This post is pretty boring. They might get better from here.

Airport transfers can be long and boring. Nothing boring about the transfer to flight IT32 from QF6 at Hong Kong. It's a tight crossover, so Roy from Qantas is waiting at the gate as we disembark, to whisk us across the enormous complex via back-alleys, freight elevators, staff-only queues and a train. Best way to avoid waiting at customs? Have less than 60 minutes between your international flights.

That was fun, but the Kingfisher flight itself is impressive - the staff are fantastic and the A330 aircraft is significantly more upmarket than the Qantas 747. The personal touches - a porter to meet you at the taxi and help you check in - make travelling a pleasure. They're probably also part of the reason Kingfisher is in receivership. That, and the anti-competitive nature of the Indian aviation industry.

On the Farm

Chiddes

Burgundy, France

Je suis ici.

I'm hanging out (and doing a bit of help around the place) on a Farm in France – not far from Switzerland. I arrived yesterday afternoon and was greeted at the station by Gilles and Zena, my hosts. They're brilliant. They've got a small business which they run on site restoring (and making) stained glass windows. It's beautiful. There's chickens, dogs, cats, strawberries, beans carrots, radishes, lettuce, flowers and a real live pumpkin patch. The horses died. Some time before I got here, I assume.

My boudoir for the next few weeks is an open barn - more or less under the stars - and I love it. There's no hot tap; showering entails boiling some water, standing on a shipping pallet and pouring water over oneself with an old cooking pot. The place is undergoing a bit of rennovation at the moment, so not everything is hooked up to the main water line. Flushing the toilet involves a trip across the garden to fill up a bucket to pour into the bowl. Fortunately, the lavatory is connected to the sewerline. I think.

And all this French is giving me headspins. But I'm sure it's good for me.

Oh, Think Twice, It's Just Another Day for You and Me in Paradise

Paris

Ile-de-France, France

This post is dedicated to Oscar

This story begins in a supermarket in Monmatre, Paris. Our Hero, escaping the drizzle outside, stands patiently in line at the QuickEat counter. Oh, the choices. What to eat? Une Baguette? Une Croissant? Un Croque Monsieur...?

"J'ai faim, monsieur."

The timid voice comes from a young, inward man of around twenty-five years. He's hungry. But there's a problem. So is Our Hero.

"Mais non, désolé."

But he's not the only one to turn down this Hungry Soul. Will no one stop to give him some spare change? It seems not.

Une Croque Madame? Un... Finally, Our Hero decides upon Pizza-Baguette. Valiantly, he asks for it to be cut in two, and offers one half to the Hungry Soul.

"Non merci. I don't eat crap."

Apparently, beggars can be choosers.

What's the Buzz? Tell Me What's Happening

London

England, UK

Once again, I've outdone myself in the don't-post-for-months-at-a-time stakes. So let's get up to date.

Edinburgh ¦ Scotland, UK

I spent a few weeks in Edinburgh, where the highlight (nay, pretty much everything I did) was the Edinburgh Festival. Now, they call it the Festival - singular - but it's actually a whole collection of festivals crammed into August. There's the original International Festival (think Sydney Festival and Carnivalé). Then, there's also the EFF - the film festival, the EIBF - the book festival, the Mela - a festival of cultures and the Edinburgh Tattoo - a spectacular military to-do of marching bands, horses, dancers, motorcycles and anything else that might look impressive on the forecourt of Edinburgh Castle.

And then there's the grand-daddy of them all, the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. 'Fringe' is a misnomer. This has grown into the main event. It's drama, it's comedy theatre, it's stand-up, it's music, it's experimental, it's impressive. This year there were 2,050 shows to choose from, some of them running every night of the festival (30 nights). Incredible. Of course, with that many shows on, there's going to be some rubbish - it's unavoidable. But there was some brilliant stuff too. Of all the shows I saw, two stand-outs were Chaplin, a one-man show about later-life Charles Chaplin's struggle with his alter-ego Charlie; and Something Blue an all-female clowning show (and we're talking the full-gamut of clowning - comedy, tragedy, physical theatre, mime).

Oh, and if you ever get a chance to go to the Tattoo, do it.

Aberdeen ¦ Scotland, UK

Lake District, Newcastle, Leeds, York, Cambridge, Surrey, Birmingham, Stratford-upon-Avon ¦ England, UK

London ¦ England, UK

I'm back in London now, sitting in a £0.50/hour Internet cafe on Tottenham Court Road. The woman next to me just screamed and jumped up onto her chair. Most likely because of the rat that's running around in here somewhere. I guess you get what you pay for.

It's Summertime But I Still Miss Your Skies So Clear

Edinburgh, Scotland

UK

This, from page 11 of today's Edinburgh Metro:

Scotland was the hottest spot in Britain yesterday – almost eclipsing the country's warmest day of the year. […] Renfrewshire saw the mercury soar with a temperature of 25.4C recorded at 4pm.

Never have I witnessed such frivolous misuse of the word "soar".

I Am Everyday People

Ballintoy, Northern Ireland

UK

I've noticed something about travelling in Ireland. You don't meet any Irish people. Correction: you don't meet any young Irish people. You do, however, meet some real characters amongst the older generations...

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Brendan ¦ Galway, County Galway

My German friend, Marlene, was making a video of her trip. A video diary of sorts. I was interviewing Brendan for the video, just talking to him about life, Guinness, Ireland, the price of Teletubbies DVDs in Dubai - just the usual stuff. As we wrapped up, Marlene asked, "Finally, do you have anything to say to Germany before we go?"

"Well," he began. "I think Germany has a LOT to answer for".

Always a good way to begin a 10-minute diatribe.

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Billy ¦ Anascaul, County Kerry

I met Billy in a pub. He threatened to punch me in the face. Why? He said I was being a smartarse. I was. But honestly, I didn't think he could understand a word I said (I could barely understand him). I later found him asleep in a bar. I think I'm safe.

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Des ¦ Ballintoy, County Antrim

Myself and my new Israeli friend, Guy, travelled to a small town by the name of Ballintoy.

Sitting in a pub one night, we got talking to a thickly-accented Northern Irish bloke named Desmond. He was softly spoken, and difficult to understand, but we had a drink with him. Later, he took Guy for a tour of the town (which included a visit to the world's smallest church and a visit to Des's house for a drink with his wife and kids).

Back at the pub, Des decided to share a little secret with us.

"Don't tell anyone, but, I'm a taxi driver and I'm supposed to be on a job right now, ha ha ha. But I'm drunk."

Ah, the Irish.

Next day, I consulted with Seamus, our hostellier, as to how to get to the train station to make our 9.20am train from Colraine back to Belfast. The problem was that the Irish transport system is so well integrated that the only bus running that morning got us to Colraine at 9.28am.

"Leave it to me," said Seamus. "I know a guy who's kind of an unofficial taxi driver round these parts."

What's his name? Not Des is it?

"Yeah, Des. Ah you can't stay two minutes in this town without meeting Dezzy."

Grrrreat. Anyhow, aside from the fact that he arrived 12 hours early ("Oh, 7.15 in the morning?"), the ride went smoothly, and we made it to Belfast in time for our ferry to Scotland.

When I Close My Eyes, You're Everywhere

Belfast, Northern Ireland

UK

Now, since I've been travelling, I've learnt to sleep through just about anything. Trains, loud music, too-short beds, noisy beds, people eating breakfast, people stepping on me and, of course, snoring.

I'll admit that, from time to time, I snore myself. I'm sure it can't be all that pleasant for those around me, but at the same time if I can have a fairly restful night despite the 10 people snoring (and talking and grinding teeth and whatever else) in a 15-bed dorm, then so can you.

But there comes a point when you just should not sleep in share accommodation, and should also probably seek medical and social help. And possibly a personal bodyguard.

Enter Exhibit A. A small (perhaps a little portly), softly spoken Englishman, asleep on the bed above mine. Almost immediately after everyone (six of us) have gone to bed, this guy begins to rumble, it's fairly soft and a little rhythmic even. Gently does it. Not a problem thinks I, who can sleep through anything.

And then it stops, as quickly as it started. Nice. I start to drift off.

HOLY SHIT WHAT WAS THAT? I'm disoriented as I sit bolt-upright in bed. Did a wall of the hostel collapse? Was a missile launched at the nearby police station? Did I explode?

Alas, all seems fine, so I lie back in bed. That's when I notice that the gentleman above me seems to be struggling to take a breath. When he finally does, the entire bed trembles.

This is honestly the worst snoring I have ever, ever experienced. It was inconsistent, it started and stopped. He struggled and then would all of a sudden let out a giant gasp and an enormous drum-roll of a snort. It was thunderous. It sounded like the guy was dying up there. And no amount of poking or prodding would wake him up. In fact the only thing that disturbed him seemed to he once or twice when his own snoring actually seemed to frighten him.

In the morning, after I'd had maybe three hours discontinuous sleep, he was gone.