michael J. Fox and Adam, Prince of Eternia and defender of the secrets of Castle Greyskull. I'm now sitting here in smug self-congratulation as I have absolutely nailed this analogy. Indeed, his top half is that of the former and his bottom the latter with thighs like they are made out of oak tree trunks and could support small communities. There is good reason for this; Nat is a professional cyclist (or at least he would be if it wasn't for the doping that prevents 'clean' riders like him making it) and he gets around Europe, wait for it, by bike.  He is based in Italy for now and cycled to meet Marketa (a local Czech but moved to Toronto several years ago) in Budapest. Let me repeat that. Nat cycled to meet Marketa in Budapest; it took him 4 days. 

Nat or Prince Adam or Michael J. Fox: never seen in the same room.

Added to the group was Steve, another friend of Marketa's from Toronto and then Hansa, an old friend from Prague who not only runs a superb restaurant just outside the city but is also an apparent expert in Czech history (as was Marketa to be fair). Hansa didn't speak much English but Marketa and him related fascinating stories of the city and of themselves growing up in communist times including the crazy story behind Operation Anthropoid. To read more about it click here. We continued on into the cathedral listening to them regale us with quirky anecdotes and animated insights into life under communism. After a few hours, we decided to head off for a drink. But not just any drink.

Hansa's friend runs an Absinthe shop near the castle and he suggested we go and try some. My skepticism radar was well into the red zone; given its proximity to the Castle, I thought this might be as authentic as buying a cricket bat at Heathrow airport, but Marketa seemed convinced and so we marched on regardless. It was some parlour. Absinthe, or the Green Fairy as it is called, is not just a reckless memory eraser, it's allegedly responsible for some of the greatest works of art in recent memory with proponents such as Van Gogh, Hemingway and even our very own Oscar Wilde. Well, I thought, if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me; and it bloody well should be at $55 for one drink. Out came the sugar cube and water, and the ceremony began. You can watch it here.

From right to left: Absinthe pricing at $200, $550 and a whopping $1000 a bottle. 

With a buzz in my step we headed out into town to jump in the car bound for Hansa's restaurant. On the way we walked past a coffee shop with the most adorable tradition. Not exactly known how it started but at the U Zavesenyho Kafe (the Hanging Out Cafe), you buy not only your own coffee but one for the next person if you are feeling generous. The idea being that the next person that comes in gets an unexpected free coffee to start their day but then presumably buys the next stranger a coffee and so on. It's a lovely idea that makes something special out of something ordinary - that is until you get a travelling Scotsman in and then the whole chain almost certainly breaks down. 

After about 20 minutes we got to Hansa's restaurant and while he ordered us beer, Marketa told us all to heads upstairs as one of her friends is an artist and her art was hanging there. I'm not generally impressed by paintings but this was something special. Originally from Prague, Radu Tesaro had fallen in love in Canada but then moved to Zambia to be with him. While there, her paintings were noticed by the President and she was duly requested to paint several portraits of him. Her art work is sublime so read more about this lesser known artist here.

As we came back down to the table it was evident that Hansa was expecting the New England Patriots to be joining us as there was a banquet waiting for us like 8 Prodigal Sons had all coincidentally returned at once and the father (he has no given name in Luke) had hired Jamie Oliver and his full team to prepare it. I was asked to say a few words and leaping on the opportunity for a gag, I announced that this all made sense now given the earlier story that at Prague Zoo there was now only a snake rattling around wondering where the hell everyone went. Sorry, too much for now perhaps but on the night, I can assure that line was a proper rib tickler. I should also add that no food went to waste, everything is locally sourced and Hansa's restaurant, Bovorka, is well worth the trip. The ribs with Jack Daniels BBQ sauce ranks, to this day, as one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. 

After dinner, we all went our separate ways; Marketa, Nat and I decided we had one more drink in us as it was only about 11 o'clock and we went to her favourite bar which very rapidly became my favorite bar. Much like the Absinthe parlour, one might be surprised at such local quality being in such proximity to the Charles Bridge but just round the corner from the cobbled river crossing of romance is Bluelight bar, a speakeasy low lit hipster haunt filled with as much character as there were Czechs. I think Nat and I were the only foreigners, me from England, him from Eternia / Hill Valley. We got a bottle of wine and we chatted about love, life and lucky to meet each other. Nat suddenly and yet profoundly said that travelling alone and meeting people was very much like surfing. You have to be patient and just wait for the right wave. We all agreed, toasted and I made my way home to bed. I missed my girl back home - she would have loved today. 

Day Five: Prague, Czech Republic

Everyone waits for man, except time

I don't know what I would have done to Squarespace IT support had I been dressed this way at 12:18pm. 

Hen. Knee. Weigh. Let's get on shall we? Marketa and Nat had decided via some rigorous research and cunning questioning that the unsung museum to head to the next day was the KGB museum. It was disappointing then when Anna told me it was more of a let down than the Stars Wars prequels but silver lined it by relaying how close it was to the apartment. Leaving at 2:45pm for our 3pm meeting, I meandered wistfully on the assumption I could take twice as long and still get there early. Indeed I would have been had this been the KGB museum, but this was the Communist museum. Squarespace users: check what posts you are deleting AND double check names of museums you plan on visiting. The Maths inevitably kicks in; I naturally assume a 10min wait time by anyone. I then add 5 mins for having no phone and another 5 mins for not knowing the city at all well. I add a final 2 mins because they are relaxed people unlike me and give myself 22mins to get to 3 Vlasa Place, West Prague and them still be outside. I look at my iPhone; it's a savior that iPhones show GPS location without internet connection. I would tell you why that's the case, but we haven't got time. Not now. It looks like it's about 3km away and it's 3:01pm. Running at just over 10km/hour would do it but arriving sweaty is so unKGB. A helpful lady points frantically towards an underground sign and signals 12 with her fingers. Bingo. I must have completely misunderstood the Czech subway system as there are no gates on either end and so to this day I haven't bought a ticket. Sorry Prague. But if you go to Manhattan, wait for ladies with prams to come out through the 'door' gate, hold the door for them, and then walk through. You don't need a ticket on exit. There - favored returned, and let's move on.

I get to West Prague and as I come out of the station a tram heads in the direction I want but as I look to jump on the moving vehicle, a man who looks like Highlander slowly shakes his head. I don't challenge him as I have a rule never to mess with Highlander lookalikes. I'm running through the cobbled streets (thank goodness for my high tops) and make it to the museum at 3:21pm. Marketa and Nat shout from across the street, 'Oh, hi. We are just getting a coffee, can we get you one?' 

Panoramic view of Prague Castle and the Charles bridge below. They'll be at least one person proposing down there.

After the museum Marketa thought we should take a boat on the river which seemed an excellent idea especially with the sun now shining in all evening glory. Then Nat has the worst idea in European naval history; we should take the large floating Swan. I think we're all on the same page here; with a wide selection of rowing and pedal boats, you could forgive the onlookers' sniggers as we moved about as rapidly as an asthmatic ant with some heavy shopping. I've seen glaciers move quicker. Still, it provided a comedy workout and we drank sparkling white wine while we provided amusement to anyone with the patience to watch us, including the unimpressed actual swans. 

Fantastically behind schedule, somewhere I am very uncomfortable being, we left the river and with the time around 6:47pm; we had 13 minutes to make it to the Old Town square to watch the changing of the clocks, something that garners a crowd and something I wanted to catch before needing to head home and rewrite my entire journal once more. The next 13 minutes proved perhaps even more entertaining than the earlier rush but of course there was one significant difference. This wait time was zero as time waits for no man - it was 7 o'clock, or nothing. I flagged down a taxi believing, even with traffic, it would guarantee arrival in time, and with a defeatist nod of approval from Marketa, we jumped in. We drove slowly forward for 3 minutes and then turned around into worse traffic. Disaster. Our taxi driver had been pointing in the wrong direction and had driven while waiting to U turn. We argued more in the car but at 6:55pm we'd had enough and so Marketa and I decided to make a run for it. See the next few mins here.

I decided not to wait another hour for the changing clocks again, believing it more important to get cracking on my journal rewrite so I came back to the apartment. Oh yes, that's right, I deleted my entire journal by accident. Character building, or so they say..... 

Day Six: Prague, Czech Republic to Bratislava, Slovakia

"You only get what you pay for, Guv'nor "

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"An eerie picture of what art students think of Vladimir. What's really eerie is what they graffitied on his forehead."

I'm going to tell you something I have never told anyone else before. Many years ago now, and the right accent here is a soft Michael Caine combined with the harsh undertones of Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, 'I did a bloody runner'. I'm not proud of it, but it happened. I was at Oxford and coming home from some night out in Cowley to my college, St Hugh's, and the cabbie was being a bit mouthy about students - not uncommon. I told him I was out of cash but I would run into my room in college and come back and pay him. I just didn't come back. Honestly, I did have some intention of coming back, but when I got in, I just thought screw him and his anti-studentness. Does this make me a criminal? I'm not sure. Today, for the second time in my life, I did a runner.

I had decided to put my train back from 7:40am to 9:40am to give myself a few more hours in the early morning on Anna's laptop as on this iPad I'm struggling to edit anything and correctly 'post' videos and pictures. Anna and I had become good friends over the last 12 hours as we'd worked on rebuilding this site, and so it was sad to go and say goodbye to her just after 9am. Just as I was leaving she said, "Please do keep in touch though and keep going because you are very inspiring." It was a very touching moment, and even more so because I think there's a very good chance she even meant it. My girlfriend and I have said recently that you can do nothing more worthwhile in life than inspire people, and I think this is the first time someone has ever said those exact words to me. It felt bloody good indeed. I'd like to do it again.

After a slightly longer goodbye that I imagined for all the right reasons, I now had only 20mins to make the train. I found a taxi quickly and we sped off but into traffic. I pointed at the map I had and asked if there was another route as I had only 15mins to be there. The driver then backed up and went down some side streets that I could tell from GPS were going in the right direction but were dicey given it looked like one way territory. We got stuck and he just looked at me in the rear view mirror and shook his head - poor dice. I'd had enough and so I grabbed my bags and got out of the car. He wound down the window and stuck his hand out for money and I announced in my best Vinnie Jones from Lock Stock accent: "you only get what you pay for Guv'nor". It won't take you long to work out that makes no sense whatsoever as I was supposed to paying him, but I was so focused on the accent and, let's face it, he wouldn't have understood a syllable anyway.

I sprinted down the road and then down a passage way finding a main road upon me. Another cab hove (a common mistake is to write hoved) into view and although I was pathetically taking 2 cabs over 1 km I had only a few minutes to play with. A very helpful lady at the counter got my ticket for me miraculously quickly and I sprinted to platform 4. In the Nicholas of time, I let out a enormous sigh of relief as if you'd thought you'd deleted an entire journal but In fact you hadn't. That sort of sigh. (I've read making light of an issue eases the pain: I think that might be right).

Choosing where to sit on the train is always an intense exercise; it's quite the spectator sport if you've ever intently watched someone walking down the aisle where seats lie sporadically open. If you make eye contact with the person sitting next to the empty seat, you're screwed; if you don't sit down it means you didn't like the look of them, and if you do sit down (perhaps even worse), it's because you absolutely did. For me, my main criteria is to look for someone who is very unlikely to use a phone, and that usually means going for someone below 14 or above 70. Avoiding odd glances, the over 70's are by far the best category; they generally just read as they still don't really 'get' mobile phones, due to number limbs they hardly wriggle and the chances of them having the energy to get up and go to the loo are close to zero. They just can't be bothered. The lady I sat opposite was borderline 70 but did look good for her age. Having just left the station her phone went and she answered for a good 5 minutes. Damn it; the swine must have been in her late sixties. Stupid young looking Czechs.

While Ulrick and Ivan just looked into the lens, Stefan couldn't take his eyes off the ghost

I enjoyed this train journey very much indeed, and probably the most of the trip so far. The landscape became increasingly picturesque and more Alpine despite us not changing elevation. 4 hours and change later, we pulled into Bratislava main station.

Of the places I have been so far, probably the least is known about this one. Bratislava is the capital city (and the only one on the planet that borders 2 countries, Austria and Hungary) and industrial hub of Slovakia which itself made up half of the country Czechoslovakia until 1989's Velvet Revolution came about to install democracy after communism. This began a set of chain reactions which lead to parliament dissolving the country officially in 1992 and the one country became two. In fact, literally as I type, the waiter is telling me that both countries understand each other perfectly but that younger Czechs might not understand Slovaks because the media was all in Czech and now the language of each other's media has drifted apart.
Juraj was waiting patiently to meet me despite a marginally late train arrival. Juraj is the Slovak for George and he proudly tells me as at some point in the next hundred years we will have a King George of The United Kingdom. Yes, I suppose we will. After I unpacked I went for a run to do my usual scoping. 

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The t shirt was extra small unlike their intentions. 

A few minutes into the jog, I came across a pack of white t-shirted demonstrators, or what looked like demonstrators. I had to find out more. I stopped and chatted about their plight which is essentially a focus on preventing ethnic, social and religious exclusion across Europe, something they are becoming more wary of as far right political movements are seemingly gaining ground; given the history of this part of the world, you can see their point. Find out more here: http://www.nohatespeechmovement.org. They were from all over Eastern Europe but mainly Montenegro; either way, I know they are reading this and I wish them all the best.

As I continued running around the city and trying to understand the country, I'm so very sorry to say that I just didn't feel inspired at all. I'm going to let you down now and say that I'm going to struggle to put my finger on it. For a start, they don't have a Scrabble Federation based here in the Capital City unlike Poland (legends) but more that that it feels a little bit like this city is rushing things; there is so much beauty and history here with cobbled lined streets leading to castles and picture postcard churches but then you find a bar or restaurant on the corner with waiters dressed in lederhosen, neon lights saying authentic cooking and mock wooden chariots. Down one gorgeous alleyway, I came around the corner to find a DJ blasting techno at about 4pm at a place now called the Nu Spirit bar. Dear Bratislava, stop rushing it. You're going to balls the whole place up and turn it into a European Cancun. Slow down and let it come more naturally. Lots of love, Jamie. I imagine there's good reason that low cost airlines are more to blame that the residents though. What with Ryanair and Easyjet hosting weekly stag parties here, I imagine the correlation between Old Town cheesy club growth and low cost airline arrival is worryingly high.

On my run, I found the quiet and blissful sanctuary of Presporak Cafe run by Veronica. It's interior decor was effortlessly cozy and they have chairs you can sink into to let an hour fly by, which is exactly what I did. Do go and say hi. 

Frankly the evening was a bit of a non-event, to use an annoyingly overused phrase from my finance days, but I did the chance to meet a very interesting man by the name of L'ubo Belak. His Wikipedia page reads: Dr.. Lubomir Belak (* 5 January 1951 , Bratislava ) is a Slovak musician, songwriter and television producer. He's the closest thing to Peter I've met, and are both key midfield players in my fantasy Eastern Europe good lad team. On my way home, I saw a bar still open at 11pm (bars outside the Old Town close early) with 3 men having a last drink. I knocked on the window and they welcomed me in. Peto and Andrew are old friends and they grew up here. Peto and I got on well as he is a cameraman for documentaries here in Slovakia and asked if I wanted to join him on a shoot. I said I'd love to but leaving Saturday which was annoying as the next day, Friday, was a national holiday and literally no one works. Peto also mentioned that there's sadly little else to do outside the castle here so wished me luck for the next day. 

Being underwhelmed a little, I decided to take the train to Vienna early on Saturday morning and then on to Ljubljana on Sunday evening. That meant I had one full day in Bratislava for the city, or perhaps Peto, to prove me wrong. An anticipatory seven.

Day Seven: Bratislava, Slovakia

What really matters is who your audience is

In Bratislava, there is an entire banking system marketed for just good lads....

After reading that my travel partner, Trip Advisor, had waxed lyrical about Stur Cafe, I didn't waste time making my way there on what was turning out to be a right old scorcher of a day. It was 8am and already pretty toasty so even as I walked into the cafe, I knew my day's plan would have to be al fresco. You would be forgiven for incorrectly naming Michaela and Nicola who work at the cafe; they wear a different name in their name badges every single day just because they can and it keeps things interesting. I'd never thought of it before, but now I will think twice when I see name badges in a coffee house. Maybe, it's a 'thing' that coffee shops do. If it is, I like it and have a new found respect for the Starbucks culture. Michaela and Nicola had been out late and when we really became friends was when I asked for a panini and cappuccino and they both asked 'Would I mind just making it myself!?'. If they did this to everyone, then I think their days at Stur are numbered, but if they thought I would find this funny, then they got my wavelength bang on. We were friends right away.

I spent a good hour or two there writing and planning my next move, but I couldn't get out of my head that there wasn't more to see in Bratislava. Peto had told me the night before there wasn't much to see here but I'd been unwilling to accept that. It then came to me as I flicked through web pages of ideas: today, I would go water skiing. I exchanged details with Michaela and Nicola in case there were around later, texted Peto to see if he was free later too and jumped in a taxi to Zlate Piesky. 

It was only wake boarding sadly but still the set up was classic 'boarders', and I'm not talking boys who only come home from private schools twice a term. 'Board' culture is all the same whether it's skate, snow or wake; the tight age range is 16 to 24, you must have no hair or too much, wear sunglasses or goggles at all times both indoor and out, do very little of the sport you are dressed for but spend hours talking about it on the sidelines, chew or smoke anything that happens to be next to you at the time (cigarettes, keys, sticks from the ground), act like your neck muscles don't work properly and wear a wooly hat but only if it is inappropriate to do so. Nonetheless, they were really friendly at Wakelake Sports and I immediately booked 45 mins. I think Peto had actually mentioned Fly Boarding the night before and so when I saw it on offer, I 'added it to my cart' and my morning plans were coming along nicely. Watch my day at the lake here. 
True to boarder-form though, the talent turned up too. Girls came in hightops and bikins with sun glasses the size of small countries and the last piece of the puzzle was in place. I was in Eastern European Skater-town.

Sadly this t shirt actually exists in Bratislava, about as good an indication of the place as you get.

Sadly Peto hadn't texted yet but Michaela and Nicola had got in touch and we met up by the river around 9pm. Nicola couldn't make it but I chatted with Michaela about her life growing up which was fascinating. Just then like the hand of fate was tilting the day back upright, Peto walked past and we all cheered. He was with a few pals and his girlfriend and eventually we all joined forces. Michaela is a mother in her twenties but separated from her son's father. She spent a while telling about the values instilled in her by her parents growing up in the countryside 300 miles east of Bratislava in a small village. Her father worked literally on the rail tracks for 20 years, and her mother was a tailor but now earns good money taking care of the elderly; this has become a common job in Slovakia for retired women as you can earn very good money alternating weeks on and off. Michaela told me one very interesting story about teaching her son, Christian, the value of money - she said she wanted to teach him the very important difference between what you need and what you want, something her parents had taught her. Months ago they went shopping for their food for the next few days. They had 8 euros. Michaela told Christian that he could have 3 and she would take 5, and that they could do what they wanted. Christian started buying bread and yoghurt but when he saw a toy car he put the others back. Even though Mum explained the consequences, the young boy stuck with the wheels. The next day, on asking for his breakfast, Junior got the bad news and was reminded he picked the car. That was the last time he bought himself a toy instead of food. Christian is four years old and has his priorities more aligned than some my age, maybe even me. 
 
After the riverside we went to a bar run by a friend of Peto called Parklife for what was basically a lock in. Drinks on the house and a guy on a guitar singing songs he'd written himself. After a few minutes, Peto asked everyone to listen while I told everyone my 'story'. Being me, I obliged willingly, but remained apprehensive as my life story is not an interesting one. Middle class upbringings and private education to a career in finance almost sends my iPad to sleep; but they were transfixed as I told them all about Oxford, hedge funds and New York City. It really is all about perspective isn't it? In the exact same way, Michaela had been shy earlier that her 'story' was a boring one but, of course, I couldn't have been more hooked knowing nothing of life in rural Slovakia at all. 

I was leaving early in the morning so I went home to bed around midnight but on the way I realized that I had managed to find the most interesting thing in Bratislava after all: it's the people. The trouble is, they just don't think they are. I guess we are all fascinating people, you just have to be talking to the right audience. 

Day Eight: Bratislava, Slovakia to Vienna, Austria

A tale of two sounds 

A lesser known fact about George Orwell is that he was a war correspondent for many years. On the 27th May 1945 Orwell wrote an article in the Observer, for whom he wrote regularly, about the obstacles facing the West with regards joint rule in Germany and who should govern Austria. In it he pontificates the unresolvable nature of such a situation and one that would lead to another East / West War. How prophetic he was, disturbingly so in fact given his masterpiece '1984'. Still, with Germany's economy booming, I was interested to see the journey the next country on my list had made, Austria, a country with all German efficiency and arguably even more culture, certainly when it comes to music.  

My new host Julia showed me round the apartment and explained sadly that opera was still on hold for the Summer but if I looked around there would be recitals to go and listen to, something I very much wanted to do. She also explained that there was an electronic street party not far away which wasn't exactly what I had been expecting but intrigued me nonetheless. It was around 10am and I was exhausted so I lay down on the bed to do some reading. There was a book already on the bed side table. It was called 'George Orwell: the Observer Years'.

My new, and unexpected, chosen topic for Mastermind is 'makes of Eastern European umbrella'.

It was raining as I spent the afternoon walking round Vienna, but I hugely entertained myself by videoing myself in front of famous Viennese landmarks, introducing them and then revealing the building by removing my umbrella from view (see below). Next stop on my list was the Freud Museum. I don't love museums so much but Sigmund Freud himself does fascinate me. I'm a strong believer in mind over matter and so wanted to find out more about his psychoanalytical techniques. Sadly, the museum is more of a step by step history of his life rather than a commentary of his work so I didn't test the carpets too long there. One fact I thought was interesting, is that he was the first man to really attempt delving deep into people's minds as so often, if there is torment in someone's life, a natural reaction is to bury it as deep as possible. Freud's goal was to dig it out. His secret was to make the patient as comfortable as possible, and so he made all his patients lie flat on a couch and close their eyes. A technique still used to this very day.

St Stephen's Cathedral is colossal. This ecclesiastical monolith sits right in the middle of the city and towers over onlookers in a square that seems too small for it. Outside I noticed a sign which greatly excited me. I think I was 16 when Mum first bought me a 'music system'; it was made by Kenwood and could hold 3 CDs at once. In its day, this was borderline futuristic. Whether by accident or design, one CD made its way into the machine and remained there semi permanently over the last 2 years of my time at school, Wellington College. It was Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and while I am a self-proclaimed philistine when it comes to classical music, I loved these four pieces very much and if I ever were to make it onto Desert Island Discs, then one of the seasons would be coming with me. There Kirsty, you heard it here first. The sign read that soloists from the Vienna orchestra were doing a full recital tonight in the Cathedral. I bought front row tickets instantly.

Antonio Vivaldi was born and raised in Venice in the late 17th century but, like so many of the finest composers of the time, he eventually made his way to Vienna (as did Mozart, Bach, Beethoven). Sadly Vivaldi had been plagued by illness most of his life, and tragically he died in 1741 only a few years after arriving in Vienna at the age of 63. As I rushed back to the apartment to change for the evening, the street party was in full swing and bus loads of house (music genre not structure of domesticity) DJs were blasting out music across the city. The streets were, a la Notting Hill carnival, filled with dancers holding cans of beer and dancing with backpacks. It was quite the spectacle and I wondered for a second if in 400 years time, these youngsters behind the decks would be considered the Vivaldi's of the 21 century. As a large girl flashed a guy urinating in a bush, I thought probably not. 

I was back at St Stephen's just after 8pm and saw the queue already going in. It was magnificent. The cathedral was as vast a chamber as I have ever entered and with front row seats I sat excitedly for the soloists to appear. There were to be 5 musicians: 4 violinists and a cellist. The next hour was just fabulous. The setting was as perfect as you could imagine in the home of Baroque music, the musicians were sublime and I could not have been happier. Watch a sample here. After the concerto I went home, again through the music festival which ordinarily I would have thrown myself into, but not after Vivaldi. No, I just couldn't. 

I would be sad to leave Vienna as despite the poor weather, I found it clean, cultured, friendly and just a pleasure to walk around. Before I went to sleep I found myself wanting to read a little more about George Orwell, or should I say, Eric Blair as he was before he changed his name. It turns out the bugger went to the same school as me, but only for a term as he was then offered a King's scholarship to Eton. Yeah, but you didn't have a Kenwood 3 CD multi-level music system, did you?

See ya later Eric. 

Day Nine: Vienna, Austria to Ljubljana, Slovenia

A most a-track-tive train

Be aware that Sunday trading is not commonplace in Vienna, especially in the Summer so most of the recommended cafés were closed. Within a few New York minutes of giving up on breakfast altogether, I stumbled across one that was open - open but busy. I had a 1230pm train and given my Czech taxi debacles I was in no mood for a repeat performance so was leaving the apartment promptly at 11:30am so packing at 11am and it was already 10am. Goodness me, I was becoming my own Big Brother. A concern that did not weigh on me for too long as I then congratulated myself for discovering a state both Orwellian and Freudian. The funny thing about this cafe is that it was filled with only one demographic; everyone, and I mean everyone, was elderly and possibly even octogenarian. I had a quick coffee and croissant as I fantastised what incredible train companions this entire restaurant would be. 

The Viennese underground (an apparent misnomer as the majority of my journey was above ground) is slicker than a James Bond one liner and I arrived with plenty of time to spare. This was good news as I needed some time to shoot more video for the short movie I'm making about this trip. It requires fellow travelers holding signs up of where I'm going to next, and when I spied 2 girls with instrument cases I thought 'spot on, son'. Either they are violinists which works perfectly for Vienna, or, because you know what they used to say about violin cases, they are gun smugglers in which case, well, that was just cool. Katerina is from Ljubljana and was on her way home - she plays in the junior orchestra in Vienna when she's not at University studying music. We chatted briefly but then I made my way to another part of the train. Adjectives will fail me here but this was the Ferrari of trains. Journal writing heaven and I wasted no time getting finger to screen.

If Ferrari made trains...

I spent a lot of time looking out of the window and wondering what tips I would pass on to others travelling this route and whether I was a good traveller. The answer to the latter is yes, and I know this because I don't have a bag with wheels. On this point I admit being a travel snob; I don't know whether it's the noise they make or the fact that they turn airports into obstacle courses but roller bags (and I'm really talking about hand luggage here), I just can't do. Call me a bluff old traditionalist but it's called hand luggage for a reason, and if that doesn't give you a clue then 'carry on' should. I'm half joking here but if I see someone actually carrying a smart piece of hand luggage, I have respect for them. I also think try and dress appropriately; train stations and airports are not your own living room people (!) so matching track suit bottoms and tops are wholly unacceptable, especially if they have glittery writing on them. A genuinely practical reason for dressing well is that if you are on your own in a foreign country then people are much more likely to help you if you are well dressed. That goes for most things honestly. I've now realized I have so many more of these but I'm going to save any travel tips until the end. 

Musicians or gun smugglers - you just never can tell. Katerina (left) was luckily the former.... I think. 

I knew I had to change close to the Slovenian border so I packed up and got ready for the dart across platforms knowing I had only 7 minutes changeover. As I boarded train number two to Ljubljana, I was happy to see Katerina side step into the same compartment as me. A Canadian girl called Melanie got in too. I don't know if it's like this through the country but the compartments are such that you are six to a confined booth and with Katerina and I already knowing each other, it wasn't long before the three of us all started chatting. Katerina told us about life in Slovenia which seemed fairly peaceful and pleasant to be honest. Cosy and idyllic (the capital city has about 300,000 residents and you are never far away from the countryside) are words that sprang to mind as we cruised through fields that suggested just the same, and obviously far less scarred than the other countries that made up former Yugoslavia who had suffered so badly in the early 90's. Katerina made the point that Slovenia was probably most like Croatia in culture given, when it was part of Yugoslavia, families from Ljubljana would go to the Dalmatian coast on holiday, and so the two territories naturally would mix. She also mentioned how totally unmissable Lake Bled is for anyone coming to Slovenia which came as a fairly large disappointment to me. Melanie had got off the train at the last stop about 10 minutes ago; the last stop had been lake Bled. Next time Gadget.

Now, if any of you ever come to Slovenia then do get in touch with Teja because this apartment I stayed in was worth the trip alone, and by far the best I have stayed in all trip. The city of Ljubljana is small enough to walk around in a day, made easier by the fact that the very centre of it is all pedestrianised, Teja's apartment being ideally located right in the centre at the foot of the castle. I was met by her and her husband who explained everything to me and that they lived 30 mins out of town but just text for any problems. They have 2 children and it turned out the next day was a big day in Slovenia and all schools go back on the same day and they had to go and get ready. I was going to learn more about the first day of school then I imagined. 

I unpacked. I pretty much always fully unpack when I'm staying somewhere and make a point of having a place for everything within my bags so I know where everything goes. This probably docks me several good lad points but I can't help taking huge satisfaction from such organization. I thought for a second how Peter from Warsaw might pack: one black tie / tuxedo, a monocle, 2 hunting knives given to him by as yet undiscovered tribe leaders in the Amazon, 3 white shirts with mini assault rifles for collar stiffeners, Dr Livingstone's diaries, an iPhone 8 and a bottle of Krug for the pilot.....who inevitably just calls him Pete. Right, time me for dinner. 

For dinner, I plumped for Gujzina and was not disappointed (http://www.prekmurska-gostilna.si). 20 meters from my front door, I loved the whole outdoor experience of sitting in the square watching people walk by. I ordered the cheese plate because it came with pumpkin seed bread and pumpkin seed oil which I love, but then in English 'a sprinkle of marijuana'. I thought that must be a typo, and I'm sure it was. The only thing high in that restaurant were my waiters trousers; seriously, I was surprised the kid could even walk properly. It had been a long day, and my nest of an apartment was just too luring. As an old matron used to say to us: lights out in 5, 4, 3, 2...... click.

Day Ten: Ljubljana, Slovenia

Fazan

It wasn't the first time I've been egged. Heavens, no. There were many traditions at Oxford ranging from the touching to the terrible, and one of them did involve getting egg on your face, literally. During exam period Oxford students would be required to wear gowns and suits, but to 'garnish' the uniform you would traditionally give 3 carnations to someone sitting them also with whom you'd spent much of your time. In my case, it was my dear buddy Hamish Laing- a white one for your first exam, a red for your last exam and pink for all in between. Although not confirmed, I was told it dates back to the times when candidates would remove their white carnation while sitting the exam and place it in the ink for their quill to stop it dying; this would cause the flower to soak up the ink and so darken its petals, hence white to pink to red. That was the touching part; less touching was those wearing red carnations would be on their last day of exams and due for a pounding either at the bar, or by their friends on walking out - often by eggs. 

Slovenia is the smallest country I'm passing through and comfortably the least populated with its dwellers spread sparsely across rolling green fields. In 2007 it became the first former communist country to join the Eurozone and in 2010 joined the OECD, a global 'friend request accepted' given to developed countries by other developed countries - think G8 meets Facebook. Although they enjoy the euro, it's not welcomed by everyone. Speaking to several locals, it appears that despite a decent economy, it is not a very strong one and far too service based. This last detail increases their volatility and sensitivity to recessions and booms and most feel they would have been better without it. They were hit hard by the recession in 2008 and do not have the tourism to pull them out like Austria above and Croatia below (25% of Croatia's economy is now tourism). The average stay of tourists in Slovenia is just 2 to 3 days as opposed to closer to 10 in Croatia, something everyone hopes will change soon. I have a feeling it just might - Ljublana was fast becoming a favourite of mine. 
I hadn't been running in a few days - definitely time to change that.

With Teja's apartment situated more perfectly than if an Italian were living between a sunglasses shop and a cafe with outdoor seating, it was a matter of yards before I hit the cobbled path leading up the steep hill to the castle which sits magnificently in the exact centre of the city. 

List of 10 signs a 21st century traveller never wants to see. Number 7: this. 

In almost all reviews of this city, and that goes for most city guide books, it lists museums, theaters, restaurants etc.. as the best things to do in that city. I'd like to write my own travel guide book which says spend your first day walking around and respectfully observing and engaging people that live there. One of my favourite things and tips is to find a close to empty cafe or bar and stop by for a tea, from Long Island or otherwise. If you're polite enough, almost always the person working there will be delighted to chat about life in the city to pass the time. Don't overlook the fact that people like helping people. It's actually happens to be a fairly strong argument against Darwinism, but it also happens to be true. It sits uncomfortably with the principal of survival of the fittest but the fact is egoistic altruism is very real, a topic we can return to at a later date, and always worth bearing in mind in a new place. 

4 Fasan

Like a fast hitting snooker player, I got some hot tips from Marko and set off back to my apartment, at least I would have done if I hadn't have come across a hoard of painted teenagers. I quickly discovered that this was the first day of school across Slovenia and, due to long standing tradition, it was customary to mark the Fazans with large F's all over their body and then crack an egg on their head. Fazan is the Slovenian word closest to the word fresher, but it has a slang connotation to a bird and so 2nd years flapping their 'wings' at first years and making clucking noises was common place. After asking a few lads what was happening, they seem to take enormous joy when I explained that this also happened at Oxford University, but when you finished. At this stage, I could see exactly where this was going and, dressed in running kit so fairly well prepared, I handed over my coffee and prepared to get smashed. Click here for the video.

I ran back along the river which runs through the middle of the city, but did an appalling job of avoiding sniggers and laughs so I thought in the name of self-respect I would take myself home to shower. In the afternoon I went on another long walk along the river listening to podcasts, an activity more and more I am becoming to just love. I was very worried indeed about spending so much time on my own on this trip as I'm not all that brilliant at it, but if I can walk somewhere interesting with a few Radio 4 programmes in my ear, I'm as happy as, well, a 2nd year at high school in Slovenia. 

Day Eleven: Ljubljana, Slovenia to Zagreb, Croatia

Persuade or obey

There's some confusion over Socrates's view on how to deal with authority, but his more accepted view is the one that I felt I should abide by at the train station. Plato (his student) famously recounts Socrates's view that one must either 'persuade or obey' the laws as dictated by the state. Basically, Socrates was the very first guy to come up with the principal, 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em'. The situation was as follows; the trains were all messed up and so they recommended a bus service to Zagreb, Croatia's capital, as it would be far quicker, but the bus obviously has far less seats available. The time now was about 10am and the bus would be at 12:45pm so I asked to buy my ticket now to guarantee a seat when I came back. Not so fast skipper. You can only buy tickets once the bus arrives and it's first come first served. This made no sense to me as the bus was coming from Munich, was not stopping and had left already. I suggested just calling Munich and seeing how many seats there were - nope, she said that's not how it works. Persuasion attempted and failed; I had to obey. Socrates would have done the same thing.

With an indefinite amount of time before needing to be back (I was going to see how much fun I was having walking around and then decide how early to be), I headed for the Museum of Contemporary Art close by. I'm told reliably that you're more likely to be hit by lightening then you are to become a lottery winner, but I wonder what the chances are you can plan a trip hitting the wettest day of the Summer for each European Countries you visit over a 2 week period. Pretty effing high. It was incredible, out of the 11 days I'd been away it had been raining hard on every single one of them except one. Miraculously, too, I would note how much better the weather became almost as my train left each respective station. I tried to warm myself and my now soaking Adidas shoes up by viewing this as a life balance for all the wonderful things I have in my life at the moment with so much to be thankful for: my friends, my new girl, my family and my health. Nope, it didn't even come close, I was still really pissed off it was raining. 

MSUM's answer to why they so often repeat their exhibitions in the museum. I rather liked it. 

The MSUM is absolutely worth a visit and sits in the more bohemian part of the city with walls and buildings that used to function as several 19th century barracks serving the Austro-Hungarian and Yugoslav armies, but now sit covered in graffiti and anti-regime cartoons. One part of the exhibition that stuck in my mind was that of Serbian artist Tanja Ostojic. One entire area is dedicated to her project entitled looking for a husband with an EU passport complete with the actual ad and naked picture she posted in magazines and the respective replies she got leading to  marriage. A fairly shocking reminder of how things used to be, and very maybe still are. 

Old army barracks now turned into the creepiest place to live on the planet. 

I returned at 12:15pm deeming that enough time to bite my wet lip and queue for a first come first served ticket. I needn't have worried and I boarded the bus. Mirko was my bus companion and we chatted a little about his life in Zagreb; he is a civil engineer and is sent to Munich a lot for work so he does that route all the time and, in true misery loves company style, eased each other's pain by complaining about the transport situation. We laughed about my ticket story, and he sympathized. There's something to said for that, I remember thinking afterwards; complaining gets an awful reputation naturally, but venting in the right company is enjoyable and allows you to reset. When I worked as a fund manager, so often things would go against you and just talking about them with someone in the office, even if they had no idea about the company you were talking about, helped a great deal. Venting, it might even be good for you. The only other point of interest on the trip was the entire bus was made to get off with their passports and physically walk across the boarder into Croatia to be checked. It occurred to me that not once had I used my passport since landing 11 days ago in Warsaw - just another reason trains are better, I guess. 

Mirko kindly offered to take me to my new place in the city centre and we said our goodbyes. After a decent amount of admin and rest, I headed into town for some local nosh. Elizabeta, my new host, recommended a small restaurant near the main square called La Struk, which translates into something like 'home cooking'. It's both an excellent name and representation as you are brought this cheese bake still in its small lasagne style dish bubbling hot straight out of the oven. There's basically no menu and it's as authentic a Croatian meal as you can get. I was keen to get a full day out of the nations capital tomorrow so I called it a day after dinner. As the saying goes, 'Home James, and don't spare the horses'. 

Day Twelve: Zagreb, Croatia

There are times to surf, and there are times to wax your board.

The next morning I was more nervous than a nun taking a pregnancy test as I fearfully peeled back both my eyelid and the curtain. The result: good enough. The sky looked like a pair of grey school uniform trousers but, thank the Heavens literally, it wasn't raining. I galloped into the shower to get ready for a canter around the city and may have even squeaked out a song or two in celebration. I turned off the shower and got out but something wasn't right, I could still here falling water. I looked at the dry shower head and my heart sank. It was pouring outside. "Goddamn it Maverick", I said. And then almost immediately, "Talk to me Goose". He didn't and I put my trainers on. 

Zagreb is the largest city in Croatia with a population a cats whisker under a million, and became the nations capital in 1945. The origin of the name itself is somewhat of a mystery although it comes close to an old word meaning to scoop, which legend has it was the command given by an army leader to his troops when they came across this land. Scoop the land, that is, for water. This part of the country seems to have a high and plentiful water table; yes, army commander, I think I can see why that would be. The city struck me as most similar to Vienna; not as many show stopping buildings of grandeur but beautiful churches, cobbled streets, functioning trams and large open squares peppered with vibrant cafés. There is much more retail here in Zagreb than I have seen before with more 'western' style shopping. There's also a strong market culture and so my first stops were to go in search of them and see what they had to offer. Given a mermaid would not have been out of place in such conditions, the markets were still busy and it was warming to see so many people doing their daily grocery shopping at 9am. Nowhere near warm enough though and I had to keep running. 

Meanwhile, at Britanski Market, Andrei made the mistake of touching the fruit and not buying it. He won't do that again. 

There was a jolliness about the people I met in Croatia and a willingness to help. I stopped off at a few cafés for tea to chat and life does seem to be getting better and better - their reliable tourism trade playing a large part I assume. One incident of note was when I stopped for soup and the lady, not speaking a word of English and my online guide book falling short, was offering me bread. I selected one particularly nutty one (nothing better in life than nutty bread, nothing) and she pointed at my stomach and seemed to say 'dietico'. Either she thinks I could lose a few pounds or a lovely middle aged lady in Zagreb just invented diet bread and celebrities on Atkins can rejoice. In fact, I should have taken her number and become business partners - that's the yeast I should have done. 

The Museum of Broken Relationships is an accidental museum, a concept I had never heard of before. The 'museum' began as a travelling collection of donated items that people had kept from old relationships but now wanted to cathartically get rid of and talk about. It includes teddy bears, key rings, t shirts they were wearing when they met and the story behind each breakup; with a gift shop that offers gifts like 'I heart break ups' mugs and fridge magnets, it's a fun hour to spend. 

Basically, if you're going down, take everyone else you have ever met or might ever meet down with you.  

I ran home to do some reading, an activity I knew would be futile as the weather was now becoming intensely soporific and I was very happy to lose that battle. 40 winks please, and keep the change. I woke up and wrote my journal (I think I've settled on the fact that blog is an intensely ugly word so I'm breaking up with it). I became very nervous that the weather was having an effect in the tone of my writing, but maybe I shouldn't be. If you're writing your thoughts day to day in real time, then perhaps it adds gravitas to those words if you don't try to hide mild disappointment, something that might get lost were you to wait until your return and right from a more positive mindset after a hot bath in your own apartment. Hmm... Food for thought, and not that diet bread stuff either. I decided on a night in. As Matthew says in the ridiculously underrated British comedy series, Game On, "There are times to surf, and there are times to wax your board." Let's see what the waves are like tomorrow, eh? 

Day Thirteen: Zagreb, Croatia to Sarajevo, Bosnia

Plenty of smoke without fire 

If you've now become a person that finds it actually unpleasant to be in a room with someone smoking, then approach Bosnia and Herzegovina with extreme caution.  Perhaps it's the price of the cigarettes or maybe there's a Golden Ticket hidden in 5 packs and the search is on, but it's very hard to walk far in Bosnia without being in someone's line of fire. It's crazy actually. I know people who smoke love to have a cigarette after a meal but these guys seemed to have a cigarette after a cigarette. Nowhere seems to be sacred in fact; stations, restaurants, bars and yes, I'm sure you've guessed it, inside train compartments. Well, at least I didn't have a 10 hour train journey to Sarajevo today with a bunch of Bosnian smokers. Oh no, that's right, I did. Still, I did manage to find an empty compartment but like it was a little bit like a chimney on wheels. 

A different tack today in that the day was almost entirely this train journey so rather than comment on the fading blueish embroidery of the train seat opposite, I thought I would impart with why this city is woefully undermentioned as a city that played such a big part in defining 20th century Europe. So much so in fact that some commentators feel it's Sarajevo specifically that bookends 1900's European history being the venue of both the incident that started the Great War, and the target of the century's last notable ethnic cleansing. Sorry chaps, a short history lesson today but it's a fascinating city we should all know more about so deal with it. Less gags - you're going to learn stuff today. 

Bosnia and Herzegovina is part of former Yugoslavia and fell under Austro-Hungarian rule in 1878 but tensions mounted in the early part of the 20th century and it was in Sarajevo, its capital, that a young revolutionary by the name of Princip shot Arch Duke Ferdinand which lead Austro-Hungary to invade Serbia and begin The Great War which subsequently became known as World War One. Princip was a Bosnian Serb who was part of a group of revolutionaries that wanted Yugoslavia to be free from Austro-Hungarian rule. On the day that its heir, Ferdinand, was parading the city, Princip leapt out from the crowd and shot him and his wife. Princip and his accomplices were arrested and implicated by several members of the Serbian military, leading Austria-Hungary to issue a démarche to Serbia known as the July Ultimatum. This was used as pretext for Austria-Hungary's invasion of Serbia, which then led to World War I.

At the other end of the century beginning in 1992 and ending in 1996 (the so called 1400 days of bombing), Sarajevo came under siege from The Serbian Army who were set on enlarging Serbia to include Bosnia at the time when Yugoslavia was breaking up. Certain countries like Slovenia had exited Yugoslavia peacefully, but Bosnia's problem was that ethnically it was so mixed. Slobodan Milosevic was the President of Serbia from 1989 to 1997 and it was under his rule and direction that the Serbs, a name used to describe both the nationals of Serbia and an ethnicity, invaded Bosnia, Kosovo and Croatia in an attempt to take control of them and they killed and tortured anyone who would stand in his way; in Bosnia, this turned out to be mainly Muslims as they were the ethnicity most keen for the country to remain independent and not fall under Serbian rule. 

The view the Bosnians Serbs might have had from the hills surrounding the city

It was on the 5th April 1992 that an army of 13,000 Bosnian Serbs surrounded and blockaded Sarajevo beginning the longest siege of a city in recent memory. 13,952 people died and ten of thousands more were injured as hundreds of bombs were fired in from the surrounding hills and a weak local Government army did it's best to resist the onslaught. Many did get away through tunnels and via the relatively unmanned airport but many tried and failed too. This was a city were nothing went in or out for 3 years, 10 months, 3 weeks and 3 days. Can you imagine it?

I arrived at Sarajevo train station where getting a taxi to the hotel was not only easy but fun. My taxi driver was called Ado and he was someone who just had such a positive take on life. A large man that chuckled incessantly, he had not only taught himself English but he drove like a magician. Ado told me all about his life but I just couldn't take my eyes off his pedal work and gear stick maneuvering skills. This was fast becoming my most enjoyable taxi ride of the trip; not only was I being driven by a Bosnian rally car professional but one that so amusingly relayed his life growing up. Yes he had lost family and friends in the war but he felt no hardship. Ado is Muslim but had me in stitches as he described how soft a Muslim he is. 'Yes I am fat and soft but so too my religion. I smoke, I drink and much better than that I have sex with woman out of wedlock, ha ha ha ha. No problem. I'm the softest Muslim I know.' I checked in for the night and went to bed. I wished all religious people could be as soft as Ado. I think the world would be a far more pleasant place if they were. 

Day Fourteen: Sarajevo, Bosnia

Lads, incoming. 

I sat bolt upright in bed and looked puzzled. I had had one of those incredibly realistic dreams where I had remembered every last detail in which I had shot an old colleague and was in London hiding from the authorities. It was one of those dreams from which anyone would have woken up startled and wondered in a panic 'where on Earth am I?'. What usually happens is that you quickly realise where you are and you slump back down on the pillow - not today. It was 5 am and I was in a mock Tudor hotel room in Sarajevo with the windows wide open and deafening Arabic screams coming straight in to my unprotected ear. It was prayer time. If Henry the Eight had walked in smoking with a kebab, it would have made sense. This is a verbose way of saying, I had an unusual morning and began the day confused and sleep deprived. 

Today was to be truly game changing for this trip as I was expecting new arrivals. Two true legends of Oxford that had heard of my Odessey through Eastern Europe and battered no eyelids before signing up to be part of the adventure. Today, Nick Chapman and Will Gresford were arriving to add fresh material and humour to this Balkan Bandwagon of a journal which some (essentially my Mum) are now calling the finest travel writing in recent memory. I had a larger breakfast than usual expecting to need a stronger game than usual today.

The unspectacular Latin Bridge

As I went running around the edge of town, I wondered where exactly the Serbs had been hiding as the steepness and attacking potential of the surrounding hills should not be underestimated. It is very easy indeed to visualize exactly why the city could be besieged for so long given the perfect geographical make up of its immediate surrounding area. The houses are red roofed as I have come to expect on this trip but the hallmarks of war still remain at every turn. There's rubble and wall collapse on most hillside roads and even as you get into the centre, remnants of the attack still manifest themselves. If you find yourself in Sarajevo you will see the odd yet deliberate patches of red paint on the ground; this red paint was poured into holes left by bomb explosions. They call these chilling marks the 'red roses of Sarajevo'. 

I made my way towards the Latin Bridge as I wanted to make a short presentation about what had happened there a fraction over 100 years ago. I would say that it's a wonderfully impressive landmark, but that would be a total lie. A narrow, unspectacular path runs over a light brown thick river that looks like it would not be out of place in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This makes sense now, maybe there were winning lottery tickets in their cigarettes after all. A few people were staring in its direction, but that's probably because there was some idiotic Englishman filming himself on an iPhone 5 trying to look sincere and actually just looking like an insane narcissist talking to himself. I was getting used to that look. 

I did some shopping where nothing but 'genuine silver' was offered in my direction but I settled for a pair of wooly slippers. The silver bracelets were thinner than a liars excuse and with hallmarks that appeared more fake than a Chanell handbag, I passed on them and moved on to something that could keep me warm in a New York winter. I made it back to the hotel to shower and change and then prepare myself for my entourage arrival. A text from Nick saying 2 minutes away made my heart leap, but then his follow up text of 'just listen out for the tunes' deflated it all too quickly. As the black Peugeot 208 pulled up blasting rap music, I noticed Will in a wooly hat and sunglasses and then Nick just leaned out the window, looked up and down the road and said, 'it's on'. I wondered what I had done. 

Will Gresford, Nick Chapman and your author taking obligatory opening night selfie 

The injection of familiar company ignited my spirits and like I had spent my childhood in Sarajevo I launched them into a tour of the city announcing with undeserved authority almost certainly false historical facts of interest. Nick's intolerance to gluten provided both some difficulty in getting him exposed to local cuisine but also much entertainment as he googled and tried to pronounce the Bosnian for 'gluten-free pizza'. We peripatetically went from bar to bar exploring the varying flavours of grappa on offer before landing in the most unBosnian of bars, 'Cheers' - a local institution apparently and a halfway house between club 18 to 30 and a student bar during Freshers week. We watched some live music which proved to be ill pronounced covers of songs from the 90's and we met Melvin. Melvin was an interesting guy who had lived in America for years but was now back in his home country because, well, he hadn't behaved very well and he got deported. He told us a bit more about the city and we tried out a few more bars. Our conversations would have seemed totally directionless to any outsider but of course made perfect sense to us. Much more of that tomorrow. 

Day Fifteen: Sarajevo, Bosnia to Dubrovnik, Croatia

It's better than Venice. There, I said it. 

The comedy factor of waking up in a mock Tudor velvet lined hotel room had worn off by day 2 and especially so given the grappa we had enjoyed the night before I could feel was tapping me on the shoulder reminding me that I had a headache. The three of us assembled to discuss plans for the day and forced monosyllabic mumbles in each other's direction culminating in a conclusion to do an organized tour. We packed up the car as we were leaving for Dubrovnik after lunch and made our way down the hill into town to meet our guide. 

Daniella was late and apologised endlessly about the traffic which was understandable because, and this now goes without saying, it was raining. I wondered momentarily if you could now walk from London to New York City given there's no way there could be any water left in the Atlantic. It was all in Eastern Europe making puddles in my footsteps. Umbrellas firmly in hand, we began to walk. Daniella seemed less keen on telling us about the Yugosslav wars and more about the architecture of the buildings which became a difficult situation to judge; we couldn't ask too many questions about the siege in case it was too tough for her to talk about, but then again she was a tour guide. In Classic British style, we mumbled a few things about Milosevic and looked happy when we got a close enough answer. Daniella was perfectly lovely but the turning point really came when we passed by a rival tour group of Chinese only to overhear their guide telling some amusing anecdote about Muslim women wearing larger and larger headscarves to show their apparent wealth much like ladies at Ascot wearing larger and larger hats until nobody at all can see the horses. It was a mild joke at best but she had the crowd in stitches and the three of us knew we had made a mistake not going for mildly amusing joke telling guide. We continued for a little longer but the die was cast and we made excuses of needing to get to Dubrovnik before sundown. 

The balance in the group is a good one. Will is the voice of reason so that tempers any over-optimism and over-planning that might and does come from my corner of the ring. Nick is the realist of the group shall we say, and the one that takes the most convincing, but once you've mastered the skill of misrepresentation, I can usually get him to do anything before he's believes it to be a bad idea. Driving to Dubrovnik we took the longer route and better road in order to chance our luck with good traffic. Very unNick. The main points of interest on the drive were that our roadside destination lunch spot served the most delicious lamb that we could see being slow roasted from outside; the contraption rotating the meat being powered by a watermill - very renewable energy I thought. Also of interest is that Dubronvik appears to be in a part of Croatia completely separate from the rest of the country and fully enclosed by Bosnia meaning that you become very good at showing your passport over a 3 / 4 mile stretch. Out of Bosnia into Croatia back into Bosnia and back again into Croatia - I'm just tired thinking about it. 

Leaving me in charge of accommodation meant that we had to try and maintain the Air BnB theme if possible and incredibly a luxury villa for 5 people had cliff jumped off the page when I was looking for a place to stay. Sure enough, our host Ivan complete with Keira Knightly lookalike maid was waiting for us to walk us through our Dalmatian Palace for the next 3 days and we were not disappointed. Pool, jacuzzi, sauna and terraces, this place was on a different planet to our experience in Sarajevo. There was also some sun in the sky. Propelled by improved meteorology and lavish living quarters we changed faster than runway models and headed down into town. Ivan had recommended Locanda Pescaria and beelined for a table. I had it on very good authority that the only dish in town was Squid Ink Risotto and so it was with some disappointment that the waiter announced they did not serve such a dish. This would not be the end of my mission for it. 

After dinner we walked around the Old Town which really felt like Venice to me and, dare I say it, is even more charming. High walls of stone, stone cobbled streets, street musicians and music in every bar, the Old Town was stunning and quickly ranks as one of the more breathtaking places I have been. We noticed a screen showing tennis in a bar and with a few Croatians still in the US Open felt obliged to go and show some nationalistic support. Oddly enough, Judy Murray was in there watching too which was possible given her son's exit from the tournament. It was such a striking resemblance we decided we had to pry her with testing questions such as 'Are you Judy Murray?'. She wasn't but what viewing it would have made especially given Murray's concern why Cilic is still playing despite an alleged drugs test fail. Anyway, the Croat won and we all celebrated, even Judy. 

Day Sixteen: Dubrovnik, Croatia

Sretan rodendan

A full team showing only minutes before midday would usually precede a moderate amount of self loathing and shame on my part that I'd wasted a whole morning; but then I quickly found solace given this is something I could now mentally rationalise by swiftly passing such travel crime onto my 3 day companions, Nick and Will, and I immediately found peace again. We were lying in because of them, not me. Of my course we were. Crisis averted and the day could continue. I knew there was an excellent reason for them being here. 

We did a decent amount of dissecting of the night before it became readily apparent just how matrimonial a city this is. We had firstly walked in on a wedding by mistake before the evening had really got going only to bump into another prospective couple scoping the joint out for theirs; we then passed by several couples having their photos taken in wedding gear only to finish the night at the fairly slimey beach club bar, East West, with the now inhibitionless groom and inebriated bride from the very first wedding we crashed. As three bachelors, it had taken us a while but we had found the secret to marriage; just come to Dubronvik and hang around, you can't stay here that long without someone marrying you. 

Not being able to sit still for too long into the day I volunteered to go grocery shopping and zipped down the hill to the supermarket. Here's another rule I will impart your way and about as specific as I will ever get. When buying nuts in a Croatian supermarket, do not mix them. With a reasonably long queue of people, I had reached the front with the scanning going smoothly so far. The last item was a bag of nuts I'd mixed myself from the self-selection area. The lady did not look happy, and neither did the line behind me. She sped off to talk to management; a few loud speakers announcements later and the queue was now long enough not to know which direction to increase in, that sort of length of queue. As if I wasn't as popular as the lurgy already, she went to the nuts area and started counting out the nuts to reprise them individually. This was becoming ugly fast. I just begged for her to charge me the maximum amount so I could run away and crawl into a dark room. That's pretty much what I did. People, don't mix nuts in Croatia. It drives everyone, well, let's not go there today. 

Dubronvik Old Town / Games of Thrones 

It was early afternoon as we headed down towards the beach but the beach club we arrived at had about as much beach in it as a kangaroo court has kangaroos. It was a fraction rocky and a fraction busy but we struggled to put our fingers on just why we couldn't see ourselves spending the afternoon there until music agent Will just put it best, 'this doesn't have the right vibe, lads." I love how efficient business meetings much be in the music world, and we moved on. 

We spied a stone veranda which clearly belonged to part of a hotel, but we all know the deal here. As you walk confidently into the pool / restaurant area you pick up a couple of towels on the side and no questions get asked. It worked and we sat down for a spot of lunch. Now, I don't know about you but I like to tell everyone it's my birthday; for no other reason that you're not dead, people spend the day treating  you like you've momentarily achieved greatness and there's no harm done so why not. As we begun our now daily critical assessment of where the three of us are in our lives, Nick pulls out the Donald of all Trump cards and announces today is his birthday. Sretan Rodendan, the waiters cry (Happy Birthday in Croatian). It should come as no surprise to readers that he does this so late because announcing  prior to the event it meant he might have had to do something like organize a party but, like an experienced responsibility avoider, he waits until we've started one and then comes out with the news so we now irritatingly have to treat him kindly and pay for his lunch. Slick Chapman. 

Over lunch we decided, obviously, to shoot a short film of me, even more obviously, jumping into the ocean for the short movie of this trip and rehearsing a little more than was necessary caught the attention of several onlookers, notably Wendy and Mario. We loved Wendy and Mario; they were so American in a brilliant way. Wendy just strolled up with nonchalant confidence and asked 'when are we going to do this thing already?!' Almost no other nationality would do it, and I do love the yanks for it. Wendy and Mario told us all about themselves with Wendy's father having been an Olympic swimmer in the 1952 Olympics and Mario's father a pioneer of IT coding pre internet. They held nothing back, and we lapped it up like the sunshine around us. They were a power couple from Mexico City and imparted with gems about life, but mainly that retiring in Philidephia is a great idea. I'll look into that Wendy.

Nick, Mario, Wendy and I fighting for airtime as attempt to cover each of our lives  sub 25 minutes

George Bernard Shaw once said that those wishing to find paradise should come to Dubrovnik and find it. As we walked the old city walls at sunset, a must for any tourist, there wasn't one of us who could disagree with old George. The 30 meter drop from the ancient stone walls into the crystal blue water looks like something out of Game of Thrones, which makes perfect sense in fact; this is exactly where they filmed it. Finding a hidden bar through a tight doorway we bought 3 beers and moved to the edge to watch the sun go down. It wasn't long before I saw the opportunity to attract attention and asked Nick to hold my beer while I jumped. As the crowd gathered so diminished my chance to opt out, and more than that a very keen photographer called Cory wanted to shoot the whole event and ran off to find a better vantage point. Watch the pictures here.

It was when Cory said that he was a professional photographer that I knew I couldn't not jump and get the photo. 

Powerless against Nick's birthday omnipotence, it was all up to him to plan dinner which then inevitably didn't happen until very late. I think we were all glad actually as we were exhausted from a complete success of a day and we slumped toward our fabulous villa. As I went to sleep though, I could feel that something wasn't quite right..... 

Day Seventeen: Dubrovnik, Croatia

Write off

JAMIE: ....and I was right, something was very profoundly wrong. If any of you have had acute food poisoning then you are more than uncomfortably aware of the shot in the stomach sensation you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. A best friend though? Perhaps. And so it was with nervous anticipation that I ceremoniously handed the feather and quill over to Nicholas Chapman, now a year older. Will I regret such a leap of faith? 

NICK: Awaking on day three of any four day holiday with James J McDonald to find him ill from food poisoning should be considered a most singular event, a rare break in his own irrepressible matrix.  In the best of people (and we are) it evokes a mix of fraternal sympathy and inexplicable, exhilarating relief if, like every single other person in the world, you find his Duracell-powered lifestyle - whilst 'inspirational' (cf. day 6) - mainly exhausting (cf. every other entry).

However, such affliction also brings risk.
Risk that he will not pull through, you ask, head sympathetically inclined? Sure, but small enough - on most occasions - to be discounted.
Risk that he will become a needy little wimp crying for his mummy, you enquire, flashing an unusually cold smile? As above, loyal reader.
Or risk that he will over compensate for his illness by pleading that you take him cliff jumping with all the excitement of a redsetter before a walk?
You got it.

So, Will and I - practised in the art of portraying stillness in movement; total monotony in an excess of activity - did what you should all do in this situation: we looked right in the eye of his Monty Python Black Knight within, and we went back and we finished him off. How? Well it goes a little something like this:

Powerless, helpless, furious. 

The early and probably most effective blow to any hope that he could keep up was when he saw us performing a pretty vigorous work-out on the terrace to the mellifluous tones of Snoop Dogg and his own particular brand of materialistic hip hop.  Slaked in sweat, we invited him to join. Of course we did. An involuntary decline.
Strike one.
We then proceeded to knock up a 6 egg omelette stuffed large with high powered cheese and oily tinned tuna. We offered him a wafer thin slice.  Of course we did. An unwilling, tight-lipped, slow shake of the head. Were those beads of sweat gathering on his top lip?
Strike two.
We finally invited him to join us as we hired some jet skis to speed across a pretty rough sea at some 70 kmh to a highly recommended restaurant famous for its seafood risotto, the exact same meal held responsible for his food poisoning from the evening before.  This time we had to post the invitation under the door of his bathroom where his majesty - enthroned - had taken up his sceptred residence. We interpreted the sound that greeted us as an emphatic victory.
Strike three. He was out, but of course so were we, utterly exhausted by trying to outmaneuver a self-proclaimed bed-ridden "40% McDonald".

In turn, Jamie was quietly confronting the full spectrum of his own responses to this illness.  These ranged from the frustration of a committed diarist when denied the opportunity to update his loyal readership, to the unspoken but barely concealed excitement at the prospect of a zero calorie 24 hours which his time in New York has taught him to cherish.

From a gut busting de Vito to raging bull de Niro in just one day?

Surely de rigeur for our Da Gama of the internet age?

Find out tomorrow, dear readers

De rien.

Nick de plume.

JAMIE: God, I regret that. A de-main. 

A palpable sense of relief as Chapman and Gresford celebrate having no itinerary. One would almost think they poisoned me, Mr Poirot? 

Day Eighteen: Dubrovnik, Croatia to Split, Croatia

If the Dalai Lama took buses...

With my state of being having improved slightly throughout Monday from the low 40's to the mid fifties, I was hopeful to wake up Tuesday morning at about 80% - hopeful but wrong. Much to the delight of Nick and Will I'd risen with the sun in the low 60's, a percentage of strength at which I now believed Nick hoped I would remain for the rest of our lives given his journal entry. This therefore meant that Nick and Will were off the hook regarding morning activities and we collectively agreed on some intense lounging by the pool, saying goodbye to out hosts Ivan and Keira Knightly and then packing to leave. 

Nick, Will and Keira Knightly, as she was to us. 

Frankly this sat unexpectedly well with me as I've been reading a lot of Daniel Kahneman recently, and dear reader may I strongly suggest, nay impose, that you do the same, as I'm finding his take on hedonic psychology fascinating. Daniel Kahneman knows what he's talking about. In 2002, Kahneman, despite being more of a psychologist, won the Nobel Prize in Economic Sciences and is best known for his work on decision making and behaviour. 

Kahnman says that we have 2 parts to our mind, our remembering self and our experience self, the former finding satisfaction in things we have done, the latter in things we are doing. There must be a balance between the two but now we see far too often a heavier weight on the former as we are beginning to prefer to have done things than to do them. He uses the example of a holiday you will never remember and a disturbing number of people say they wouldn't bother going. For this reason if nothing else, we did a lot of sitting around and chatting, just because it's fun. We did attempt a few villa activities such as a brief sauna trip the highlight of which was Will asking how to turn a sauna on, to which I replied, 'I would start with some flowers and light petting and take it from there, mate.' I felt very good about that joke and wrote it down in case Nick claimed he had been the producer. 

I made the mistake of letting slip to Nick and Will the anecdote that the Dalai Lama had once told a friend of mine that worrying about things you cannot help is self-destructively futile and you should save any worry for other things. For some reason, this seemed to give these two expert horizontalists unexpected ammunition to see how late we could leave the villa to drop me at the bus stop, their defense now being, 'well, don't worry if you miss it. The Dalai Lama wouldn't.' Yes, you bastards, but he never said to deliberately cut it fine. Much to their delight and my frustration the following 20 minutes then became The Croatian Job and we bombed around cobbled streets in our black Peugeot 208 getting me to the drop off with exactly 1 minute to spare. 'What was the worry about?' They sung in chorus. Cheerio lads. 

The bar dwellers of Split are not know for mincing their words

The bus journey itself was a rigid dichotomy of enjoyment and annoyance; the fun part of it was that the bus was relative empty and I could spread out and write some notes : the tortuously annoying part of it was the god awful music they insisted on playing. It was random Moroccan screeches like Rick Astley was being strangled by a cat in Algiers. It dawned on me that this was another reason that trains were far superior to buses. It was genuinely unpleasant but, a little unlike me, I didn't ask the driver to turn it down. I thought there was nothing I could do about it and the Dalai Lama would have just dealt with it. Or would you, Tenzin?

I arrived in Split wondering what witticisms I could scribe into my journal the following day about decisions, a ten pin bowling situation or indeed a gymnastics move, but faced with too many options, I've kept it simple as it was giving me a headache anyway. Yup, you know what kind of headache. As luck would have it my mate Toby was in town who said that I could stay with him. Always a great man to spend time with as his passport is as worn as a sommelier's cork screw and having been to 110 countries around the world and counting, he's got a great few stories to tell. For example, he did begin one at dinner with the words, "I was at this golf club in North Korea where the recorded best round was 18 hole in ones by Kim Jong Il." Apparently this is true and therefore makes the Former Supreme Leader the best golfer that ever lived. Sorry Tiger. I couldn't resist the lure of squid ink risotto once again but with my constitution now only just making its way through the 70s, I thought best not to push it much beyond that. After dinner, like a pair of sporting cricket batsman, we retired. Only 2 days to the wedding..... 

Day Nineteen: Split, Croatia

My partner for the day, Toby, is one of those guys that likes to keep the television on in the background when getting ready. I used to always think it a distraction to whatever you are doing but today it reminded me that one's mind does have this impressive ability to gloss over news that doesn't interest you, but still have a sixth sense to pick up on the ones that do. Today one news story dominated and it was the material shift in sentiment over the vote for Scottish Independence. By the time most of you have read this the decision will have been made but it was on September 10th that the 'YES' campaign seem to take the lead for the first time and cause those in Westminster to reach for the whiskey - not Scotch of course. I thought just then about the country I was in and the chasm of differences between the 2 countries vying for independence, not all that far apart in years in the grand scheme of things. Croatia, desperate to leave socialist Yugoslavia and become a soveriegn country, was forced into war against local Serbs living in Croatia loyal to maintaining a united Yugoslavia and the ruthless Serb-controlled Yugoslav People's Army. The war lasted 4 years with an all out victory for Croatia as they managed to keep both their independence and also their borders. As I listened to the news, it seemed the driving forces behind Scotland's desire for independence were pride and nostagia; this lies in real contrast to the city I was in today where the driving force was to rid themselves of communist oppression. It was time to take a look how much damage had been done. 

Thankfully Split, like so many of Croatia's costal cities, managed to avoid shelling from the Serbs, especially so because it is home to such man made beauty dating back literally thousands of years. For example, the head of the Sphinx (see above) was brought from Egypt under the orders of Emperor Diocletian 3500 years ago; Diocletian was building his country palace and it's this palace that makes up the focal point of Split layout. Like Dubrovnik, the old part of the city is laced with polished white stone walkways where it takes little to imagine a group of Roman toga-clad men discussing the events of the day.

Toby is a great tour guide which is unsurprising given he's spent his life living in different corners of the world; Toby now lives in Cuba and runs Havana Concierge, an agency specialising in giving tourists the inside track to the mysrical country. For more info about his company click here. We spent the morning and early afternoon marching as Roman soldiers might have done around the old part of town taking care to avoid the cameras crews from Game of Thrones that were filming there at the time. After lunch, I couldn't resist going for a run in my penultimate destination and I limbered up for a run around town. Awkwardly dressed in my Brooklyn half marathon shirt, I set off west outside the city up the hill to Marjan which overlooks the city. 

On running, well jogging, ok limping back to the city I strolled back through the old town to have one last look when I was met with the most sudden of commotions. From the other side of the square I noticed two men chasing another down through the outdoor seating of a restaurant, as the would-be heroes tussled to get a handbag back off the apparent perpertrator. Like I was watching a wildlife documentary in fast forward, the criminal gave up the ghost and ran for it. Acknowledging full cliche warning, it really did all happen so fast. The whole square momentarily came to a standstill before resuming at a slower pace like I had just watched a flash mob video on YouTube. Sadly, the story ends here and there was nothing I could have done so far away but I did spend my walk back wondering if I'd been close by, would I have done the same. I certainly like to think so and it was seemingly seconds before I was back at the apartment. Note to self, if you want to pass time very quickly, just imagine yourself in potential handbag saving situations - it's time eradicating.

Iron 3D map of the city of Split aka the opening credits of Game of Thrones

Marco looks a little older than 34 but that might just be his choice of look which is a shaven head and stubble. Toby had been in town for a cigar event histed by Marco and his membership club which is called Club Mareva. For more information on it click here. Every year, Marco hosts an event to see who can smoke a Monte Cristo 4 the longest, subject to a certain set of rules. The event draws people from all around the world, and this year the record was broken; if memory serves me correctly, it took the winner 1 hour and 52 minutes to smoke it from tip to lable. More interesting for me (being a non-smoker), was his background; Marco's father had been a very famous doctor shunning his parents wishes to become a priest which would have been a very dangerous move at the time. Instead, he chose to fight communism by publically sticking to his views and also helping as many people all his life as he could to show that both states could co-exist. It blew my mind that 12,000 people came to his funeral. With my body still below par in the 80's, I plumped for an earlyish night ahead of the big day.

Day Twenty: Split, Croatia to Vis, Croatia

It had been a long and sometimes lonely trail to the wedding, but after twenty days I met up with Radha and we made our way to the island of Vis to celebrate. Champagne all round, I say. 

Thanks for tuning in everyone. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As ever, suggestions welcome for my next adventure: swdydshow@gmail.com

Love Jamie.