Dodging traffic in London, chests heaving, burdened by still unfamiliar and uncomfortable backpacks, Claire and I started our ambitious trip, on a tight budget, through places where English is never heard.

We’d reported for our ridiculously cheap Megabus to Leeds, from where we planned to make our way to York, relaxed and on time. The driver asked for the obscure combination of letters and numbers that serve as a ticket, which I confidently presented. He looked and them, shrugged, and told me I had somehow got them wrong. I had presented him with the code for a bus from Glasgow to Aberdeen. A bus we would take, later on, which I couldn’t remember booking. (Read on …)