We head off for the south tomorrow, to Koh Samui and for a family reunion with our daughter and her new partner.

  ***

  Time to get a long-overdue haircut in anticipation of warmer climes after the chilliness of China.

  After thirty minutes under the scissors, admittedly in lovely hands, I realised I had been shorn to within an inch of my scalp for the shortest ever haircut of my life, all for four quid including tip. Very ‘trendy’ she said. When I got outside, I realised what she meant; very few western males seem to sport any hair at all, making me look, in relative terms, a bit of a hippie. However, for complete trendiness, I knew a bit more was needed: a limb, arm, leg or both/all, to be completely and completely tattooed making the said limb look as though it was in the last stages of gangrene; and of course, the obligatory nipple tassel in finest Sheffield plate with matching tongue and ear stud. I knew I would have a problem presenting a business case for the whole hog to my beloved after the earful I got just for the haircut.

  And so to our reunion with our youngest on Koh Phangan, all tears and joy, well for a bit anyway, until the advice began to flow one way. You do know Dad that the yeast in beer does untold harm for someone born on a Wednesday in the year of the horse with your second shakra outlook etc., etc. Still smoking, occasionally? Meat as well? Tut-tut. Time for a trip into the (relatively) big smoke (oops) of Thong Sala (we were planning to go over to our daughter’s side of the island but our youngest suddenly decided we should stop here, saying ‘oh and by the way it is where I go for my groceries, alternative (i.e. expensive) herbal cures’ etc. So, of course, I say ‘let’s help out here’. As I notice she is carrying about 12 king-size packets of Alpen, she mentions she only shops twice a year so has to stock up, you know dinner set for 12, fondue set, a complete set of Tupperware boxes, aloe-vera shampoo from Madagascar’s rainforest and other essentials. Fortunately, she knew the location of all the ATMs in town.

  But it was a peaceful week in the end, and we were delighted to hear we had just missed ten days of unremitting heavy rain. By the way, the first rule of globetrotting is to always look into your shoes each morning if you leave them outside the hotel room door as is the custom in Thailand, and I would add the corollary: especially if staying, as we were, in a place run by a Frenchman. The difficulty I had in getting my right shoe on turned out to be because of the large frog (OK, probably a toad) cowering inside it. I am not sure if it was sheer chance or if Agincourt still rankles. I called the chef, but he wasn’t interested; wrong kind of grenouille apparently.

  And so, onwards to the Andaman sea on the west coast to recover (in every way) and, as ever, the west coast of Thailand does not disappoint at this time of the year.

  At our stage in life with our paragliding, deep sea diving, bungee jumping days behind us, we are content to enjoy a warm peaceful evening with our feet in the sand sitting at a table laden with tasty Thai morsels and cold beers and entertainment limited to enjoying the quiet starry nights, following the changing phases of the moon every night. Well, not that quiet, actually. There have always been the colourful beach salesmen peddling flashing laser pens, illuminated Chinese hand-rolling balls, mini parachutes and the like, but nowadays there is more. The custom of purchasing a Chinese lantern (about two-foot high made out of some non-flammable thin paper and powered by flames) to send off into the air is so popular that dozens of them now depart for the heavens each night. One Swedish lady told us she sent one up to commemorate her mother’s death ‘in the year of the tsunami’ (I am not sure if she died in the tsunami or just that year), but unfortunately, hers was the only lantern not to ‘get to heaven’ as it got caught in one of the tall casuarina trees that line the beach, where for a moment it looked as though it would burn the tree down (but didn’t). I suppose it is a sign of the times, but menus are written now in Thai, English and ‘RUSSIAN!’ Next year, I expect them to add Korean too, and in years to come, Mandarin I am sure.

  And then, the fireworks. These seem to be sponsored by individuals and can go off at any time in any quantities for everyone’s pleasure. And the ubiquitous fire-dancers are pleased to show off their talents by whirling their flaming sticks around and into the air like a drum majorette at a 4th of July parade. A Swiss family (not that one) all made an impressive effort to master the art which is not without its risks. And, not to miss a trick, there are also ladies on the beach happy to sell you a dozen roses on this universally romantic day of the year: Valentine’s Day.

  So, all in all, not that peaceful I suppose, but not a bad place to spend a February night.

  Postscript on our Valentine dinner for two:

  I have an unfortunate record of dental catastrophes in Thailand and I feared the worst when my tongue discovered in my mouth what felt and subsequently looked like another tooth having become dislodged. While analysing the said item, I felt a second one in my mouth and in panic realised that at this rate, I would have no teeth left by 10:30 pm and be on liquids for the rest of my life. However, it turned out that the prawns had been prepared in rock salt and the said items in the dim candlelight looked rather like teeth but were in fact just large salt crystals. My home-dentist Robert, will be disappointed not to make my re-acquaintance again this year – touch wood.

  ***

  What, then, do Thailand and Greece have in common? OK, apart from two fiendishly difficult languages to have to learn?

  The answer is quite a lot really. If you enjoy the slow routine of a holiday on a Greek beach and/or island with casual dining in a taverna on the beach, a boat trip to another remote beach for the day, fresh fish or calamari in the evening with a glass of local brandy with your coffee, but you want a change (admittedly with a longer flight) then Southern Thailand can offer a similar lifestyle and probably cheaper too since the euro arrived in Greece.

  From most beaches, noisy long-tail boats will for a few pounds, depending on distance, take you to a nearby beach for the day or a few hours where you will inevitably find a modest eating establishment which can knock up something Thai or ‘western’ for on average three or four pounds per couple, including a large beer. Morning, midday or evening, there will often be a large array of fruits: pawpaw, pineapple, watermelon, pommelo, starfruit or mangoes (£1.50p for a whole pineapple or mango cut up and ready to eat).

  In the evenings, many restaurants will display their day’s catches for perusal: red/white snapper (four pounds for a whole fish enough for two), massive prawns, squid, crabs and at a reasonable price (Are they ever cheap?) huge lobsters, all presented appealingly in a mock wooden model longboat immersed in chunks of ice (the fish not the boat). These can be prepared barbecued, with garlic and pepper, sweet and sour, or with tamarind sauce. Bank on fifteen to twenty pounds for two (the falling exchange rate has taken its toll over the last two or three years when the same would have cost ten to fifteen pounds), depending on choice, not including the high-end items but including beer/glass of wine or local Sang Som brandy and supplementary items like rice, side dishes like morning glory, a green vegetable laced with garlic. Even their standard dishes like a green curry with prawns include what we would call large prawns at home and only cost about two pounds 50p. If you steer clear of items charged by weight, you can get away with seven to ten pounds for two in the evenings, though a couple of large pizzas will set you back about ten pounds, relatively expensive compared with going local.

  A word of warning though about eating in hotels and smart establishments: here the cost does rise due to service charges and taxes which can add almost twenty percent to a bill. Tipping elsewhere is nominal and at discretion, not really expected.

  Some of the well-known beaches can service most of your needs without you ever moving from your lounger. If you don’t want to stay in the hotel all day, local entrepreneurs will provide a lounger and umbrella for three pounds for two, and offer drinks, fruit, massage, snacks to get you through the day and teach you a few words of Thai into the bargain. Before you leave in the evening, you could also have bought a beach dress, model motorcycle made of wood, an ice cream or bedspread in beautiful silk or freshly cooked sweet corn from a man with a portable stove. Resistance requires persistence.

  Of course, idleness is not the only option if you are into windsurfing, diving or other more strenuous activities, but prices are often international.

  Chapter 15

  Romania

  Apparently, I got the temperature wrong when I claimed on Facebook that it was 38 ˚C in Bucharest when we arrived yesterday; it was in fact 42 ˚C so it was with some relief when we soon climbed out of the southern plains into the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, though the relief was only temporary. While the next day, half-way to the old Saxon town of Brasov started sunny, it was soon clear that the heat wave was all set to break.

  We had just about, managed to get through the Peles Palace once owned by the old royal family rather gothic and lugubrious with strong Germanic overtones, when the clouds began to roll in as we approached the fourteenth century chocolate box Bran castle once occupied by the Romanian hero: Vlad the Impaler (did what it says on the tin and famed for fighting off the Turks). However, it is, of course, now more widely known as Dracula’s Castle, and what more appropriate way to make our approach than in the mother of all thunderstorms.

  While being completely familiar with the monsoon rains of Asia, I have to acknowledge that this one took the biscuit: no storm drains but torrential rains, instantly created rivers, crashing thunder and fork lightning. When someone grabbed my arm in the gloom as we entered the fortress, I almost felt it was Drak himself putting in a guest appearance. It was, in fact, only the ticket collector, bad teeth and a pasty face and dressed in black. Who needs Son et Lumière when you get the real thing for free?

  With the weather still unsettled, we leave Transylvania for a couple of days and head up towards the Ukrainian border into Moldova province and the UNESCO World Heritage Site of the famous painted monasteries of Bucovina.

  Now just in case the only thing you know about Moldova is that they came 11th in the Eurovision contest (with Moldova Beethoven?), let me put you straight.

  We are in the part of Moldova which was retained as a province by Romania when the Russians carved a chunk off after the war and made it into a separate country confusingly also called Moldova. They (province and country) are named after the Moldova River but seem to be also referred to as Moldavia which adds to the confusion. While almost everything gives you the impression of being in a Swiss landscape, alpine meadows full of wild flowers, cows (no bells though), fir forests, neat cottage gardens, neat haystacks and country roads (here populated with heavily laden horse-drawn carts rather than motorised transport), the style of local houses is distinctly Russian looking: lots of turrets, fretworked eaves and a curious silver roof-covering that glistens in the sunlight. Very Doctor Zhivago, it is only slightly marred by the occasional fenced motorcar graveyards, where ancient vehicles from an earlier era are piled up neatly in rows. And where today in Europe do you still see every flock of sheep or goats corralled by a shepherd into tidy herds?

  Judging by the number of hives everywhere, honey is clearly popular but the hives themselves are interesting for two reasons: firstly, because they all painted in very bright colours, and secondly, because they seem to be itinerant, loaded onto trailers so they can moved about, presumably not before the bees have all returned at night after a hard day’s foraging.

  We came across a man in the mountains you could truly describe as of classic mountain peasant appearance, selling eggs he and his wife had hand-painted to the infrequent passing driver. He was dressed in shabby clothes offered to him by an earlier passing motorist, was as thin as a rake, and said he lived without electricity in makeshift accommodation (the country had up to five metres of snow this winter). He had no other source of income and would range up to thirty kilometres between two big monasteries eking out his trade, with occasional menial work on offer from the monks. Well, he believed his story. The country as whole may be making strides in many areas but the legacy of the terrible communist years persists despite significant EU money now being spent on infrastructure.

  However, this is all incidental to the main purpose of heading up to the border with Ukraine: no, not to go and watch the English football team carry out penalty shoot-outs in the world cup tonight, but to visit some of the many world-famous painted monasteries, which curiously seemed to be mainly run by nuns. Same old story really: a male aversion to housework. They were mostly built in the 15th and 16th centuries to educate the local peasants the story of Christ, but as the area was continually under threat from the Turks and the Tartars, many are surrounded by fortifications making each monastery look like a castle from afar. They have received their UNESCO qualification not just for the elaborate painted panels covering every available space inside the church, but above all, for the painting on the outside walls which to a great extent have withstood the vagaries of the harsh winters and blazing summers in this country.

  While the spirit was uplifted, the demands of the flesh could not go unheeded as lunchtime approached as did a nearby tavern. The local residents seemed to be rather keen on their local speciality: monkfish, but there had been a run on it. Perhaps nunfish could have substituted?

  If you want to know where your EU contribution goes to, I can enlighten you forthwith: it goes on upgrading Romanian roads; dozens and dozens of the country’s roads are under construction simultaneously, courtesy of the blue flag with 12 stars. Thus, a journey which even on the old roads might have taken x hours now takes 2x until the work is completed, so the whole population seems now to be engaged in either driving horses and carts or road building and all in the same workspace.

  Despite all this, we are now deep in the part of Romania colonised by the Saxon Germans 800 years ago, and the ability to speak German is proving useful. In fact, three out of twelve in the group have a Cambridge degree in German. Typical; you wait for years, and three come along together.

  Anyway, while the Normans were settling in England, the Rhinelanders were setting off to help the Romanians fortify their country’s heritage against the Ottoman invaders in the thirteenth century and quite a few stayed until the present day so that in some of the Saxon towns, there are still a handful of descendants of those settlers left in the smaller villages to attend the Protestant services in the fortified churches their forefathers built.

  Everything is written in German within these churches and some Romanians do speak both languages, for example in the magnificent walled town of Sighisoara (Schussburg in German) where Prince Charles likes to hang out while staying in his nearby retreat, and you can see why: Sighisoara is a walled village built on a sloping hill approached through ancient towers built by German guilds (the taylors guild, for example), with a small square surrounded by multi-coloured 16th- and 17th-century buildings, many with attractive wrought-iron trade signs. The dominant bell-tower looks out over a jumble of houses with roofs of pretty dark red rounded tiles, reminiscent of Freiburg and Rothenburg ob der Tauber in Germany, or Collonges-le-Rouge in France, nestled in rolling hills of corn, hops or grapes similar to the Alsace landscape.

  Let me end on a note of particular interest to those in the counselling business. In the pretty village of Biertan, the old church has a small prison which doubled as a Medieval ‘Relate’ centre. If a couple made it known that they wished to get divorced, they would immediately be put into the prison for a month, together, give a single bed, one plate, one spoon, one fork (no knife of course, just in case), one table and one chair, and forced to think the decision over. Guess what: over 200 years, 300 couples went through the system and only one couple went ahead and divorced. A slam dunk, then.

  Now let’s be honest: most people think of Romania, if they think of it all, as the country of Roma Gypsies, ill-treated orphans and tyrannical leaders. The country badly needs a spin-doctor and a PR budget because it has made remarkable progress since the disaster years of the megalomaniac Ceausescu, who thought nothing of demolishing nearly 10,000 houses to create his new ‘Paris’ and its own (longer of course) Champs Elysees, forcibly relocating 40,000 citizens to the outer suburbs.

  But Bucharest, the capital, is getting back on its feet with many of the trappings of any modern European capital: German cars, busy shoppers, fancy hotels and restaurants, even though the spectre of Ceausescu looms over the city from the second largest building in the world, the Parliament Building, all twelve floors and 3,000 rooms. (The largest building? the Pentagon, of course, though the security in the Pentagon could not be tighter than it is here.) I’ll never get to see into that one, so have to be content to have walked through the gigantic staterooms of Ceausescu’s folly now used by the country’s parliament and its bureaucrats and for conventions for up to 1,200 participants in a single salon. The atmosphere is gloomy despite the opulence of pink marble and crystal chandeliers and shoddy cheap desks but few pictures or furnishings.

  So, in summary, Romania is a country beginning to make its way again in the modern world, though their politicians do not seem to have learnt the lessons from the corruption of the communist years. The best of what the country has to offer lies north of the plains of southern Romania over the Carpathian Mountains, where life is closer to nature and traditional village life so difficult to find in modern day Europe. The term ‘peasant’ is not pejorative but accurately describes those who lead simple if hard lives in this beautiful and devout country where the influence of the Orthodox Christian faith is omnipresent and, at times, it is difficult to imagine you are in the twentieth century.

  Chapter 16

  Central America

  A surreal experience, an absolute first: