Очистить поиск
JJ Weeks
JJ Weeks

JJ Weeks

был(а) 42 странах Читать далее🇬🇧Oxford
ПодписатьсяСообщениеСтатистика
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    Elbows towards ElbrusGet a load of this guy

    The Teletubbies Go To 'Nam

    30 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☀️ 24 °C

    Somewhere above the treeline, and possibly outside the legal bounds of my travel insurance coverage (depending on who's reading this), we found ourselves trudging through a landscape that can only be described as Teletubbycore. It had all the key features: rolling green hills, eerie stillness, and the demonic grin of a baby glaring down at us from the sky (or is that just me developing schizophrenia?)

    For this day, we took an alternative trail, if you could call it that, which had clearly been designed by a sadist or at the very least been abandoned since the late sixties. Overgrown foliage clawed at my ankles like a pack of gingerandbankrupt fans desperate for a selfie (happens every time I leave the house without a disguise.)

    Steep, overgrown, and narrow, it felt like we were hacking our way through the jungles of Vietnam. We bushwhacked through undergrowth so thick that we couldn't even see our own feet, let alone the horrendous uneven ground of the Lagem pass.

    Horseflies rained down on us like a hellfire of napalm, targeting our skin with military precision, even piercing through our clothing to be able to nibble away at us,. Every few seconds, one of us would break out into a frantic slapping fit, like that one episode of the Teletubbies where they all turn on Dipsy for being a little bitch (*possibly made-up.)

    At one point, Thomas disappeared through a bush like he'd triggered a Vietcong trap, before emerging with giant buboes blooming on his arm and knee from mystery stings. Whether purple from bites, bruises or breathlessness, he had now fully morphed into Tinky Winky (...or Tomky Womky!?), and myself into Laa Laa (uh... Jaa Jaa!?), battered and cbeebies versions of our former selves.

    Each running on 3 mini cheddars and 5 Fanta flavoured mentos, we launched a final offensive up to 3,142 m for the most glorious vantage over the Caucasus yet. We could almost reach out and touch the crusted glaciers which lagged beneath us, while Mount Elbrus loomed in the distance, blank and boxy, like a Soviet fridge.

    The descent that followed was an aggressive downhill, ideal if you'd like your knees to buckle and soles to scream. Thomas nearly became a statistic, taking his very own fall of Saigon after misplacing a foot on the near vertical ground and tumbling for what felt like an eternity before landing miraculously, unscathed at the top of a gully. It was around here, one teletumble away from needing rescue from a chopper, that we asked ourselves 'is this actually fun, or are we just trauma-bonded with mountains?'

    After a few hours of mental clock out, we finally descended into the four scattered stone hamlets of Ushguli, both in victory and defeat. But before we could fully take in the crumbling towers, we were being beckoned over by our American friends from Zhabeshi. Two of them, it turned out, had been bitten by dogs after doing handstands next to them (?!) and were now understandably keen to get to the hospital for rabies shots (maybe it was telerabies). And so, after being bundled into the back of a van, we looked back, triumphant, slightly sunburnt and mildly rabid on Georgian Svaneti, celebrating our survival the only way we knew how: with pina coladas and pizza in Mestia (finally real food again😩)    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    1Thomas begged me to include these (thought he was about to cry)Stupid ass selfie cracks me up every time

    Operation Bootylicious

    29 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    Our host in Adishi, Tamara, was not your average sheepherding village grandma. An eloquent, well educated woman who also happened to be a political journalist on a radio show, she provided a generous breakfast along with a less than generous indictment of the Georgian state of affairs. As we chomped through lashings of improvised cake, and pastries stuffed with mystery meats, she poured the tea, both literally and figuratively, letting us in on the true feelings of the Georgian people when it comes to Russia, the government, and whether the prime minister is actually just three goats in a trenchcoat.

    Tamara had filled us with enough hard truths and carbohydrates to fuel a minor revolution, but rather than storming parliament, we set off to confront a different kind of turbulence, the gushing meltwaters of a glacial river as we traced the valley up to Chkhunderi Pass.

    The photos you see of Thomas traversing the strong currents on horseback are straight out of a Putin-themed calendar beloved by babushkas (turn to the next month and it's Thomas bare-chested fighting a bear.) Unfortunately, no photos of me on my steed but it's probably for the best, as I'm sure you'd have fainted from the sheer overload of bravado and concentrated testosterone.

    At the top of the pass, the mountains were, like, wowzers! Big yikes, just look at the pictures. I mean, have you not had enough imagery on this trip yet!? They were, wait for it... Retina slappingly gorgeous, moustache twirlingly phwoar, and face meltingly scenic. I've exhausted the thesaurus, ok. The only words I've yet to use in this blog are 'locksmith', 'kerfuffle' and 'bootylicious'. I've used enough literary devices this trip to make an English teacher pregnant (although I've never actually met one that wasn't.)

    So yes, the mountains were pretty epic. And while gazing out upon Europe's mightiest, we lunched on a nectarine, an apricot and other out of date delights, all washed down with disease water / sewage water (depending on your preferred flavour of liquid cholera of course.)

    We descended into Khalde past trickling streams and rolling hills that made me feel like a termite on the side of a slazenger tennis ball. In the evening, I then set a new high score on subway surfers (kind of a big deal 😏😏), while Thomas made a friend and might have been recruited into the Israeli Defence Force (idk I had headphones in.)

    Can you tell I'm going slightly delirious? I've just tried to butter my water bottle.

    Good bye.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    1Basement horse (Press X to mount)
    24First time buyer! 🤞Adishi1Your mind is filthy

    How To Trap A Horse In Minecraft

    28 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☀️ 20 °C

    After trading cultural blows with a group of Americans all evening, from our tiny European minds being unable to comprehend the concept of what the hell a 'freedom burger' is, to delivering our edgiest Southern accents and yee-haws, we cosied into our beds, wiggling our toes like satisfied little hobbits.

    Morning arrived to the clank of crockery and the unmistakable smell of Thomas's crusty socks, which he refused to wash in case they 'didn't dry out in time'. Our host in Zhabeshi was another frail but formidable lady named Dodo, and although old, she was very much not extinct. She'd orchestrated another buffet-style feast in the dining room, piling up plates of khachapuri, slices of cucumber, and cheese that squeaked when you bit into it.

    With our stomachs stuffed and two breezy hammocks eyeing us up dangerously, we laced up our boots and loaded our legs up for another long ascent. A cheerful incline soon became sticky under heavy heat and over muddy switchbacks, but we reached level ground with relative ease. At the top, we chomped into chunks of watermelon like Olympians into gold medals (although Olympians probably have less juice dribbling down their chins tbf.)

    Hopping between beverage-serving shacks, we met Swiss, Moroccans and Poles, before entering into prime frolic-ing territory. Wildflowers wobbled, vegetation was verdant, and cows occasionally paused their incessant chewing to give us a few thousand mile stares. And soon after some pointy bois punctured the horizon, we were back on the descent.

    Patches of pine forest where the air was damp and mushroomy made way for a view down into a medieval village, wedged deep into the clammy walls of the valley's sweet cheeks. (Am I really sexualising hills now!?)

    Adishi looked like a village that some 14th century peasant had tried to throw together in a thunderstorm, only to give up halfway through when they remembered they had a prize turnip boiling away in the cauldron. Cows sulked in the passageways, stray dogs sniffed at things that almost certainly shouldn't have been sniffed at, and through the missing wall of one crumbling house, we discovered horses bizarrely stuck in a basement, staring up at us with both the judgement and blank expression of creatures that had simply given up. The whole scene reminded me of the old 'dig a hole two blocks deep' trick in Minecraft to stop your animals from escaping, except this version had glitched (at least in Minecraft, the building physics still works.)

    After forgetting to message our host about dinner (a rookie move in a village with no shops), our evening mission was to find some food and we set back out past dishevelled dwellings and forlorn foundations to Gunter's guesthouse, where we slurped some stew, got lively with some Aussies, and made it back before the village fell asleep (or fell apart, whichever came first.)    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    1
    21Brutalist Tbilisi train station makes me very happy11What a strange man25

    How I Met Your Grandmother

    27 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    Wake up dear disciples, mister gingerandbankrupt has risen once more with another whimsical travel update on find penguins dot com. What ever will he do next? Turn putrid river water into wine? Feed five thousand midges with a single slice of bread? Or part the mountains with another sarcastic quip?

    After a quickfire opening to the trip, terrorising here, tantalising there, the last couple of days have settled into a gentler rhythm. The slower pace of a multi-day trek has allowed us to shift focus from bumbling frenetically to a more grounded connection: with people, with place, and with peace. Basically, our terrorism has mellowed into more of a mild passive aggression (much more British) and our tantalism into awkward small talk about the weather.

    I expected the journey to Mestia to be another harrowing ordeal which might come complementary with a head trauma injury or two. But no, miraculously we chug(didi)d into Zugdidi without any major train incidents. Well, unless you count Thomas walking in on an old lady using the toilet, or sparks raining down from the overhead lines while we were broken down on the tracks of course (quite safe, I'm impressed).

    The route mashed on the mashrutka leg was similarly serene, apart from the engine's agonising gasp every time we restarted after a pit stop. But after possibly two thousand train photos from Thomas, only one footprint written by myself (I really need to stop yapping so long on this god damn app😔), and a mild ten hours, we arrived in Mestia, the capital of Georgia's Svaneti region.

    And the result? Our experience of Mestia has really been one of our bestia yet (pun or otherwise). Streets cobbled with ancient stone anchor stoic Svan towers that pop up like medieval meerkats between slate roofs and vegetable patches. But the highlight of our stay wasn't the towers nor even the mountain vistas, it was a gracious grandma called Ijorda.

    Speaking of which, I have made a shocking discovery: almost no-one in this entire country is called George or Georgia. They're not even Geordie (shaking in disbelief rn, expect to see them on Rogue Traders soon).

    Still, granny's name was close enough, and without so much as a word of English, she waved us through the weathered gates of her home and into the mismatched chairs of her front room. What followed was somewhere between a dinner and a culinary ambush.

    Plate after plate arrived, all homemade, homegrown and dished out with the unrelenting generosity of someone who clearly viewed being 'full' as a personal insult. There were eggs: boiled, fried, and quite possibly reincarnated given the clucking from beneath the floorboards; there was Plov so greasy it stood a good chance at getting a Soviet tractor rolling again; and there was Chacha, a hard spirit so strong that I felt a coma coming on with every sip.

    Communication was a charming mix of gesturing, nodding and mime. Ijorda would watch us for almost every mouthful, pointing us towards each plate we'd yet to try. We'd nod enthusiastically, and then she'd respond by bringing over an entirely new dish! Still, she was a real sweetheart and it was a pleasure to feel the warmth of her heart and hospitality.

    The next day, still nauseous from overeating, we waddled out of the guesthouse and left for our trek to Ushguli with an attempted hug (but Ijorda wasn't having any of it). With extra saucy views in mind, we decided to take an alternative route, up the chairlift then cable car up to the Zuruldi range, and along a panoramic ridge trail to the Ughviri Pass.

    A cast of ice encrusted peaks shimmered on the horizon, while the warm air buzzed with the clicks and chirps of all sorts of vibrant insects. I'll spare you the gritty hiking details, those are what the following footprints are for, but one moment does deserve a special mention: Chris Rea reared his ugly, festive head.

    As we unwound by an algae stricken lake with a game of cards and aching heels, 'driving home for Christmas' played on repeat from a nearby family barbecue (!?) in the 30°C July heat and in a Georgian paddock no less.

    Maybe they recognised me as gingerandbankrupt tbf, but today isn't my birthday, just another resurrection.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    11

    Death, Taxes And Soviet Sunburn

    25 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C

    Ah, fuck.

    I've only gone and done it again. At this point, maybe being burnt will become one of those quirky little tidbits about my character, a bit like how I always make tea milk-first or know pi to 28 digits.

    It's not my fault ok!! I can't help that I have the skin of a naked mole rat, and the common sense of a slightly sluttily dressed mole rat. It was literally cloudy! I only took my shirt off for 5 minutes (blatant lie). If it makes it any better, yes, I feel very ashamed. I'll drink whatever aloe vera goo my mum tells me to and brush my teeth with 100 SPF suncream for at least a month, promise.

    More to the point, today we did an uphill thing. Stepping out from Stepantsminda, we ascended over 1100 m through lush, alpine meadows, heaving our heavy limbs over tuft after tuft of matted grass. Cows lounged lazily on the terraces, wildflowers swayed cheerfully in the breeze and our lungs drew crisp air deep into our bronchioles.

    After 45 minutes of wheezing and legs seizing, we reached Gergeti Trinity Church, where the views were so good I might've developed a mild God complex (although it could've just been self awareness finally kicking in on my regular ego tbf). Then I saw the road that literally takes you straight to the front door. Perfect. And so, as we perched on a wall, dripping with sweat and gasping for oxygen, gaggles of Asian tourists flooded off air-conditioned buses, demanding that we move from the recovery position so they could poke Thomas with selfie sticks and pose with the view like Angelina Ballerina (also made funnier by the fact that, for a brief moment, Thomas genuinely thought they wanted a photo with him.)

    Lots of elevation gain and even more lots of burning later, the ridgeline views opened up over the ominous grin of the Caucasus: a snarl of chasms yawning wide, sawtooth shards gnashing skyward, and glacial saliva drooling down to the valley floor.

    We'd hoped to reach the towering icy walls of the Gergeti glacier, but with menacing clouds shrouding the elusive summit of Mount Kazbeg, we stopped at the panorama cafe, where to continue a theme, I sourced 90% of my calories through beer.

    Still, we'd come within four miles of Russia (and a likely prison cell), hammered our chopstick legs, and climbed most of the way up a 5054 m mountain, which being the fifth highest in all of Europe, stands taller than Mont Blanc. The four greater peaks all await us on the next leg of our trip, and I can already hear the final boss music mounting in the distance.

    In the final action of the day, we shot back in a mashrutka, where I somehow convinced the driver to stop at the Gudauri panorama, a colourful concrete mural overhanging the rift and plastered with mosaics depicting heroic moustaches and poorly proportioned horses celebrating Russian 'friendship'.

    Then in Tbilisi, we finally made our obligatory culture visit to McDonald's, where I had something which called itself a 'Grimace shake with cream'. It was around then the burn started to pang. Fitting really. I grimaced, shook my fist, then applied moisturising cream.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    Crossing the 'bridge'
    Ft. Deadly venemous viperTop Gear: Georgia Special??

    Goorgeous Georgians 💅

    24 июля, Грузия ⋅ ☀️ 16 °C

    Are Georgians gorgeous? I don't know, but our first impressions were that they were certainly rude. Not French rude admittedly, but definitely in a blunt, Slavic, straight to grunts and giving-evils kind of way. More on that later, but more importantly, back to my pun. Georgia does have some of its own Horrible Histories too, and I'm not talking about the Born 2 Rule song.

    No, Georgia's version is much less of a musical number, featuring two Russian-backed separatist states, Abkhazia and South Ossetia, as the fallout of the 2008 war with their noisy neighbours from the North. Russia rolled in the heavies over five days, laying waste to large parts of Northern Georgia. Most of the world still sees the breakaway regions as Georgian territory, but Russia basically said 'New phone, who dis?' and still refuses to save any contacts, like that one friend we all have who never knows if they're texting their mum or the local pizza delivery.

    But before I turn this into a deep dive on regional geopolitics, let's talk about the battles we had to face. Namely, a twelve hour journey across the rugged, semi-arid plateaus of Armenia, a place so empty I almost confused it with the state of my phone notifications (not counting Subway Surfers obviously).

    This first leg was easy enough, as we squeezed into a mashrutka to Tbilisi, one of the charming Soviet death traps disguised as public transport. On the journey, we stopped only to bag some outrageously cheap sesame-breaded dates and met Peter, a Slovak who looked like if Martin Skrtel had traded Premier League red cards for being bitten by dogs in India.

    Upon first impressions, Tbilisi seemed like a delightful and westernised city, lined with cobbled streets and ornate balconies. Don't be fooled though, one metro ride later from sorting SIM cards and cash with a woman who probably hadn't smiled since the collapse of the Soviet Union, and we were back in the thick of it. Shacks were jumbled together with corrugated iron, road crossings seemed to be for decorative purposes only, and stray dogs paraded around like elected officials.

    With all the seats on our following mashrutka seemingly sold out, this is where the real fun began. Rather than simply driving off, the driver, who had all the likeability of a wet ash tray, saw it as the perfect opportunity to chain-smoke 43 cigarettes, each one lit from the last, leaving us all to cook like unloved hotdogs in the back of the van.

    I had no clue what was going on. People were laughing and arguing at the same time; one man, apparently their ringleader, waved around a sweaty wad of cash like he was investing in the FTSE 100; and the woman to my left looked at me with the disdain I usually reserve for war criminals and people who clap when planes land.

    Things hardly improved when we did get going. I can only assume that the driver never really loved his wife or children all that much, as he took us hurtling along the roads like an unpaid stuntman. We tore round hairpin bends with enough force that my seat repeatedly folded up into the woman who already despised me in one direction, then snapped back the other way to almost eject me through the door, which for reasons I'll never know, stayed open almost the entire time.

    Still, after a few painful butt cheeks and a few more painful hours, we finally arrived in Stepantsminda.

    The next day was a much more tame affair. Thomas pulled up his freaky toe socks, and we descended on the town, picking up some unidentifiable fruit on our way to trek the Truso valley.

    The valley itself was beautiful. Vast expanses of open plains were ringed with jagged peaks and dotted with rust-red mineral springs. These fed sulfur pools that bubbled and spewed with the pungent tang of rotten eggs, before spilling into the torrenting river which ripped through the landscape.

    The path up the valley took us to the crumbling remnants of a men's monastery, only a kilometre from the women's nunnery (sneaky links definitely went down between the two back in the day, come on now). We also stopped briefly at a lonely hut, where the angelic harmonies of a group of girls had me thinking that Georgia might just have a dark horse entry for Eurovision next year.

    We trudged until we could trudge no further, eventually reaching the barbed wire gates of the South Ossetian border, manned by a group of armed soldiers, who must have seen far too many idiots with backpacks confuse their geopolitical frontline for just another scenic hike.

    That's a wrap for now. Tune in tomorrow where the Horrible Histories theme could continue with Stupid Deaths if things go wrong (hope next time it's not you.)    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    112

    Everybody Loves JJmond

    22 июля, Армения ⋅ ☀️ 35 °C

    If yesterday's post wasn't enough to prove we've officially gone feral, then buckle up. Today we accidentally trod on a cat, hurled rosehips at each other's heads, and got adopted by a couple called Papa Gagik and Mama Garin.

    Our Armenian culture crawl started out strong, first stopping at Charents' Arch, a striking stone gateway with views out to, uhh, nothing. The arch is supposed to frame Mount Ararat in all its patriotic whimsy, but instead it framed a dense milky fog and my mis-shapen head.

    Feeling suitably enlightened by the great white void, we hopped back in the van, tuning in and out of the mutterings of our tour guide, Varga, who freestyled facts all the way to Geghard Monastery, dropping bars of trivia like he was about to go head to head with Eminem. Having felt like I'd just downloaded the entirety of Armenian wiki straight to my head, I stumbled out of the van feeling like a corrupted USB stick.
    Luckily, Geghard was worth every megabyte.

    It was an atmospheric, shadowy monastery half-built into knobbly cliffs, and surrounded by sweeping valleys and gorges. Between gawping at the backdrop and the tragic state of a Soviet-era Lada, we lost our tour group, instead finding our way to one of the monastery's echoing cave-chapels, where the ceiling spotlight had me starting to feel all funky and monk-y. The acoustics transformed the noise I make when my dentist tells me to 'open wide' into a half-sacred, half-demonic ambience. Still, without Varga, there was a creeping sense that we were missing something educational.

    Between discussing the most memorable times I'd ever wet myself, the next stop took us to the dramatically named Symphony of Stones, a gorge brimming with hexagonal basalt columns that looked like Mother Nature was going through an intense Lego phase. Then at last, we gandered Garni temple, a Greco-Roman colonnaded oddity perched above the fractured gorge, where we squinted into the sun and posed like philosophers after asking yet another meaningless question.

    At the end of the tour, we were delighted with a Lavash making demonstration, a cultural insight into the ancient Armenian art of bread making. It works whereby two elderly women emerge, faces dusted with flour and aprons rolled up in fury, only to slap each other silly with dough until one of them yields, or the bread finally gives in and agrees to be Lavash.

    Following the tour, our day took a stark turn from slapstick to sobering at the Armenian Genocide Museum and Memorial. An eternal flame burns in memory of 1.5 million Armenians who were massacred by the Ottoman Empire in 1915. Sombre but dignified, it was an important stop, albeit a difficult thing to write about. It honestly hit harder than expected.

    Speaking of tone shifts, we then had to endure our taxi driver cat-calling girls straight outta the museum, crazy huh.

    And after gobbling up yet more Soviet stamps and badges at the market, our evening concluded by goofing about on electric pedalos, peaking into the cathartic cathedral, and a munching a meal at a restaurant called Burger Queen (who knew his majesty was married!?)

    The next morning, we were seen off by Papa Gagik and Mama Garin, our hotel hosts turned guardians. You don't meet these two, you are adopted by them. Papa ambushed us with a bear-hug, Mama force fed us strawberry cake, and somewhere between the warm cheek-kisses, we realised we hadn't just stayed at a guesthouse, but in a chaotic and affectionate Armenian sitcom, an unaired pilot of Everybody Loves JJmond.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    11

    Armenian Psycho

    21 июля, Армения ⋅ ☀️ 37 °C

    'Impressive. Very nice. Now let's see Paul Allen's boarding pass. Look at that subtle off-white colouring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my god, it even has an airline watermark...'

    Unfortunately, mine did not. No, mine looked like someone had printed a Tesco receipt on tissue paper. I spent the entire flight to Yerevan clutching my pass, trying not to tear it into a thousand tiny pieces in case I needed it at the border.

    We finally arrived in the Armenian capital at 03:30 am, bone-tired and beat, but emerged out of passport control to find an airport that was suspiciously lively. Fleets of sports teams came parading past in matching tracksuits, while many waiting behind barriers clutched armfuls of flowers, and actual celebrations were erupting outside. Locals danced in the car park, while traditional music blared and fireworks were popping in rhythmic bursts. Who knows what they were celebrating, maybe it was a returning relative, or the national team winning the yo-yo world championship (or something equally bizarre), or then maybe it was just the fact it was Monday (I, too, shake with excitement before work). But it felt like we were arriving somewhere vibrant.

    Once we'd got our heads around the latest squiggles, having gone from Latin to Greek to Cyrillic to Ayuben alphabets in quick succession, and without sleep or a plan, we decided to head for sunrise.

    Transport in the Slavic world means one thing and one thing only: Yandex is love and Yandex is life. If you're not familiar, let me fill you in. Yandex Go is the closest thing humanity has ever come to teleportation. You need only tap a yellow button and within seconds you've summoned a battered wreck of a car, usually missing a wing mirror or two, and probably piloted by a stern man named Anatoly, who definitely doesn't speak a word of English. And the best bit: the ride will only cost you 88p, although admittedly that won't include the cost of therapy you'll need from speeding scares, illegal U-turns, and the near-death experience of overtakes.

    And so, rekindling our love affair with Yandex, we headed south to Khor Virap, a monastery perched near the Turkish, Iranian and Azerbaijani borders. The journey there took us from witnessing storks nesting upon telegraph poles to seeking out the silhouette of Ararat through the morning haze. And then there it was.

    Biblical and towering. Drenched in golden light, as though basted by the heavens and anointed on the horizon. Despite technically being located in Turkey, Mount Ararat is the spiritual heart of Armenia, a symbol of national identity and longing, said to be the resting place of Noah's ark. The 5,165 m volcano, and his friend little Ararat can be seen like lone sentinels over the otherwise arid and featureless land. And while seen from Yerevan, they can no longer be touched. Let's just say that Turkey and Armenia aren't exactly the best of friends.

    Soaking in the light of dawn, we sat and watched the orange shades unfold upon many nations, and reflected to ourselves in a peaceful state of meditation, joined by our stray but four-pawed friends.

    We were alone for some many hours before a local man appeared, and after a bit of broken conversation and gesturing, he kissed us both on the forehead! Sounds bizarre, and maybe it was, but it meant more than that. As we understood it, he was from Nagorno-Karabakh, a region of bitter territorial conflict and ethnic violence. He was a refugee, he had lost his homeland. Let's just say that Azerbaijan and Armenia aren't exactly the best of friends either.

    With our zombified state beginning to kick in, we zoomed around the monastery, where Thomas briefly got stuck in a dungeon (no, really), eventually making an escape to check into our hotel in Yerevan. A doze or two later allowed us to recollect our strength, and we set back out to explore the capital in all its charm and grit.

    First stop, Vernissage market. Now I LOVE a good market, but a market selling Soviet-era memorabilia!? Take my money, I tell you!! I'm rubbing my hands together here just thinking about the damn thing. 🤤🤤 Part flea market, part open-air museum, the air buzzed with the murmur of bargaining, and everything was for sale, from dusty typewriters to antique relics, intricate scarves to six hundred identical chess sets, and even shirts with the minions on (or in this case, the Arminions). Giddy and euphoric, I lapped up as many Soviet pin badges as I could plant my hands on for my now eclectic collection (gimme that shit), before I skipped the whole way home.

    Elsewhere, café terraces blended harmoniously with soviet blocks and we sampled the many squares of the centre, from Republic to Aznavour (🤞) to Freedom. After pausing for dinner, where Thomas chowed down on a plate of parsley and I clinked a Kilikia beer, we ended the day with an ascent of the Cascade Complex, the vast limestone staircase to nowhere, with glowing views overlooking the city's sprawl. Undeterred by the stirring clouds, we got absolutely soaked. Water dripping from our noses, it was time to call it a day (much like I need to with this entry, dear god.)

    We'd barely arrived, and already Armenia had given us so much. Mostly soaked clothes, sleep deprivation and forehead kisses to be fair.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus

    Thomas Pretends To Go To Another Country

    20 июля, Греция ⋅ ☀️ 30 °C

    Yes, this footprint is entirely so Thomas can statpad his profile. He still treats travelling like FIFA career mode bless him (except with flag emojis, not wonderkids.)

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus
    3

    Ve'Nice Try, Officer

    20 июля, Италия ⋅ ⛅ 30 °C

    Very nice. Verynice. Veynice. Ve'nice.

    You've heard of Venice. It's that place with the canals, gondolas, and 1,000 tourists per pigeon. The streets are made of water, the back alleys are crafted from romance, and the people are made out of super mario, mozzarella and, well, money. Or at least that's what I assume when they're charging 8,50€ per ice cream (low-key worth it).

    The whole city might be sinking, but it's kept afloat by teary-eyed marriage proposals and a big shiny UNESCO sticker (so I wouldn't worry.)

    Arriving into Marco Polo airport at 2:30 am, we were keen to rest our senses, especially given that we'd already pledged ourselves to sleeplessness the following night. And so, after the sleep equivalent of being walloped over the head with a teapot, we set out to explore the peeling pastel walls of the crumbling palazzos.

    The splish of the ferry saw us glide over the glistening lagoon to Guglie station. From there, we took a googly-eyed gander past garish memorabilia, where we gawped at the Murano glass and glittery Venetian masks, keeping conscious to steer clear of any Polizia in case they might ask how we 'forgot' to pay the city access fee. Still, we perused: past the Rialto bridge, from piazza to piazza, behind the Bridge of Sighs and into a maze of backstreets.

    Thomas, war-weary and suffering under the heat, asked if we might take a minute to sit by the Basilica. Our clammy buttocks had barely grazed the ground when a city warden had smelt our weakness from three canals over. 'You'ra not-a-llowed to sitta,' she demanded. We rolled our eyes at first, pretending not to understand. 'So what?' we thought, it's just sitting. But little did we know that we'd just picked a fight with the most persistent woman north of the Med. 'You'ra not-a-llowed to sitta,' she seethed again, gesturing more violently with each subsequent repetition. Whether out of sense or impending arrest, we took back to our feet before she could reach for the pepper spray and fled back to the airport. Justice damn well served, two tired fugitives foiled by the sit-down police, someone give that woman a medal.

    Yes, you really just read a paragraph about me getting up from sitting down btw, not sure if you noticed. A literary pinnacle, I know. Anyway, yadda yadda, guzzled my first ever Aperol spritz, and soon we were back at the airport, lathered in sweat and having eatza'd some pizza. I was even rewarded handsomely for stuffing all my pants into a water bottle to meet the baggage allowance (don't ask) as the plane served actual food! The apple juice was glowing like Chernobyl, but we drank it anyway (it was Ve'nice.)    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Raucous in the Caucasus

    A Twirl Too Far

    19 июля, Англия ⋅ ☁️ 23 °C

    It began, as many great catastrophes do, in Bournemouth Airport.

    'I'm not sure I should come,' Thomas said, for no less than the fourth time, somewhere between WH Smith and Gate 5.

    He'd already pulled the plug earlier that day, sending over a weary message that began with 'I'm sorry, I just don't think I'm physically up to coming away. I'm going back to bed' and ended with me solemnly nodding at my phone, like a soldier accepting a solo mission into the Armenian unknown, armed with nothing but a RyanAir boarding pass and questionable emotional stability. I'd already begun mourning the death of our joint itinerary, browsing bookings for one, and mentally preparing to eat pasta alone in Venice like a forgotten extra in a Channel 4 romcom, when all of a sudden, we were back on.

    It was then that Chris, in all his handsomeness, came gallivanting through the streets of Saxonhurst like a knight late to a siege, mounting the Insignia with equal parts heroic urgency and unnecessary flourish (though most importantly, donning his sickly son.)

    Thomas was to go to the ball after all.

    At the airport, it became apparent that we were two men in the mental trenches, albeit for very different reasons. And with Thomas battling the chronic-fatigue fallout of a recent run-in with shingles on top of that, I was quietly wondering if this trip might still collapse before it even left the tarmac. With the man flakier than a Lidl croissant that's been left out overnight, I half expected him to dart away back to his bed if ever I turned my back for a second, leaving me to rejig my poorly arranged backpack over a £7.89 airport pint on my lonesome.

    But against all odds, flight delays and medical advice, including the shop attendant refusing to give me my free compensatory Twirl for the delay, we waited out our boarding call. I climbed the steps into economy class, snackless and weary, while Thomas shuffled on further back, like a man who knew joy once, briefly, and in 2007.

    Next stop: Venice.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник

    London

    26 апреля, Англия ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C

    Dude next to me on the flight was absolutely cracked at sudoku. London is a hell hole get me outta here.

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник
    1TORTLE

    Meteora

    22 апреля, Греция ⋅ ☀️ 21 °C

    Meteora is everything you dream it to be and more; 24 monasteries perch proudly, precariously, impossibly atop colossal pillars of rock which surge skyward as if carved by the hands of the gods. These 14th century refuges cling to the cliffs like eagles' nests, suspended between earth and the heavens. Painstaking staircases chiselled into the crags speak of the monks who once hauled their world skyward by rope and faith. Their life's work overhangs the mind-boggling rift into the plains of Thessaly, supported only by the absurdist sandstone spires upon which they are mounted (yes, sandstone btw!!!).

    Mist curls around their weathered walls at dawn, and the golden light of sunset bathes the stone in a holy glow, casting long shadows over the silent valleys where tortoises roam free and unhurried, tracing ancient paths through sunbaked earth and wild scrub. Their shells mottled like the stones upon which they wander, they are keepers of time, time which drifts like the wind through the ravines, reverent and eternal.

    ...It was alright I guess.

    Ok great, now that I've got my English creative writing GCSE out the way, I can continue writing more garbage. Had a blast and a half exploring the monasteries, taking Meteora's meaty aura in my stride, flashing my erotic knees at some naughty nuns too. I think they promptly cast a curse on me though (or is that witches?), as I stepped right on a snake shortly after! I've come close to this disaster many times before, but it was a horrifying first to step ON a snake, its tail wrapping and writhing as we both floundered in an adrenaline-fuelled frenzy. But not to worry, I sucked the venom from my fang shaped wounds, bit the cheeky fucker back and was soon back on my way*.

    Honestly, there's too much else to cover from Meteora and Kalabaka, but I hope that gives you a good taste! Other highlights include: witnessing the slow setting sun with a few beers with hostel girls Manon, Sara and Frederica, greedying myself on Greek food: Souvlaki, Moussaka, Tzatziki (you name it), witnessing a flaming feud between two Greeks over spilled coffee in the coach station, and meeting chill asf German trekkers Nora and Hannah en route to Athens.

    Thanks again for tuning in, same time again tomorrow?

    *The snake did not actually bite me mum calm down (everyone else you can all put your party poppers away. 😤)    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник

    Thessaloniki

    20 апреля, Греция ⋅ ⛅ 23 °C

    Country #40: Grease, the musical.

    9 days into the trip and the punchline finally makes some sense (maybe)! I even had some time to celebrate; I swirled my tongue in the Aegean, I exchanged a naughty high five with Aristotle, I even wished Happy Easter to my plate of feta cheese.

    Rewind to the morning though and it was a case of manning the action stations. I'd booked a coach from Blagoevgrad to Thessaloniki for 08:40, with the full knowledge that I had no way of getting there from Bansko by public transport (1hr away) before the planned departure time. Why did I do that? No idea, but I did. I knew there were no buses, certainly no trains.

    Hitchhiking it was to be then, and I set out my stall at a petrol station's corner, bracing my friendliest expression and adorning my carefully inscribed cardboard sign. Slight hiccup - it's 7 am on Easter morning, where are all the cars? It's almost like everyone's still sleeping...

    It was around then that I met Ellie, a digital nomad / journalist from Devon who had been living in Bulgaria of all places. By stroke of pure luck, it turned out she also needed to get to Blagoevgrad station, and soon. Perfect then, and we teamed up to try and flag down the sporadically populated road. Persisting for as long as time permitted, we eventually caved, splitting the cost of a taxi then the joy of some anecdotes. I came to learn a few interesting things - that despite not speaking any Bulgarian, she'd been living in Bansko since covid, had bought her house there for £22,000 (!), travelled to ~70 countries, and that there was actually a sizeable English speaking community in the area. Who'd have thunk! And lucky though it was, once we parted ways at the station a small part of me wanted to shake its fist at the universe for failing to fulfill my hitchhiking prophecies.

    Thessaloniki is a bustling metropolis. Towering apartment blocks cast comforting shadows over aggressive, wide boulevards. Away from the cars, never have I seen such a large city be quite so dead. With church services presumably concluded and workers liberated for Easter, I can only tell you that Greeks must love a nap (me too tbf).

    Night!    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник
    141

    Bansko

    19 апреля, Болгария ⋅ ☁️ 15 °C

    Let's play a game! I call it 'don't wake the hibernating bear'. *Losers may be eaten (bears are very hungry in April).

    You won't ever see a bear really, not unless you're bushwacking on the northern slopes of the Pirins, says ChatGPT. Except oh, that's exactly what I was doing. Okay, spoilers here, I didn't die and no, I didn't see a bear, but I did stumble across an eery abandoned hut via a forlorn forest footpath. From my ankles tasting the shrill cold of the thick snow breaching my boots in one direction, I decided to hedge my bets on the other, la-dee-da-ing my way up a forgotten path which was littered with obstructing tree trunks and an explosion of springtime vegetation, including the first suggestion of bluebells emerging through the lingering ice.

    Sunlight spattered through the pine sprigs and birds chirped in the distance until I emerged into a deathly quiet clearing, where I was faced by a huge and haphazard hut, decaying in its state of abandonment. I was tempted to entertain my curiosity and even stuck my big crooked nose through a few shattered windows, but I soon heard something unsettling - rumbling, glass smashing. Oh hell no, I thought, fuck this. I legged it.

    The remaining day was at the pace of a trot and a canter; I'd eaten strudel at a sleepy café, I basked in the sun with a beer at the mountain hut, I read from my hotel balcony as the evening grew long. Oh, apart from a nerve wracking few minutes in the cable car. The power stalled for a good while, leaving me there hanging in the crosswind, agonising at the graffitied doors of the car and the hypothetical distance to plummet downwards. Needless to say, it was fine (only a little bit of pee came out.)

    I arrived in Bansko late last night and was greeted by the friendly hotel owner who was keen to warn me that I'd arrived in the town's low season. Fretful though he was, I've really enjoyed that matter. It's been nice to appreciate the place without jostling with other English natives.

    That's all folks.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник
    Ancient theatre
    1333

    Plovdiv

    18 апреля, Болгария ⋅ ☀️ 19 °C

    Plovdiv is home to a cobbled old town, leafy parks with singing fountains and pastel coloured buildings which crest the longest pedestrian street in Europe. Most interestingly though, the city is one of the longest continually inhabited places on the continent and is built upon the ruins of an ancient Roman stadium, Philoppopolis. As a result, the grand columns have been excavated in chunks all over the place, including apparently in half of the dining room of the hostel I stayed at (a delightful little place btw.)

    There's also some fun backstory to the Alyosha monument which dominates the skyline; a tribute to the soldiers of the Red Army, and for which Plovdiv has tried (and failed) to have removed on several occasions. It needed only one opportunity to get rid of me though, and after a dandy visit I was back on the road, or in this case, the tracks.

    One of the many joys of travelling the Balkans is bearing witness to its broken transport culture. Take this train for example, didn't leave for 30 minutes after it was meant to (after all, the driver needs time for good smoke first, that's unavoidable!) We did eventually get moving though, even if the carriage shook like a maniac when working up to its max speed (i.e. jogging pace). I'm slightly surprised to have actually ended up in Bansko after 4h30, we didn't even derail once :( Check out the last pic for a chuckle at the route it took.

    JJ out.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник

    Rila

    17 апреля, Болгария ⋅ ☁️ 20 °C

    Spent too long writing the last two days so for this one I'll keep it realer/Rila (shut up okay).

    Rila is the site of the largest monastery on the Balkan peninsula, the crux of Bulgaria's largest religion: Eastern Orthodox Christianity. I had planned to combine a visit here with hiking the seven lakes, the emerald alpine lakes of the Pirin mountains. But after the tour I'd booked called it quits over excessive snow cover, I had to change it up. So instead I shared a taxi with two American girls, Emily and Davey, and Bristolian boys, Kieran and Johnny from the hostel. Two taxi hours shot by as I learnt way more about Berlin threesomes than frankly I bargained for, though I do have a fun fact for you: Kieran holds the world record for losing a game of countdown by largest ever margin.. so I've officially met the world's best celebrity, it's only downhill from here🔥🔥

    The monastery itself was massive, but being tucked away in the nooks between the mountains, had a calming air of tranquility. And although forbidden to photograph, the internals were a sight to behold too, glimmering in gold and punctuated by rich tapestries of religious imagery.

    A mere £4.30 train trip later from returning to Sofia, and I was plodding in Plovdiv, where I devoured a sensational £2 burger from a kebab shop, and decided it'd be great character building to ascend the endless stairs of the Alyosha monument at 11 pm at night. Could've been sketch, but sadly I survived to see the panoramic views from the top, where there were only a few doggers. Result!    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник
    3Oh to be a Bulgarian man playing backgammon / Jessops the camera shop (Bulgarian version)

    Sofia & Vitosha

    16 апреля, Болгария ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C

    Started the day bright-eyed and tail-aloft, as I catapulted my way up to Aleko Hut (not really, that would be ridiculous).

    The objective of the morning was to give it a good crack at Cherni Vrah, the tallest peak in Vitosha. Now, April is an awkward time for mountains in the Bulgarian calendar. Not quite ski season, but not quite hiking season either. But to hell with it, I thought, and I bulldozed up the slopes (steepness might be lost in the photos). Of the 550 m ascent, I must've made 200 m before my legs started caving through the metres-thick layer of melting snow, disappearing into unfathomable caverns and oxford-county council severity potholes. My decision to turn back was confounded by the fact I forgot to bring suncream and sunglasses even with the glare (can you believe it, I really never learn!)

    So I scooted back down to the hut; I believe the technical term is glissading, except I used my bum rather than an ice axe, so you know... close enough. I did what any defeated man would - drown my sorrows with traditional chicken soup and a beer in the mountain hut before running away to go and haggle with old men over soviet badges (hell yea).

    THE landmark of Sofia is the Alexander Nevsky cathedral, an awe-striking icon with golden domes and intricate guildings. But outside the cattedrale, there were all sorts of flamboyant trinkets, relics and gizmos for sale, including swastika clad bits and bobs from the Nazi-era (?!), and soviet badges (my kryptonite).

    This leads flawlessly into the 'communist walking tour' I then then joined with guide Dino around the city. A touchy subject in Bulgaria it seems, but honestly super interesting to learn about. I'll spare the gory details because I'm afraid one of you reading is a soviet informant but during the walk I met three young gals, Matilda, Anna and Charlotte, from Oxfordshire of all bloody places! After the tour, they invited me out for a gyals' night with some dinner and drinks, where we clinked cocktails and sadly didn't get pedicures (or any photos?)

    Fun day! The end.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник

    Boyana

    15 апреля, Болгария ⋅ ☁️ 11 °C

    Country #39: Bulge Area.

    Something about soviet era concrete and the Cyrillic alphabet just scratches this weird itch in my brain, so stepping out from the airport into the dreary Bulgarian day really got my dopamine receptors firing.

    Skipping the evening of arrival because that's boring but Boy(ana), writing this has made me realise I've really not been taking many pics, but y'know, living in the moment and all that.

    With a fresh day I immediately channelled my inner artsy girl by gobbling breakfast (a delish acai bowl and latte) at a swanky cafe. Quickly navigated the tekky tram system (LOVE the trams fyi) over to Vitosha, a mountainous area straddling the city and home to bears, boars and wolves.

    First though, I stuck my weirdly shaped head round the door of Boyana Church, significant for boasting medieval frescoes from as early as the 10th century; its stylistic depictions a bastion of insight into a time otherwise lost to the dusts of time. Armed with my newly found culture, I stomped my merry way up through eery woodland to Boyana Waterfall, its cascades shrouded in spray and mist. Encounters with stray dogs and deer aside, it was a gentle descent upon the city where I found this gem of a shack to sink some lunch.

    Following that, the afternoon was spent perusing the museum of Bulgarian history, situated in an impressive soviet era building nestled next to the president's residency. The museum was really interesting, albeit had some glaring omissions. The exhibits were conveniently... vague about certain aspects of Bulgaria's involvement with the axis powers in WW2, and completely 'forgot' to include anything at all from the communist regime. 👀👀

    Not sus at all guys! 👍    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • JJ WeeksAegean GreecefullyПутешественник

    Liverpool

    13 апреля, Англия ⋅ ☁️ 10 °C

    Ah yes, the famous Aegean city of ... Liverpool.

    Can I have a c''an uh c''oke un s'um c''hic''ken lad.

    It's a funny old city. Some parts are straight out of some mega city, but turn a corner and it's not hard to find the run down terraces. Started the day on the suicide (... sorry, Merseyside!) by integrating into northern culture with not one, but two Gregg's. Perused the docks, and took a gander at the museum of Liverpool where I was surprised to see how keen the exhibits were to highlight just how deprived this part of the country really is.

    Anyhow, tried out my sea legs with a boat tour, said hello to John, Ringo, Paul and other one, then jollied up in a pub to witness the 'pool squeeze a typical shoddy victory vs West Ham. Ran some pre-trip errands, gandered some markets, then rounded off with a gawp at the largest cattedrale in England (it's mahoosive!)

    The culture is so football-centric up here it's wild.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Morocco
    1

    Day 8: STRAWBERRIES AND ENGLAND

    11 февраля, Англия ⋅ ☁️ 4 °C

    ENGLAND AND CREAM. CREAMY OLD ENGLAND. ENGLAAAAND!! CREAMMM!!

    Back in gloomy old blighty. Enjoyed a final day haggling at the souk, then negotiating the airports, where John fell asleep cuddling his pizza box. Nice!

    The End. Bye.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Morocco
    1

    Day 7: Taghazout & Souss-Massa

    10 февраля, Марокко ⋅ ☀️ 24 °C

    We were raring to go and raced straight to the bus to pick up our rental car in Agadir at the crack of dawn. Richard was immediately dunked in at the deep end, having to get to grips with a gammy clutch in the mayhem of Morocco's rush hour.

    But we made haste towards Souss-Massa, where we enjoyed a splendid tour of the national park, spotting countless Ostriches, Addax and Dorkus (as in, both John and the gazelles). It's incredible how unbothered they were, simply thriving, in their lanes, nonchalantly loving life and just chilling as we were able to basically wander between them.

    Saying goodbye to our bubbly guide, we were back on the tarmac roads to Tifnit, where we felt the beating heat of the sun and witnessed the crashing of the goliath Atlantic waves under a sail of sand dunes. Next stop was to spot some funky birds (for which I'll be honest, I didn't care to even remember their names, but we did spy some Flamingoes from afar).

    The stop back saw us marvel at the sunset from Oufella, a fine fortress overlooking the sprawling city of Agadir.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Morocco

    Day 6: Taghazout & Paradise Valley

    9 февраля, Марокко ⋅ ☀️ 21 °C

    Took a lazy morning and gobbled up our morning bread and jams at the hostel. Wandered out along the sunny beach to Tamraght, a stretch packed with gnarly surfer dudes🤙😜🤙 The waves were ferocious, but not as ferocious as our chat in the A to Z game.

    Lapped up some ice creams at the end of the beach and made it back to scoot off for our tour to Paradise valley. And what a paradise it was, as John Li sweet talked his way into French mademoiselle Lisa's Instagram following. But amid the romance, we were whisked around a botanical garden, learning great fallacies about lavender and lemongrass alike. Next stop was a viewpoint over the Anti-Atlases, where John's abysmal negotiating over a camel statue effectively earned him an argument. The final stop took us to the valley itself, where we grazed the rock pools and clambered up to a view over a sheer drop into a deep ravine.

    After not too long, it was home time again. We perused the town under skies of purple and red, and discovered a seafront restaurant where the sweet taste of Hawai pineapple drink satiated our dry lips.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Morocco

    Day 5: Taghazout

    8 февраля, Марокко ⋅ ☀️ 17 °C

    Loaded up on another hearty breakfast overlooking the morning mountains where we met fellow guest Matt, a free soul who had plenty to share about visas and trucker life. Said our sad goodbyes to Mustafa and set out on a big journey, first by taxi to Marrakech, then onto Agadir by bus, and a final hop in a Taghazout taxi.

    Got comfy in our room and enjoyed showers for the first time in a couple of days (or since the start of the trip in Richard's case). Then enjoyed some superior non-tajine food in the town. Much of a transition day.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод
  • Morocco
    1
    Spot JohnGoats

    Day 4: Imlil

    7 февраля, Марокко ⋅ ☀️ 9 °C

    Top day in the mountains!

    Mustafa treated us to a bountiful breakfast, fit even for kings. We then spent some time mulling over whether or not to hire a guide and go ham trying to touch Toubkal. In the end we decided to settle for the budget friendly and logistical option, with a luscious hike alone up the other side of the valley. We were treated to some delightful views of the Atlas massif crusted in snow capped glory.

    The ascent was a pure vintage display from us, and we stopped halfway up for some fake Fanta at a well placed café to soak in the scenery. Once we reached the ridge line, we stopped to enjoy some lunch. Yesterday our crisp brand was called 'Chipsy D'Or'; today, it was Leader Chips (with a side of choccy milk). But we pushed on beyond where many hikers called it quits in an attempt to summit Aourirt n'Ouassif. On the onward path, we enjoyed the views out over drops either side of the knife-edge, including a striking sight to the flats. The path at this section was increasing in exposure and Richard's excitement escalated beyond biology (ground squirrels or something??), as he began scrambling frenetically up the rock face. At this point, and an altitude of 2,700m, with John questioning why the hell he's friends with us, we decided it best we turn around. Not quite the tip top, but a bloody lovely day nonetheless.    Читать далее

    Посмотреть перевод

Создайте ваш личный профиль

Бесплатно

QR code

FindPenguins для iOSFindPenguins для Android