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My long, horrifying voyage took place in 2008. I’m fairly accustomed to travel at this point in my life but at the time I was still terrified of flying. So naturally I was due a series of nightmarish flights, one right after another.

Bali grew small in the water behind us. We were jetting to Gili Meno, a tiny island with more donkeys than humans, and more beautiful, sun-dappled beaches than either.

I had started my day in Carlisle. I was on a rail rover ticket which meant I could travel anywhere in the UK for a week. This was day 6 of my travels and I started early with the intention of visiting Cambridge and finishing in York.

"Turn to wind!" shouted Jamie, as a squall knocked the yacht sideways.

I had spent my last few months eating rice and lentil soup with my hand, going to the toilet next to buffaloes and showering once a fortnight. I'd failed miserably at washing my clothes in a bucket and squeezed udders...

Shimla bus station was hardly a hive of activity in the pre-dawn chill of a December morning as my travelling companion and I tried to locate the bus to Dehra Dun.

It all starts in an overheated coach on the overheated island of Tenerife. I’ve survived the Mars landscape of Mount Teide and come out of the Hobbit-esque lava tubes underneath it alive.

“You must empty your bag now…please”. This strong suggestion came from the poor airline security chap on day two of my 40th birthday trip to Africa.

After spending some time at the shocking killing fields of Phnom Penh, I set off on my trek North-East to Siem Reap where I would go explore the majestic ruins of Angkor Wat.

An Indian bus journey is always interesting; usually long, usually crammed, usually going to the wrong places, usually breaking down, but this you can deal with because you're on 'Indian time'.