Keynsham, United Kingdom

I had spent a lovely relaxing Christmas in much the same way as previous years – time with friends and family – except for a single bizarre day, when my father confided in me that he had a secret desire to don a Santa Claus costume and parade up and down Keynsham High Street in his vintage MG waving at people. Furthermore, for his plan to be fully effective, he needed a willing partner-in-crime to dress up as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Initially fearing his mind had finally flipped, I soon came round the idea, being  no stranger to fancy dress myself having built and worn a fair few costumes for Halloweens gone by. And so a couple of days before Christmas, we spread a little bit of Christmas joy (not to mention surprise) to the folk pottering between the charity shops in Keynsham High Street  dressed as a pair of loons.

The two week break at home gave me ample time to refuel, revitalise and repack. Ron the Two-Wheeled Legend was retired to the safety of the garage and I swapped my lighter cycling togs for the thicker clothing my upcoming trek eastwards demanded. I treated myself by replacing my Sony Vaio laptop, which had bitten the dust in Switzerland, with a much sturdier (albeit much heavier) Apple Macbook. This was an important move, as I’d planned a shift in my travel habits for this second leg of my journey. I’d still be travelling overland, heading in a vague easterly direction, but I would be placing a far greater focus on work.

And so once more I said goodbye to my folks, went out the door and turned left.
To, er, the bus stop this time.

I took a typically dreadful example of a First Great Western train eastwards to London and transferred to a bus from Liverpool Street out to Harwich, a nondescript little English port town whose main selling point was that you could easily get away from it via an overnight ferry to Holland.

Being a cheap bastard, I always take the most economical form of accommodation on a ferry – I’d sleep in a lifeboat if it was on offer – but with this ferry company, Stena Line, the cheapest option was a fully-fledged cabin. I boarded the humongous vessel clasping my e-ticket, and wandered around the narrow, low-ceilinged corridors of identical-looking wooden doors stretching into the distance and finally found my home for the night.

I was very pleasantly surprised to find it was a  lovely little cabin which I had all to myself. The boat was new and the furnishings had yet to be destroyed by the ravaging hordes of British tourists. For fifty quid it was quite a steal.

It was already late by the time I got settled, and I was too whacked to explore the boat on this occasion, so I cracked out the earplugs and hit the hay, ready to wake up in a different country.