So there I was at about six o’clock on a cool Monday morning sitting in a taxi trying to get across Chinatown and across the river to the Thonburi station. Not an easy journey, even at a better time of the day. My driver was a kind looking old man who clearly knew his way round. We made a series of strange U-turns and rat runs to get towards our destination. The heavier the rush hour traffic got the bolder he seemed to get in these manoeuvres, culminating in his decision to drive the wrong way down a one way street that lead from the river to the station. This didn’t impress a traffic policeman, and at one point it looked like we might be spending the day jail. From my crouched down position in the back all I could see was the cop’s rather tightly fitting regulation brown shirt covering his midriff, and an enormous revolver strapped to his narrow waist. I would guess it was a .357 Python. Quite why traffic cops need such firearms I’m not sure. Any shots would undoubtedly cut clean through the body of the average imported Japanese car. After five minutes of indecipherable “chat”, my driver decided to play his trump card in Thai negotiation – his age and the respect that young people show for the old. With considerable pleas and apologies (and no fines or bribes) we were back on the way.

Thonburi station was small and suburban. It was old but well maintained with flowers, vendors selling breakfast to bleary eyed commuters and a menagerie of unofficial platform pets. My ticket cost just a couple of dollars and I sat waiting watching the world go by as I had arrived in plenty of time. Having just returned from my Tibet trip, I wasn’t used to the number of Western backpackers around. Some had more impressive suntans and hair styles than others, and I guessed these were the experienced ones. The others were probably still leaning the ropes of everyday life in the Khao San Road.

Right on time a rickety old set of carriages were shunted onto the platform causing people to flee from standing and chatting on the railway line. No health and safety here. I made a quick assessment of the train just in case any of the coaches were newer or looked any more comfy, but they were all the same – the shabby chic of Thai 3rd class! I have a couple of top tips if you have never been on a Thai third class train before. Firstly, think about the direction of the train and quickly find a seat on the opposite side of the from where the sun will be before the seats fill up. If you are unsure, its where the locals will all want to sit too. Secondly, with the pleasure of open windows and a fresh breeze in your hair comes the pain of the dust and pollution. Wear a shemaugh or a loose scarf around your face to avoid the worst of this.

Train 257 left on time at 07.45 and rumbled slowly through the villages of makeshift shacks. The driver made good use of his horn, making sure that there was no possibility of any sleeping as we progressed from the almost endless outskirts of Bangkok towards Nong Pladuk junction. On board the backpackers and the locals cohabited the sticky plastic seats. Ladies streamed through the carriage at every stop with snacks and drinks followed by a conductor who was clearly very happy in his work.

Against some online wisdom I got off the train at Kanchiburi station a few miles from the bridge. I wanted to pay my respects at the war graves before visiting the bridge and taking lunch by the river. The cemetery was immaculately kept and filled me with thoughts of peace and remembrance. I had brought a cross with me from the Lady Haig Poppy charity, and I wrote some words on it before placing it on the main memorial. I liked the thought that the cross had travelled over 20000km by train across a world mainly at peace to get there.

The bridge itself was swarming with bus loads of tourists and busy hawkers selling them t-shirts printed in a variety of languages. Whilst the sight of the bridge is very striking, I felt that had to get away from the place after only half an hour or so. As I had a spare couple of hours I wandered upstream and by chance found a restaurant at about the position that “Lieutenant Joyce” hides by the river bank in the famous film, waiting to blow up the bridge. It was low tide, but I could not see any wires, so decided it was safe to have some fried rice and a Chang beer for lunch.

My return to Bangkok seemed to take for ever in the relentless heat and dust of the afternoon. I discovered on inspection that I had made a schoolboy error. I did not actually have a ticket. I thought my ticket was a return, but it turned out to be just a single. I was rather received to see that the conductor wasn’t armed, but I still wasn’t sure at first what my fate was going to be. There was lots of paperwork to be completed. Was I to be thrown off the train? Fined, or perhaps imprisoned? It turned out that my on the train ticket would cost me just the normal fare, and I got to keep a special souvenir of Thai ticketing red tape.

Back at Thonburi station it was about 6pm and I decided that travel in a taxi would be madness, so managed to navigate the streets to get to a local river bus station. This was my first experience of the boat service that plies up and down the Chao Phraya river, and I squeezed into a standing place on the stern of the boat trying hard to look like I did this every day. I thought this was a good place to stand until I got soaked by a wave from a passing barge. I decided not to think about the water quality. The skipper and the crew used a special code of whistles to signal to themselves and the savvy passengers when it was good to make the jump onto the ferry piers as we criss-crossed the river. The boat stopped really close to where I was staying and was easily the best way to get home, albeit a little damper than I had been before I set out.
If you are in Bangkok I would recommend this trip as a great day out for little money. I was a bit depressed to come face to face with mass tourism in such a place, but this was perhaps inevitable. I think it was as much my worry that some (even many) visitors might not understand what this was all about. At least I travelled there with the locals, ate with the locals and got wet with the locals. Mission accomplished, my micro adventure was complete!

The Potala Palace looks amazing at this time of the year. I started my ascent of the many hundreds of steps at around 10am on my final day in Lhasa. This has been deliberate to give myself the best chance to acclimatise before attempting the climb. Tenzing keeps telling me not to push myself too hard, and we stop about every five minutes to allow me to recover my breath. Some of the pilgrims have the same problem as me, whilst others (I assume from the mountains) just skip past. After about an hour we reach the top of the religious part of the palace (the red bricked area in the photo above). Inside there are hundreds of people giving offerings at each of the shrines – and there are lots and lots of shrines. There is money scattered everywhere. The pilgrims exchange their Kuai notes for thick bundles of near worthless “Jiao” notes, and this enables them to proffer money at every deity they see – in exchange of course for good fortune in this life and the next one.

Tenzing knows the place like the back of his hand, which is just as well as I would be hopelessly lost in moments without him. Inside the dark wooden chapels of the palace we peer through the smoke of freshly made juniper incense and take in the remarkable stupas and shrines, most made of gold and precious stones. The pilgrims are mesmerised. Monks and holy men chant, offer prayers and generally supervise the process of receiving the offerings. He tells me that only 700 individuals are allowed entry each day and tickets have been issued to us in advance. Today it is 696 Chinese pilgrims, myself, Tenzing and a couple of Americans I spot outside, who are dressed like climbers.

As we leave one of the galleries a monk with a lady follower approaches Tenzing. Tenzing has an amazingly polite and respectful way with anyone he meets. He nods his head from side to side and smiles at the end of every sentence. There is a lot of nodding and smiling going on in this conversation. He tells me that the monk notices that I wear glasses, and would I like my vision restored? I think about this for a moment, but it becomes clear this is not a service one declines, so I follow him to a special mandala where with an offering is made and a blessing is given. I will let you know what my optician says about my eye sight when I next have a check up. No photography is allowed inside any of the palaces or monasteries, so I’m really sorry not to be able to share what this looks like.

Lhasa is at 3650m, and I have had no problems acclimatising. After the Tangulla Pass it feels quite forgiving until you actually try to do anything – when you have to stop almost immediately and take a break. My hotel is used to dealing with people who live at more modest altitudes, and offers an oxygen lounge for people to recover in. It also has pure oxygen cylinders available on room service. I have declined both as I feel I am dealing with things well “naturally” – albeit with the help of a bit of Diamox.
The food has been interesting and very yak based.  It seems to be the “go to” ingredient of many Tibetan dishes. I have enjoyed yak steak, even spicy yak pizza, and of course yak butter tea.

I have given my final offerings, made my wishes for world peace and safe onward travel, and tomorrow I’m rather sad to be back on the train – destination Guangzhou. It’s with some trepidation that I get back on the rails, as I’m feeling like I have had quite enough train based hardship this trip. But I only have one more “tough” journey to make, one that will cover nearly 5000 km in around 54 hours. So stiff upper lip, and as Shackleton would say “keep on going”.

As I write this blog I’m sitting in the Hopfingerbrau bar inside the station enjoying a Berliner beer and a pretzel. Looking out at people going about their business i can’t see anyone looking stressed or I’ll temperered. The design of the station seems to be having a genuine effect on the mood of the passengers and the quality of their experience.

I have enjoyed a short break here in Berlin. It’s my first proper visit in 30 years, and of course much has changed. My memories of the inter rail summer trip of 1986 are somewhat hazy, but I definitely remember taking a train through East Germany and the “Berlin corridor” – then spending a couple of days in West Berlin. My trip also included a day trip to East Berlin via Checkpoint Charlie. Call me paranoid, but I am sure that we were tailed for a few hours as we blew our compulsorily exchanged East German Marks on lunch and some schnapps glasses in a rather quaint but empty department store.

Today Checkpoint Charlie is just a tourist trap, but it’s good to get a context of the wall and the ghost stations on the U-Bahn in the area. Berlin has been kind to me. It’s the sort of city that welcomes visitors and looks after them. I hope to return here again soon.

My first foray into Shinjuku nightlife proved slightly confusing. I wanted to find some bars in a district called “Golden Gion”, but which ever way I walked around the blocks I ended back up in the Tokyo equivalent of Soho, albeit possibly a bit safer but much much weirder.

My local bar here is a place called “Heart Beat”. This is a common concept in Tokyo – a barman, a cook and about five seats in a bar the size of your average bedroom. The cook operates in something the size of a cupboard, from which he does the cooking (with a cigarette clamped between his lips). I drink Sapporo beer whilst helping out the barman with his English menu on his iPad. There are some wonderful misspellings! A bored businessman drinks Scotch and we compare watches. He wins as he has quite a rare Rolex Submariner that he seems to know very little about.

On my second foray into Shinjuku failure isn’t an option. Yuka steers me personally in to a small street close to the west side of Shinjuku station for a close target recce on a place that I would never find without her. In fact moments after being shown it, I can’t find it again.. If you ever saw those Harry Potter films, it’s like a Japanese version of “Diagon Alley”! It’s packed with tiny places serving food and drinks to salarymen who are not ready to go home. Their significant others would never hope to discover them in this hidden and secret enclave of underworld Yakatori and booze!

My firm and immediate favourite is the “Albatross Bar”. It has a rather trendy barman who plays very cool music and mixes cocktails for a couple of men in suits. He serves me like I have been drinking here for years – once I have worked out how to turn around and sit down in a space not big enough to swing a millipede.

The Albatross has made an extra effort with its chandeliers. These would be well placed in a small stately home, but in here I find myself talking to them, through them and around them at the bar as the dominate the inside of the place. Using a phrase “at the bar” might imply you have a choice where to be. You don’t as there is barely three feet of space in front of it.

I found these places incredibly friendly and safe to be in. If you are coming to Tokyo you must try and find this bar scene. It really is the “underbelly” of Tokyo and the kind of place Dechard would certainly enjoy a quiet beer in before pursuing and terminating illegal replicants.

Wikipedia suggests that its poison is 1200 times stronger than cyanide and close to Sarin or VX gas in the way it paralyses your central nervous system. You can’t buy a pufferfish as it is illegal to prepare one without the licence, hence they tend to be kept alive in tanks at special fugu restaurants.

I met up this morning with Yuka, my guide and fixer in Tokyo. Our first port of call is the Tsukiji fish market. It’s a huge and busy place selling 10% of the world’s fish every day. The prices of some of the fish are extraordinary, but still much cheaper on a kilo basis than at my local supermarket. There are not many tourists here as groups are not allowed into the wholesale part of the market, and I can see why with all that’s going on. (In passing, the whole market is being relocated prior to the Japan Olympic Games, so this spectacle may not be on offer for much longer).

Long cutting swords are an essential tool in the fish mongers arsenal. After a decade of fastidious sharpening they are several inches shorter though. Every famous restaurant has a local supplier here, many specialising in certain types of fish or fishy bits. And ninja snapper turtles..

After the market its time to taste some incredibly fresh sushi. It hasn’t even had to travel more than a couple of hundred metres from the market.

I’m immediately struck by some great sushi bar etiquette. All the staff literally all shout a greeting to every new customer, it’s kind of a lucky tradition and makes you think at first that you might not be properly dressed or have accidentally left the door open – but once you know, you certainly feel very welcome!

I try all the main sorts of nigiri (except smoked eel – I have never been a fan..). It’s got an incredible “melt in your mouth” feel, simply stunning. The chefs are great too – you can interact with them as you eat the nigiri that they carefully prepare, piece by piece. Until today I had no idea that wasabi was a root vegetable.

The day finishes with some sake tasting. I know so little about sake and its hard to know where to start. Hot? Cold? Pasteurised? Fresh? Which season?.. Diving in, we try three very different brands. Time to sweep away my memories of hot and tasteless sake in English Chinese restaurants in the 1980’s – this stuff is like fine wine.. Some of it with prices to match.

I’m going to look out for some good sake to put in my cellar when I get home. I didn’t have time for any official Japanese whisky tasting, but that’s now on my radar too..

I have had an interesting insight into Tokyo coffee culture today. I suggest to Yuka, my guide here in Tokyo, that we stop at Starbucks on the way to Shinjuku station. However she has other ideas. Our first stop of the day is a coffee bar in Shibuya with a difference. It has two resident goats. Apparently you can take them for a walk down to the local station, but when Yuka asks for their leads we find this is only possible after 3pm. The goats make a lot of noise until the barista fixes them some food.. They certainly didn’t teach me this skill on my barista City & Guilds course!

The second coffee bar of the day, also in Shibuya, is no more mainstream. It’s a “cat cafe” where people go to stroke feline friends over a cup of coffee or a fruit smoothie. This place is just weird. It’s on the third floor of an anonymous block off a busy side street.

Reception has a little window, and it’s overseen today by a large black cat who looks through the glass like it might decide which humans to admit. We don’t actually spend time here as you pay by the half hour with the cats as well as for the coffee and cat food. I would also point out that I don’t even like cats..and I don’t think the cat at reception liked me either!

Our third coffee stop is at an amazingly zen place called Omotesando. It’s a tiny garden in a semi domestic street with a wooden screened platform like some sort of shrine. At the altar a kind of mad Japanese scientist barista makes very serious cups of coffee. If coffee were a martial art, this chap is clearly a black belt master. I’m deeply impressed when I watch him make a close to perfect cup of espresso and reject it for some tiny unexplained reason.

Between coffee stops I’m keen to see some pachinko. If you haven’t heard of this, its a form of semi legalised gambling using machines that fire ball bearings at slots like a pinball machine without the flippers. After WW2 there was lots of obvious spare capacity in the Japanese ball bearing industry and it took off. Inside the parlour it’s insanely loud and busy with some clearly addicted punters trying to get an edge on their chosen machines.

The best players have baskets of ball bearings behind their seats marking them out as pachinko “Top Guns”. The machines are designed to absorb every ounce of your senses and make you lose track of time. They even have integrated chargers for you phone if you are making a day of it.

Yuka and I give it a go, and it’s clear she is much better at it than me. However, we quickly blast through 2000 Yen without anything to show for it ten minutes later!

As a visitor to Tokyo things are not always as they seem, you just need to embrace the weirdness and enjoy it. I certainly am. I just wish I was in this great city a bit longer.. Never mind, blogging next about deadly fish!

I seem to have crossed that fine line, and it takes 48 hours to get my body fully fit for operations again. For the first day I can’t stop groaning with amazement every time my body rests on a soft bed in a cool and quiet room that does not move with the rails or the waves. I can’t believe my appetite for sleep. And then on the third day I feel like the title of this blog post, reborn, not as a British secret agent, but as a Trans-Siberian explorer.

Kyoto is massively busy. It’s an extended public holiday and a time for local families to vist the shrines. I feel like I just can’t move in some places and the recent snow is slowing us all down even more. Oh well, it’s my own fault for arriving at such a special time.

It’s a great couple of days to adjust to the Japanese way and join in the purification and luck making rituals of the New Year. Russia and Japan are probably polar opposites when it comes to visible etiquette, manners and the friendliness of public servants. I don’t know if this level of kindness and support ever wears off, but for my short stay it’s nothing short of a wonder.

It’s no surprise that dried fish in all its forms is prevalent in much Korean cooking. Other than fish, pork seems to be the main source of meat. In case you are wondering, there is dog here to be eaten, but it does not seem to be a featured ingredient in every day restaurants. I did actually see a man selling dogs, kept in small cages on the back of his truck. To me meat is meat, but I have to say I felt sadder to see this than I thought that I would.

Our mid morning snack consisted of the phenomena that is the Korean “Pizza”. It’s not a pizza in the Western sense, but a fried buckwheat pancake containing kim chi and other vegetables. Explaining the process of making kim chi would take some time, but it’s basically the most important ingredient in Korean cooking, a fermented vegetable in a spicy sauce.

Time for a Korean BBQ for lunch. This consists of three different cuts of pork, self cooked and assembled at the table with the usual range of side dishes – lots of lettuce, chilli and garlic. It’s all to soon time to head down the the ferry terminal in the port.

It’s here that I have to say a sad farewell to the amazing Mr Taegeun Kim. He is heading off to his family having been on the road in Europe for over three months. I gave him my lucky Russian Railways pocket watch as a momento of his Trans-Siberian journey. It’s brought me nothing but good fortune, so I hope it brings him good luck to. Time to head back up the gang plank of the Eastern Dream..

Probably just as well I didn’t look at the shipping forecast. Although it’s a nice day in port, it’s immediately clear that the ship is going to be rolling badly tonight. The crew issue a warning (even in English) about walking around the ferry without holding on to something, and advise against going out on deck due to the high wind and waves. Fortunately before we sailed I have taken a quick inventory of the lifeboats and found the best looking one to head for in the event of an emergency – deck 3, port side..

I debate weather eating anything is a good idea given the sea conditions, but decide it’s better to have something to throw up if it comes to it, so I treat myself to a final Korean “pizza” in the bar. Apart from a few shouty people (I can’t work out why, they don’t seem drunk, just very loud) most of the passengers are pretty friendly. My journey is a real icebreaker and I’m soon enjoying a few farewell to Korea toasts of Makguli.

My last night at sea isn’t a good one. I contemplated changing the title of this post to “The Cruel Sea” but that would be over dramatic. The problem is part sea and part cabin, so a better description would be “The Cruel Cabin”. I should point out that it’s not the occupants who are cruel, they are all super well behaved. The problem is there is no ventilation, the temperature feels like the Congo, and the cabin moves badly in the roll and the swell. The ship has no stabilisation and a small sea is all that is needed to recreate something more epic in room 1203. At one point I throw my cards in and go to find a public space to sleep in but this has other problems – an icy wind from the gale, shouty passengers and poor security. The night is a long one and I almost get no sleep at all. It’s the last thing I need, as I have to be at my train best for the logistics of the day ahead.