Sarah Round The World

Well, that’s the Montenegro group trip officially done and dusted. Blink and you’d have missed it!

Over the last few days, I’ve been ferried up, down and around little Montenegro via the Black Mountains (the country’s official namesake), all while patiently waiting for the group to fracture into irreconcilable competing factions.

Most inconveniently from a story-telling perspective, no such schism in the end materialised. No drama. No delays. No descent into mutual incriminations. Just genuinely good people all round – the sort you can happily spend eight hours alongside on a bumpy bus journey, then choose to get squiffy with on Krstač straight afterwards. Sofia included!

Just look at all this unforced conviviality – what the hell am I supposed to do with that…?

In the event, the nearest thing we came to genuine drama occurred when one of our number – a lovely but, let’s say, “directionally challenged” older lady, who – for the purposes of preserving what little remains of her dignity, we’ll call “Blanche” – somehow managed to wander off an otherwise fool-proof hiking trail and temporarily misplace herself in the great Montenegrin wilderness.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t absolutely fucking fuming at the time – as, in fairness, was the whole rest of the group. Collective blood pressure rose still further when Blanche’s equally as… umm… “unworldly” younger sister, “Pooki”, breezily piped up that: “Oh, Blanche does this all the time. Once she was lost in the mountains for six whole hours!”. Before then also helpfully divulging that – for reasons known only unto the lady herself – Blanche had similarly elected to undertake this little wilderness adventure without carrying so much as a mobile fucking phone with her either…

Upon which, I could have cheerfully bludgeoned both sisters (awol and otherwise) to death with my industrial-sized water bottle – but, in spite of myself, somehow nobly resisted the urge. Discretion being the better part of valour and all that – though only just in this case!

Fortunately, the park rangers managed to locate our prodigal sheep within twenty minutes and soon restored her to the flock – before the lady in question was either torn apart by bears or – more pertinently – risked fucking with my lunch. Priorities and all that.

As it was, however, any lingering bad feeling was at least put to bed that same evening, when Blanche – in an (in fairness wholly warranted) fit of apologia – insisted on purchasing several bottles of wine for group consumption. I know I speak for the collective here in declaring that all is officially forgiven (for now), Blanche – though next time please rest assured that the bears will be getting first dibs…

Anyhoo… Much as I’ve enjoyed talking group dynamics, Montenegro itself also deserves a look-in. Fair to say that, for a country of its size, the place certainly packs quite the punch.

The last few days alone have taken us via Budva on the coast…

Then up to the cliff-edge Ostrog Monastery (home to various allegedly miraculous relics)…

On through the Durmitor Mountains Biogradska National Park (yes, the water really was that colour)…

Before finally ending up back in Podgorica (where I’d originally flown in) – Montenegro’s dinky, but at the time glorious sunny, capital city:

Not a great deal to say about little Podgorica, truth be told. Given its diminutive size (roughly that of your average UK seaside town), it was never likely to be overflowing with headline attractions here.

What the place does have, however, is a phenomenal array of street art – much of it, according to Sofia (our guide) at least, depicting local football rivalries. To my untrained eye, though, several pieces looked more like the handiwork of competing Balkan paramilitary forces – not exactly an unreasonable assumption to make either, given the region’s all-too-recent history…

Which brings me on to lovely Herceg Novi back on the coast, where I find myself officially riding solo once again – the group portion of the trip having come to an end this morning.

To even my own surprise, I actually found myself rather sad to see everyone go.

Fortunately for me, however, there are worse places to process such unanticipated emotions than the beautiful Savina Winery, with its stunning vistas out over the bay.

I’d signed up for what was advertised as a “basic” package: namely, three tastings of wine and some accompanying nibbles. Naively, I assumed this meant the usual polite soupçon of each. Instead, I was presented with three full glasses – one white, one red, one rosé – all in the middle of the day. Well, waste not, want not, I suppose – the visit had cost me a good €40, after all. The inevitable result is that I’m currently writing this in a mildly tipsy state and with perhaps less editorial oversight than normal. Sorry not sorry.

As for the next couple of days, my agenda at the very civilised Palmon Bay Hotel & Spa pretty much consists of swimming, working my way diligently through the spa treatment menu, and resuming Aperol Spritz consumption after a three-day alpine hiatus.

Anyway, that’s probably enough for one update…

And apologies for the mega-post – intent was not to compress most of Montenegro into a single entry! Blame the fact that I’ve been having too much fun spending quality time with my hitherto fellow travellers, rather than quietly turning them into amusing anecdotes after the fact (Blanche, by exception, having rendered herself well and truly fair game…).

Before I finally sign off then, a brief teaser: the next instalment will be featuring a surprise guest appearance, to be revealed next time…

In fact, said individual has even gallantly volunteered to engineer an argument for the sake of content creation, given the decided lack of drama thus far. I’ve politely declined on the grounds that – after a few days in close proximity – any disagreements worth their salt will surely emerge of their own accord.

Realistically, though – if this trip so far is anything to go by – we’ll probably just end up companionably drinking wine, eating seafood and bimbling around somewhere picturesque.

Disappointing for narrative tension.

Excellent for everything else… 🙂

Remember how I ended the last post by asking what could possibly go wrong?

Well, thus far the answer appears to be: sweet bugger all.

Montenegro has continued to be absolutely lovely. The weather has been glorious, the scenery stupendous, the food and wine pretty decent, and the group (more on which later) so far entirely tolerable.

It’s disconcerting at this point, quite frankly…

Which rather leaves me in the awkward position of having to recount a perfectly agreeable holiday thus far.

Since arriving, I’ve been up the Kotor cable car for spectacular views over the bay, taken a boat trip out to the Lady of the Rock and St George islands, and visited beautiful Perast further up the coast.

Plus, I’ve been out running in the cool of the mornings, when I pretty much have the whole place to myself (apart from the cats, obviously). On one of these runs, I discovered the local farmers’ market – and you know I do love me one of those.

Not to mention, I’ve eaten an alarming amount of food on sunny squares, much of it involving local cheese and njeguški pršut (Montenegro’s version of prosciutto). Mere days in, and I’m already officially cheese-and-hammed out.

The same cannot be said for the Aperol spritzes I’ve been washing it all down with, however… 😉

As for the group, I finally met them all yesterday evening over drinks and dinner.

The good news is that – unlike the whole solitary saga that was Romania – the group does, in fact, exist this time.

The bad news is that everyone in it – so far – seems perfectly normal. Nice even!

There are about sixteen of us altogether – mainly cobbled together from across the Anglosphere (UK, US, Canada, Oz, New Zealand, etc.), and virtually all female to boot. So far at least, nobody has displayed any obvious signs of narcissism, passive aggression or terminal main-character syndrome.

Even the Bosnian tour leader – Sofia (not her real name) – is proving disappointingly polite, professional and competent. She arrived when she said she would, appears to know what she’s doing, and has yet to exhibit any obvious Lyle-style dick-swinging tendencies or RO-bot obsessional levels of historical fact deployment.

This is not what I signed up for.

Part of me is hoping that – as we head into the mountains tomorrow – the combination of long drives, close quarters and competing personalities will soon begin to reveal a few cracks. Perhaps an epic fall-out over punctuality. Or a steadily brewing factional dispute over bus seating arrangements. Or maybe the discovery that one of our number has been quietly waiting for the right moment to explain why Trump actually has the right idea.

Failing that, I may have to take matters into my own hands here.* A few carefully planted rumours, a manufactured dispute over departure times and unlimited access to the local rakija should do the trick.

Rest assured that, you – dear reader – will be the first to know the second anyone loses their shit, storms off from a monastery, or launches a breakaway WhatsApp splinter group.

After all, we’re only in the pilot episode here – stay tuned for the first few cracks in the façade…

* Obvs not really – I’m more the type to spend three days worrying that I’d sounded slightly abrupt in an email than to intentionally engineer drama for drama’s sake.

I haven’t had too much luck with group holidays of late.

Some of you may remember Lyle, the TOWIE-wannabe tour guide in Morocco – and massive bell-end to boot. Then came Romania, where I spent an entire week being dragged around according to the dogmatic scheduling logic of the decidedly dysfunctional RO-bot. And of course there was the infamous Kenya to Cape Town trip back in the day, which – somewhere around the Zimbabwean halfway mark – dramatically devolved into a full-blown adult version of Lord of the Flies (think: fewer conches, more alcohol, similar body count…).

By rights, I should have given up on group holidays years ago. Instead, I’ve booked another one. This time: Montenegro.

In fairness, the actual group bit is only six days long. And given that I somehow managed to survive a similar timeframe in Romania with the accursed RO-bot without committing aggravated homicide (in the face of considerable provocation, it should be said), I’m feeling cautiously optimistic for now.*

Admittedly, that may just be the Aperol spritzes talking! (First things first and all that…)

After the group contingent, I’ll then be spending a couple of restorative days in a spa hotel in Herceg Novi, before finishing up on the coast with a surprise special guest (no spoilers on that front just yet… 😉).

Pathologically early, as per usual, I’ve arrived in Kotor a full day ahead of the rest of the group – and, fuck me, it’s beautiful.

It is also, pleasingly, full of cats – both the actual furry variety and an impressive array of feline-themed tourist tat.

Between the scenery, the cats and the spritzes, I’m thus far perilously close to enjoying myself.

Which, if anything, is mildly concerning…

If experience has taught me anything, it’s that the most enjoyable trips make for terrible blog posts. Nobody wants to read 2,000 words of “the logistics worked and nobody cried”. The juicy stuff comes from chaos, frustration, social awkwardness and the occasional complete breakdown of group cohesion. Or – failing that – attempted Ayurvedic bum rape.

In short: shit travel remains my most reliable muse.

Time will tell as to whether Montenegro proves a wonderful holiday, or merely another source of content material…

After all, what could possibly go wrong…?

* Literally no judge and jury in the land could possibly have convicted me on the RO-bot front.

Well, I’m writing this from the Boxtel at Bangkok airport, where I currently find myself a) slightly hungover (clearly those cocktails packed more of a punch than I realised…) and b) with a few hours to kill between flying in from Koh Samui and back out again to London later this evening. Plenty of time on my hands, then, to reflect on the trip as a whole.

Fair to say a bit of a “mixed bag”, on this occasion – and not my most riveting travelogue, perhaps (though, as ever, I’ve still enjoyed writing it…). The weather hasn’t been as kind as I might have liked, and I’d have obviously preferred a more “laidback” vibe at the Sanctimony. But still, it’s Thailand – you’d have to put in some serious effort not to enjoy yourself here. Even with the iffy weather, the food’s still excellent, the sights are genuinely interesting (especially the weird ones), the massages cheap and satisfyingly brutal, and the people unfailingly lovely. Honestly, what’s not to like?

Yoga, however… I’ve given it more than a fair shot – retreats abroad, the odd draughty village-hall class, even a spot of private tuition thrown in for good measure. And yet, here I am, a round peg still stubbornly trying to force itself into a very square hole – and still failing spectacularly to make it stick.

I desperately want to be that flexible, serene, beatific yoga poster girl with ironing-board abs – I really do. That said, between my lack of flexibility, questionable coordination and the tendency of my brain to short-circuit the moment the teacher reels off more than one instruction at once, it may be time to accept that this simply isn’t my spiritual or physical path. I don’t know the yoga-sceptic cartoonist below, but something tells me we’d get on a storm in real life… 😉

Swimming, on the other hand, has been my one true love for nearly thirty years – my enduring form of moving meditation, the only exercise my body instinctively understands, and which leaves me mentally and physically blissed out in a way no downward dog ever has. Perhaps that’s the universe hinting I should stick with what works, rather than persisting in flogging the dead horse of a zen-goddess persona who clearly does not exist.

Still – future yogi master or not (and I’m coming down firmly on the side of “not” here) – these sorts of places do undeniably suit me. For someone ill at ease with vast expanses of unstructured nothingness, I find the gentle routine here oddly calming. Knowing there’s always another small activity just around the corner – whether that’s a class, meal, or even time for chai – somehow allows me to settle into my own form of “managed relaxation”, without getting too twitchy in the process. I’d do a similar retreat again, for sure – only next time definitely somewhere with an actual bar!

As for Koh Samui, the sun finally decided to come out in all its glory the moment I left for the airport, FFS. Clearly the universe is trying to teach me a lesson about non-attachment here – either that or it’s just trolling me outright.

So, that’s officially it for now. Catch you on the other side – likely colder, but let’s be honest, not noticeably greyer! Till next time – assuming the Great Holiday Curse of 2025 finally lifts, that is…

Well, the Fisherman’s Village Night Market was a hit. I had a really fun evening here wandering from stall to stall, eating and drinking my way around – plus finally getting a cocktail (or two) down me to boot!

Not weed though – despite appearances! To my surprise, it’s apparently “legal” in Thailand these days, provided you have a valid medical prescription. No prescription? No problem! Step inside and a Thai doctor will magic one up. Not my thing in any case. And even if it were – prescription or not – I’d still be far too shit-scared to ever consider blazing in Thailand, however relaxed the vibe here might purport to be*.

Not illegal, but also not particularly appealing were the insects on sale at the market. I’ve already been there, done that on previous travels, back in the day having eaten: silkworm, scorpion, snake, pig’s heart, chicken feet, cuttlefish, octopus tentacles, shark, camel, kudu, crocodile, ostrich, mopane worms and more – so absolutely nothing to prove to myself or others on that front these days!

In fact, I think the only thing I’ve ever officially balked at to date is deep-fried tarantulas, which I still seriously couldn’t handle – even if my life literally depended on it. Maybe Tommy or Holly’s lives…? Even then only just about, quite frankly, and one you’d best believe I’d be dining out on at every family gathering from now until kingdom come.

Anyway, arachnids aside, that’s the state of play so far: cocktails, carbs, and categorically no cannabis! Tomorrow’s my final day before flying home, so I’ll be checking in with my customary final round-up at some point en route then. Stay tuned till then!

* I watch ‘Banged Up Abroad’, after all – definitely one of those series that unfailingly makes you feel better about your own life choices..

Well, a few days on and I’ve finally ventured a bit further afield and done some actual exploring around the rest of Koh Samui.

First up was a whistle-stop tour of the island’s greatest hits from the back of a jeep, accompanied by a motley crew of Germans, Russians and Norwegians. Together, we were uncomfortably bounced around the island, stopping at Na Muang waterfall (more of a dribble, really), paying our respects to the Mummified Monk at Wat Khunaram (sporting sunglasses only because his eyeballs have since fallen out), and taking in a sporting array of golden temples – plus enduring the obligatory ‘elephant sanctuary’ detour on the way.

Not forgetting the famous Hin Ta and Hin Yai rock formations – of interest only because of their resemblance to certain, ahem, anatomical parts. I’m not convinced, personally.

All told, not exactly in Seven Wonders of the World territory here, but still nice to get out and about!

Still, I did enjoy the Ta Nim Magic Garden up in the mountains of Koh Samui. This was apparently the brainchild of an eccentric local durian grower named Khun Nim Thongsuk, who in retirement began building the garden in 1976 – as far as anyone can tell just for shits and giggles (it wasn’t opened to tourists till after the chap’s death). The place put me slightly in mind of Angkor Wat, only infinitesimally smaller, the best part of a millennium newer, and born entirely of one random old man’s unfettered whimsy.

I also stumbled upon a second, decidedly grislier local market – trigger warning for those of delicate sensibilities! One stall was selling rabbits and guinea pigs, though whether for cuddles or casseroles I couldn’t quite tell.

So that’s it for now. With temples ticked off, markets braved and whimsy duly appreciated, I feel I’ve earned myself something a bit more hedonistic.

I’ll be off shortly to visit Koh Samui’s famous Fisherman’s Village Friday night market – where hopefully the fare will prove rather more palatable! If nothing else, there will be cocktails… Bottoms up for now! 🙂

Well, it’s me again – several vigorous Thai massages and a frankly indecent number of Sanctimony spa treatments later.

Over the last few days I’ve been pinched, pummelled, stretched, steamed, kneaded, infrared-blasted and even had my feet reflexologied to within an inch of their lives. Plus my plant count has now officially soared to a whopping 79* and counting – read it and weep, Tim Spector! Still hopeless at yoga, mind you – though I am slowly but surely relaxing into the flow of the place with each passing day. Ish.

Anyway – enough of the self-indulgent wellness twaddle. Now on to the outside world.

Put it this way, the weather out there still isn’t exactly what you’d call “sun-kissed”, but at least it’s no longer monsoon-grade biblical – and just about decent enough to venture out again without needing to book a spot on Noah’s ark.

And once you step outside the lemongrass-infused spa bubble, Thailand – once you’re away from the main tourist drag – has proven reassuringly unchanged.

As soon as the skies settled, my long morning runs quickly became a reacquaintance of sorts with the Thailand I remember. Before long I found myself dodging semi-stray dogs with nefarious intentions; skirting corrugated-iron shacks, with vendors flogging everything from pyramids of coconuts to petrol decanted into old Fanta bottles; and passing moped-repair shops that seem to crop up no less than every half-mile. Or, failing that, a neon 7-Eleven** – long ubiquitous in towns and now steadily infiltrating into the countryside too. Along the way comes the familiar parade of half-finished houses, plastic-stool 50-baht eateries, the occasional Thai water buffalo luxuriating in a bath of rich brown mud, and tiny shrines tucked into gardens or guarding roadside verges. Not forgetting the ever-present images of the Thai royal family still presiding benignly over it all too.

And, of course, the local market (you know I can’t resist!) – think mouth-watering smells drifting from makeshift stalls that genuinely make you lament not having been born Thai. The standard UK lunchtime offerings of Pret or Itsu simply do not compare – and I say that as a die-hard Itsu fan.

That said, very few tuk tuks on the roads these days – though you can now use the Thai equivalent of Uber to order a ride on the back of a moped for a pound a pop (wheeeee!!).

Still, beneath the odd modern flourish, the soul of the place is very much intact. I might not exactly be experiencing the full-blown tropical-paradise fantasy here, but at heart this is unmistakably the Thailand I know and love.

Anyhoo, I’ll be looking to explore the island further over the next few days, so will report back soon. In the meantime, I have a spa menu with my name on it to work through, so until next time – namaste and all that.

* Apple, dragon fruit, melon, papaya, lime, coconut, pineapple, cantaloupe, banana, strawberry, orange, dates, mango, watermelon, lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, sweetcorn, pak choi, baby corn, aubergine, daikon, carrot, broccoli, beetroot, button mushroom, shiitake mushroom, peas, snow peas, pea sprouts, mange tout, beansprouts, red pepper, celery, cucumber, lotus flower, squash, red cabbage, green beans, kale, cauliflower, seaweed, spring onion, black bean, red bean, mung bean, edamame, chickpea, tofu, brown rice, quinoa, Job’s tears, oats, cashew nuts, peanuts, flax seeds, sunflower seeds, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, Thai basil, kefir leaf, rosemary, dill, chives, ginger, garlic, chilli, galangal, turmeric, cardamom, anise, cinnamon, cloves, black pepper, tea, coffee, cocoa, apple cider vinegar and extra virgin olive oil.

** Part of me wants to bemoan this slow march of convenience culture, but the 7-Elevens sell wine, so… Suffice to say I am now discreetly well-provisioned.

Did I really say in my first post that rainy season in the tropics consists “mainly of sunshine with the odd afternoon torrential downpour thrown in”…? Turns out I was talking right out of my arse on that one.*

In fact – and much to my obvious dismay – it pissed it down pretty much solidly for my whole entire first 48 hours on the otherwise would-be idyllic island of Koh Samui. Only yesterday did the weather at last begrudgingly shift from “endless downpour” to merely “cloudy and overcast” – which, quite frankly, I’ll happily take at this point. For a brief moment, even braving the shelling in Koh Chang was starting to look the more appealing option. If it came to it, I’d at least die warm and dry.

And speaking of “dry”, the beachside Sanctimony Resort (name changed to protect the innocent) is duly beautiful – outside of monsoon season, that is.

It does, however, operate an unfortunate no-alcohol onsite policy. I did clock this when booking – though with just four days’ notice to re-jig all my plans, it was very much a case of beggars not being choosers at that point. Still, Google reliably assured me there were a couple of nearby beach bars (the beach itself being fairly secluded and off the beaten track), so I didn’t think it would be too much of an issue. Obviously the rain has, to date, stopped all play on that front.

A less rule-abiding person might have hit up the ramshackle local village shop to pick up a sneaky Singha or two in the meantime. Would I personally ever stoop to such illicit behaviour…? Perish the thought!

Perhaps it’s the decided lack of cocktails, or perhaps a reflection of my own headspace during the worst of the weather, but it seems the Sanctimony has a very different vibe to the Bamboo Yoga Retreat I went to in Goa last year. There I truly found my people – ladies like me, of a certain age, who were into yoga and meditation as worthwhile, edifying endeavours… until the bar opened, that is! 😉

The Sanctimony, by contrast, feels decidedly more intentional – with more of an earnest ‘self-improvement’ vibe than a ‘let’s all get squiffy and overshare’ type one. Not a bad thing in and of itself for the yoga purists of the world, but for the likes of us mere lay people, it does create a distinctly different ambience – less warmth, less humour, less heart, somehow. Nice enough people – just a different crowd entirely. As for my own (highly amateur) yoga practice, for the first couple of days I definitely struggled to get into the zone, as if I were (literally) just going through the motions. Little by little though, I’m gradually easing into it now – but it has admittedly been a slow burn so far.

So yes, suffice to say I was feeling a bit sorry for myself for a moment there – not helped in the slightest by the sodding ATM in Lamai swallowing my bloody bank card on day two as well. Thank God for the Barclays in-app card cancellation feature, as well as my long-instilled habit (courtesy of Super Dad) of always travelling with plenty of emergency cash and back-up cards to hand. Add to that a case of jet lag that refuses to quit, plus the obligatory on-arrival case of the shits – and it’s clear that the Great Holiday Curse of 2025 hasn’t quite lifted yet. On the upside, there’s zero risk of sunburn any time soon at least.

Anyhoo, this is all turning into a bit of a “first world problems” moan. It’s really not all doom and gloom here – far from it, in fact!

The saving grace, of course, is that you don’t actually need nice weather to enjoy the Sanctimony spa facilities: i.e. the pool (think daily swims to the mental soundtrack of “I’m Swiiiimming in the Rain“), a herbal steam room, infrared sauna therapy and a float pool. The latter supposedly offers a profound, perspective-altering sensory experience – but one that was, in my case, clearly lost on me. Personally, I just felt like I was lying in a lukewarm bath, waiting for something transcendental to happen (spoiler alert: it didn’t).

But y’all know I’m really in it for the massages! As you might expect, I’ve been indulging heavily on this front since I got here, both onsite (five included in the Sanctimony package) and at the cheap local place a ten-minute walk away. With massages at the local going for just £7 a pop for a good hour, why the hell not, I say – at least while I wait for the weather to sort itself out at any rate.

Plus the massages here are the real deal. Thai massages in the UK are, as a rule, nowhere near as exquisitely painful as those in Thailand – nor as superlatively bendy. At home I spend my sessions politely begging the therapist to go harder; here they truly mean business. One masseuse went so aggressively at my pressure points I had to ask her to tone it down before I quite literally puked or passed out. Now that is what I call a massage.

Ditto the food – which at the Sanctimony is also right up my street. Think plant-based (with optional seafood and dairy add-ons), bio-diverse, fully organic – not to mention delicious to boot. Plus my beloved home-made masala chai on tap every morning too – bliss!

So far, the plant count consists of (in no particular order): apple, dragon fruit, melon, papaya, lime, coconut, tamarind, lettuce, tomatoes, sweetcorn, pak choi, carrot, broccoli, beetroot, button mushroom, shiitake mushroom, peas, snow peas, pea sprouts, mange tout, beansprouts, red pepper, celery, cucumber, lotus flower, squash, Thai basil, rosemary, dill, chives, ginger, garlic, chilli, brown rice, quinoa, Job’s tears, black bean, red bean, mung bean, edamame, tofu, seaweed, flax seeds, sunflower seeds, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, cardamon, anise, cinnamon, cloves, black pepper, tea, coffee, extra virgin olive oil and – last but not least – apple cider vinegar.

At “just” 55, I’m not quite beating my weekly average of 65 – 70 back home (yes, I do count my plants – no surprise there to anyone who knows me in any capacity at all… 😉 ). Then again, I’m only three days in, so there’s still time yet to hit a new personal best!

Plus all this enforced rest means I’ve got time to actually read. And reflect. And plan my next holiday, which – needless to say – next time has to be securely triple-locked and 100% failsafe. Switzerland, anyone…?

So that pretty much brings you all up to date. I’m pretty sure there is some overarching life lesson at play here about finding happiness within, and not being so reactive to external events one can’t control – like, oh I don’t know, let’s say the frikkin’ weather. If so, it hasn’t quite landed for me yet – at least, not at a heart level. I just want some sodding sun!!

In fairness though, the experience genuinely has taught me gratitude. Gratitude for a hot cup of chai on a stormy afternoon. Gratitude for those fleeting moments when it actually stops raining. And – most sincerely of all – gratitude for all those ubiquitous makeshift little Thai shacks that sell gloriously ice-cold beer out of a literal hole in the wall.

As for now though, things are tentatively looking up on the weather front, and the staff say that the worst is behind us – knock on wood… As I type, a hint of hazy sunshine is finally starting to poke through – so I’m off now to explore while the going’s good.

Till next time – if you don’t hear from me, assume I’m hiding from the rain, while submitting myself to yet another semi-torturous Thai massage. Sa-wat-dee ka for now!

* Or maybe not. Apparently it was mostly sunshine until I rocked up (as also confirmed by my obsessive monitoring of Koh Samui weather cams in the run-up to this trip). I’d say I have bought the weather with me, except it was a sunny autumn in the UK when I left… At this rate, it seems I might be the only person in recorded history to come to Thailand and promptly develop a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Urrghhh.

For those of you who didn’t know, I actually spent a chunk of the eighties in Singapore, and those really were the best years of my childhood. This was back in the day – when the place was still half jungle, half building site – and Singapore still looked like this:

It was a happy, innocent time of yellow school buses, days out to Singapore Zoo, Sentosa and the Science Centre, Saturday McDonalds on Orchard Road, and constantly playing non-ironic propagandistic earworms – which somehow I still seem to know by heart today.

Fast forward a few decades, and the place has been literally transformed beyond all recognition. By way of example, this is the same Singapore skyline at Clarke Quay now – I’m not even sure it’s the same Merlion (but if it is, then they definitely moved it…). Still, seriously impressive though.

Not surprisingly in this context, my attempts to take a trip down memory lane during my visit didn’t exactly go to plan.

First stop: my old apartment block, Jervois Mansions (not really a mansion, obvs). This was my personal childhood paradise – where I first learned to swim, played with all the apartment kids (a veritable United Nations of Singaporeans and various expat brats), and once knocked myself out falling off a swing on to the wooden playground floor (in classic eighties parenting style, my Mum told me to stop making a fuss, and that I’d probably stop seeing double again eventually…).

Imagine my dismay then, when I discovered Jervois had been recently demolished to make way for the architectural abomination in the bottom-right photo. My childhood Garden of Eden paved over without so much as a courtesy consult. I am most seriously put out.

Nor did I fare much better in looking up my old school, Tanglin. I remember Tanglin as a cosy quadrangle of two-storey colonial buildings with a much-loved lawned playground in the middle (bonus points if you can spot the little Sarahs).

These days infants, juniors and secondary have all apparently been merged into a single mega-school colossus. I didn’t go out of my way to check it out – there just didn’t seem to be much point. They’ve even binned off the old school houses – Singa, Beruang, Harimau and Elang (Lion, Bear, Tiger and Eagle, respectively) – FFS. Whatever Tanglin Trust – I’m still Singa till I die, motherf**ker!!

Cold Storage at Orchard Road (where we used to do our weekly big shop) is similarly no more, having been replaced with a swanky Fair Price Finest. It didn’t even stink out the whole mall with that unmistakable durian fruit funk or anything (practically de rigueur back in my day…). Come to think of it, I’ve not smelled durian even once since I’ve got here – has it been quietly relegated to Singapore’s official banned list, alongside chewing gum, jaywalking and vapes*, I wonder…?

Even the Mandarin Hotel, where we spent our first few weeks in Singapore, unfailingly having breakfast in the Chatterbox restaurant each morning (layout permanently imprinted on my brain), has fallen by the wayside too…

Needless to say, at this point my nostalgia tour was basically a demolition trail (quite literally in some cases).

Still, there were a few flutterings of recognition here or there. The colonial district is reassuringly still the same – and that’s Raffles Hotel bottom left. I valiantly resisted the urge to go in for a token Singapore Sling: I refuse on principle to pay forty-odd quid for one drink, plus it was only 8am at the time.

Chinatown too definitely rang a bell – not least because of the unmistakable Sri Mariamman temple (which I distinctly remember once visiting on a school trip) situated there, as well as those seriously delicious strips of red barbequed meat (known as bakkwa) that you can get on literally every street corner.

Ditto Little India – I definitely remember the colourful facades and shuttered colonial houses here – though without all the street art back in the eighties (no doubt Lee Kuan Yew would have taken a dim view). A welcome addition now, if you ask me.

Speaking of street art (as opposed to mere graffiti, which remains strictly verboten), Singapore has absolutely bags of it now. A few more examples from my city wanderings:

At least the Sentosa cable cars are still running – albeit in upgraded format these days. I was sorely tempted to visit Sentosa, but this would be whole day out in itself, and I only had two to spare (hence why I also didn’t make it to Singapore Zoo, Jurong Bird Park, Bukit Timah nature reserve or Wet ’n’ Wild, among other such childhood haunts).

Plus Sentosa appears to have completely changed too. In my day, a visit to Sentosa meant a stop at the insect house, a wander round the butterfly park, and an ill-advised dip in the dirty brown sea surrounding the island, invariably to re-emerge covered with jelly fish stings and a nasty case of conjunctivitis. These days they have a Universal Studios. And a waterpark. Even a Madame Tussauds – not to mention beaches that look positively appealing now. I choose to remember Singapore as it was: low-key, unflashy and with beaches where you still very much swam at your own risk!

Instead, in the spirit of embracing the new, I spent a morning at the impressive Gardens by the Bay (now featuring an unconvincing Jurassic World experience), which were opened in 2012 at part of a major programme of quayside development. Let no-one say I am not adaptive to change! I was semi-delirious with jetlag, however, so either that floating baby is an avant-garde art installation, or I was more sleep-deprived at this point than I thought.

Still, buildings and landmarks may come and go, but it’s good to see some things never change! The Singaporean powers-that-be clearly still love an overzealous public information campaign or two, as well as the odd vaguely North Korean style nationalist mural, enthusiastically inciting the population to patriotic fervour:

Back in my day, it was the National Courtesy and Sit Not Squat^ campaigns. Were Singaporeans in the eighties particularly discourteous or suffering from a collective mental block when it came to usage of the increasingly dominant Western toilets? I don’t recall in particular either way, but if so, that’s long-gone now – everyone I spoke to was unfailingly polite, and I didn’t see those tell-tale dirty set of footprints on a toilet seat even once.

And who am I to mock anyway…? We could probably do with a good old-fashioned awareness campaign ourselves, given the current abysmal standards of public behaviour back in the UK (grumpy old woman alert). That said, I think even the most regressive among us still know how to use a toilet – in theory if not always practical application.

One thing of course remains gloriously unchanged: the food. Singapore still does absolutely banging dishes from every fourth corner of the globe – but Asia in particular:

On the beverage front, as well as drinking buckets of teh tarik (delicious Malaysian pulled tea) on my visit, I also frequented a place called Heavenly Wang – but, in a blatant case of false advertising, sadly left only with a coffee. Bah.

Nostalgia, it turns out, is a risky business in Singapore. They say the past is a foreign country, and that certainly holds true for my personal experiences of Singapore over thirty years apart. Rather memory lane has, in my case, been unceremoniously bulldozed by a six-way modernity motorway.

But none of this detracts from the fact that Singapore is a phenomenal country in its own right. All I can say is that Singapore, for a dinky 15-mile-wide island, certainly packs a punch – and I barely even scratched the surface here. Singapore deserves at least two weeks, not two days, to truly do the place justice – and next time it’ll be a trip in its own right, not a stopover on the way to somewhere else.

Anyhoo, that’s it for now for this leg of the journey. I’m posting from Changi Airport, where I’m awaiting a flight to Koh Samui for the hopefully more relaxing stage of the trip – which I’m hoping will involve more chilling and fewer 30,000-step city marches. Until next time – preferably with fewer blisters and more cocktails in the mix too!

* Don’t come Tara and Stuart! S$700 fine for possessing vapes or vape juice even just for personal use – and even that’s for a first-time offence. Proper cigarette smoking though…? Knock yourself out.

^ In retrospect, Singapore should have ceded to Team Squat. From a colorectal point of view, squatting apparently straightens and relaxes the anorectal angle, making it easier to poop with less straining. Hence the increasing popularity of the Squatty Potty in the West. No, I don’t have one. Yet.

Well, I’ve finally arrived in Singapore with body and soul intact, and for once I have actually managed to reach my destination in something vaguely resembling style. Long story short, I basically pooled every last Avios point I’d accumulated over the years, in the process somehow contriving to fly out business class for less than the cost of economy.

I must say, it was all rather civilised – or, that is, about as civilised as it gets when you’re 30,000 feet up, trapped in a giant metallic tube, breathing heavily recycled air, alongside several hundred other random fellow travellers.

Still, champagne on arrival; a seat that turned into an actual bed (still didn’t sleep a wink though…); one’s choice of wine poured from an actual bottle; plus food that was, well, at least recognisably food (if not about to win a Michelin star any time soon) – can’t complain!

Good while it lasted, although I’d best not get too used to such extravagance in future – or at least not until I’ve managed to rebuild the Avios stockpile over the next couple of years at any rate. Till then, obligatory travel-brag pics:

The return journey in economy will, I realise, be a rude bump back down to earth again, but ho hum – first world problems and all that… I do get that I’m supremely privileged to be doing trips like this at all (thanks, as ever, to the trusty lodger fund) – cattle class or not!

Having checked in at the ibis Budget Clarke Quay, despite rapidly flagging energies, I took a snap decision to head straight back out again to catch the nightly light show at the Gardens by the Bay, which if I hurried I’d still just about make. My night mode photos / vids didn’t really do the place justice, but think this kind of thing – not a bad way to pass 15 minutes (and thanks for the recommendation Anita!).

After that, I went on to explore the rest of the Clarke’s Quay by night, but I’ll talk about that more another time. At this point I have officially gone about 40 hours with no sleep, and need to say goodbye for now, before I start fallliinnnggg asleeeeep at the keeeyboard as I typppppppeeee…