Traudl had recommended visiting the Galleria Lafayette. Little did I know it was a famous department store but two blocks before reaching the front door it was hold onto your wallet territory. The shop windows were full of animated scenes of Christmas with elves and others busily preparing gifts. Inside the store people were throwing down house loan wads of money to buy designer this and that. I’ve seen frenzy shopping before but not at this decadent level of opulence or feverish enthusiasm. Yet not far down the road others less well off were sleeping in subzero conditions in flimsy tents along the Seine and city doorways.

We get our budget rooms, shower and head next door. The lady who greets us is absolutely the same lady who rang an English speaking friend to get my food order all those years ago. I show her the photo she breaks into a huge smile. It is called injeon in Korea or fate in the Western world but it is held in high regard by the people here. It’s a warm friendly night eating, drinking and telling stories. For much of it the woman owner sits with us as Noah translates her stories and then mine back to her. We embrace at the door as we head out into the dark. Life is amazing.

As I stumble to bed I notice the rear tyre is flat… not again. A beer and a half carafe of wine may have swayed my decision making. I decide to fix it there and then. I turn the bike upside down in the room, off comes the wheel and I begin stripping the tyre. The tube I had repaired was leaking so at least it wasn’t a puncture. It was then that the wheels fell off my world, literally. As I rotated the wheel the cluster of oily gears slipped from the axle onto the pristine carpet. Disaster… I frantically tried to stuff them back on. No success, I need better lighting so I take my wheel into the shiny white bathroom complete with operating theatre quality lighting.

Leaving dinner near the Flatiron building I’m spotted by an alcohol fuelled, bare chested, black guy festooned in thick necklaces and far too many crosses to be religious. Did I mention the only garment he was wearing was a tight pair of black leather boxer shorts… He serenades me with a pitch perfect rendition of Elton John’s “Your song.” At first I’m bewildered yet surprisingly I begin singing along with him as we drift along the street. It’s my New York moment, and when we finish he holds out a paper bag for a donation. I give him some dollars which is not my norm. He is wiping himself down with a small sweaty towel. I can see him spending those dollars on another drink the minute I turn for home. What made me sing that duet on the busy street? Boy we nailed it and I’d only had one glass of wine.

Just when I thought that Hoi An had sold its soul to tourism I jumped on a rickety single speed hotel bike and over calculated both the distance and the strength of the sun in riding to the coast. Within minutes of summiting the flimsy, clackety clack motorbike bridge the tourist blare faded. Suddenly it was stooping farmers, waving children and smiles from rural people uninterested in my foreign currency. Buffalo sat neck deep in the rivers, fishermen steered with gnarly feet whilst tossing shimmering nets into the same sluggish river. One bridge led to another each time with less people. True I could still get my hair cut, feet massaged and a bowl of intestine soup easily but there was a calmness to the place.

A lull in the wind has me convinced that I can dry everything out whilst I go and eat breakfast. However I return to find my inflatable mattress has flown the coup. I run my eyes to the horizon and there it is, clinging precariously to the cyclone fencing of the far away tennis court.

I stripped off, found my bike shoes were a bloody mess of squirming leeches and and headed downstairs to the onsen shower. It looked like a blood bath afterwards as the leech wounds just wouldn’t stop bleeding. The host, Satoshi eventually ran me down to the station with his wife wanting to spray everything entering their car with bleach. “You’ll laugh about this tomorrow” he said not turning but looking straight at the windscreen. “No, it’ll take a few days” I replied as I got out of the car

One morning Eric announced he had a mate who may be able to help, John Carter. A few texts, a couple of phone calls and a loose arrangement was made to borrow John’s bike for a week. So here I am five months later on a train from London to Stansted airport where I was met by John and taken to his nearby house in the tiny hamlet of Bacon End. It’s a real name… “Pigs arse” I hear you Aussies mouthing. An hour later I’m away with two small bags lashed to John’s bike frame and a wave of faith from he and wife, Judith.

Now these headlands no longer have gun placements instead it’s rows of camping cars all in a line satellite dishes turned skywards and being buffeted by the coastal winds. We peddle on, many in the group telling family stories over dinner of grandfathers and long forgotten uncles who went excited looking for adventure as twenty year olds and didn’t return.

We left our traditional bus behind on Bohol. Siquijor has supplied us with a much small technicolor party bus. It struggles to carry us all. Young Harold, the guides assistant clambers onto the roof. He sits there cross legged clutching his bike for fear it will be scratched against the others. For a minute I feel like I’ve been transported back to India.