Doolin, population 200, is a village on Ireland’s West Coast. It is renowned for its traditional music, hence the busloads of tourists trafficked through its tiny strip of small shops. Claire and I, eating Guinness stew outside one of the three village pubs, watched these branded coaches, with names like authenticireland.com, squeeze through the narrow country roads.

We had left Dublin earlier that day, travelled first to Oranmore, outside Galway, and from there to Doolin. The route is operated by Bus Eireann, Ireland’s only nationwide bus carrier. It profits from an inadequate rail network. (Read on …)

Heads aching, eyes burning and skin clammy, Iain and I took a bus from Belfast to Dundalk, far too early in the morning. It was actually ten o’clock, but our agony made the hour feel quite unsuitable for anywhere but bed. Our ailments had arisen from walking down Belfast’s University Road the previous night, and succumbing to the lure of a flyer handed to us on the street. “The Bunker”, it read, “Tuesdays – Student Night: Free Entry”, “Bulmers £1”. Being budget conscious travellers, we were sold.

Bulmers is an Irish cider, to which we had become accustomed in England (at £3 a bottle), where it is known as Magners, under license. A refreshingly crisp apple cider, usually served on ice from its pint sized bottles, it is lethal stuff. Needless to say we had a duty to make use of the give-away price. (Read on …)

Claire and I walked off the ferry from Stranraer to Belfast, through the strange contrivance that takes you from land to sea without seeing either, and queued at the escalator leading down to the baggage collection area. Ahead of me, a swarthy middle aged man, his bald, shiny head and large pointy nose swaying as he staggered, took a few steps forward, tripped, and bounced down the escalator, step by painful step, arms and elbows flailing.

He lay momentarily in a heap on the floor, chuckling, then stood. And immediately fell over. He was sitting, still chuckling, arms heaped on his marshmallow body, when we reached the bottom of the escalator. I watched as he refused all offers of help through a stupid smile. (Read on …)

I’m writing while on a train through the Scottish Highlands, from Mallaig to Stranraer, along a track cut close into jagged cliffs, skirting the ocean. It is a clear, sunny day, and the landscape reminds me of Cape Town.

Claire and I arrived in Aberdeen a week ago, to visit Peterculter, on its outskirts, where my grandfather spent his early life, and to properly meet his cousin, living about an hour away, in Ballater. We lugged our backpacks through long, grey streets to eventually reach the city’s only hostel, the Aberdeen SYHA. (Read on …)

Iain and I left York late afternoon, for Glasgow, with ample time to catch our train, which arrived already heaving with passengers, all eager to make their weekend getaways. Even the floor space that linked the carriages was occupied. Five or so 18 year olds crowded the space aside our carriage, bellowing vulgar rhymes. They transported packs of tall Stella cans through the carriage, intermittently, as if on a one way conveyor belt. The hours went by, inspiration brewed, they produced a guitar and rich harmonies echoed through the carriage. Brash as they were, their clear voices sung with fervour, reflecting my own excitement for my first Glaswegian weekend. (Read on …)

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 …)

On the day we arrived at The Spotted Cow, the air was filled with dainty tufts of white fluff. Flying around the garden, floating into people’s roast dinners, these downy little things were simply everywhere, snowing down on the scene, as we watched, enchanted.

It was a seasonal occurrence and the nearby tree responsible for shedding this pollen had for many summers caused distress to the inhabitants of the surrounding area. “Most annoying”, one of the locals at the pub had commented. Well, if this was what “annoying” was like in Surrey, I felt quite happy to say goodbye to London’s relatively maddening quirks. (Read on …)

An almost missed bus drew the two of us into Oxford, bleary eyed and recovering from my birthday, celebrated over the previous two days. I’d briefly visited this most famous university town once before, in midwinter last year. I remember being very cold, promising to return, and very little else.

We quickly procured caffeine and, after finding the way to our “Funky” Hostel, checking in and depositing our packs, the wander around Oxford began.

The city centre, old Oxford, is small and easy to navigate. It’s constrained by two rivers, the Thames to the west (called the Isis while it meanders past Oxford) and the Cherwell to the east. A map is available here. The original settlement was established because the Thames could be forded here, so that oxen could cross. Hence Ox-Ford. (Read on …)