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One traveller's day-by-day account of a year-long journey through Japan, China, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, America and Canada

the village past the delightful half-timbered 'Mardi' house. I never promised Rob a Rose Garden, but Mardi had one which we wandered through. We picked another jungle trail that led its way to a sweet Buddhist temple.

By this stage my feet were revolting in more ways than one, and so we took a taxi to an Indian-owned tea plantation to gaze at hills lined with the sacred plant that almost made nine-to-five work bearable for us, and tucked into a cream tea each. The quintissentially English experience was made even more authentic by the fact it started to piss down.

Nevertheless, we trudged back up the hill through the wet back up to Father's. We'd covered over 15 klicks today, most of it non-horizontal, and as I result I was shattered and slept it off, waking in time to catch the end of the film Trainspotting, a true blast from the past, in the communal area.

Out of the many glorious options available, we settled on nothing less than tiger for dinner. The beer, that is. Our selected venue, the Ranch Pub, had dubious written all over it, what with its headache-inducing neon glow, stocky ladyboy bartender and banging out criminal records by Aqua and other Europop disgraces. But it did the trick by applying painkiller to my screaming muscles until I flagged and slept like