During our stay with Kate and Tim, we spent two nights in a fantastic cottage in the Blue Mountains, a couple of hours' drive from Sydney. The cottage was on the outskirts of a town called Katoomba and was a proper rustic getaway, complete with a log fire (which, predictably, the boys loved) and a balcony giving stunning views of the surrounding area, especially at sunset.

Standing on Bell's Beach, staring out over the crushing waves, I waited for the 50-year storm...


Of course, in my mind I had become the legend Patrick Swayze in the film Point Break (as if I had to explain!)

Sarah didn't quite understand my desire to hire a car and drive an hour south of Melbourne to Bell's Beach, so I pretended that it would just be a small pit stop on the way to drive the epic 'Great Ocean Road' round the south coast of Victoria.

When we got there she flatly refused to help me act out the scene, playing Keanu to my Swayze and homo-erotically wrestling with me in the crashing surf. Her loss.

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Having achieved the main objective of the day in visiting Bell's, I relaxed into the drive west along the coast.

It was pretty windy. The Great Ocean Road, running along the coast from Torquay to Warrnambool in South Victoria, was conceived as a make-work scheme for veterans after WW2. You would have thought they would have come up with something a little easier for those guys to do after their ordeal – for the most part the road is hewn out of the brutal cliff-faces that sheer straight down into a ripping sea.

Their hard work paid off though. The road is fantastic. Two lanes of driving nirvana – slick tarmac snaking round red-orange cliffs; turquoise waves below you and clean green headland ahead. It was a lot of fun, even in the pony Hyundai hire car Avis gave us.

The few towns we passed through on the road were petite, pretty and undeservedly empty. Anglesea, Lorne and Apollo Bay all boasted small but perfectly formed beaches in sheltered bays, nice restaurants and coffee shops. Aside from the die-hard surfers, Victorians apparently don't bother with the beaches in the winter, even if its 25 degrees and sunny.

The end of the road for us was the epic Twelve Apostles. Enormous sandstone stacks, sheepish and stranded off the coastline, victims of erosion. Apparently there are only 6 Apostles left, the other 6 having crumbled into the sea, but the survivors we saw were pretty impressive in the setting sun.

Driving back towards Melbourne and our 'unit' in Apollo Bay, we discovered the fantastic radio DJs Hamish and Andy. Very very funny duo, they spent half their show talking over Kylie Minogue who they were meant to be interviewing (which is the equivalent of interviewing the Queen over here), then spent an (unsponsored) hour talking about how mind-blowingly awesome the new Dyson Airblade hand-dryers are. 'Y'know how normally you just end up walking out of the loo wiping your hands on your jeans? Well it actually dries your hands! You walk out with your hands dry!'

On the advice of our Aussie wine expert Tim, Sarah and I booked ourselves onto a day tour of the Yarra Valley vineyards whilst we were in the area.

This is a photo of us feeling very pleased with ourselves at 11am having already visited two wineries and tasted around 12 different wines. It was a good day.

We were picked up by our guide & minibus driver Paul at 9 in St Kilda. It turned out he had lived in Shepherds Bush for a couple of years in the mid-80s so we had a great chat about all things Shebu on the way into town to pick up the rest of the tour.

The rest of the group was, I imagine, fairly typical for this kind of tour – middle class wrinkly couples on holiday, mostly from Sydney. There were however two other young people on the bus – a couple from Auckland. Alarm bells began to gently chime as the girl stepped onto the bus and in one breath announced that the pickup was half an hour late, and that she happened to already be a bit of a wine expert having worked in a winery back home one summer.

Yarra means 'Windy' in the local Aboriginal dialect, aptly named after the windy river that shaped the rolling hills of the region. These hills are responsible for the cool climate of the region, making it perfect for the Pinot Noirs and delicate Chardonnays for which Yarra is famed.

We started off at Yering Station and were led through an introduction to tasting wine by Paul, before an extremely knowledgeable but agreeably down-to-earth guy took us through a series of 6 wines from their vineyards. The kiwi girl began to make her presence known by repeatedly interrupting with a series of inane questions. The group sighed and sipped in unison.

After each guided tasting we were free to further sample any of the wines we liked, or any others from the winery's cellars. Our favourite from Yering Station was their 5 Year Old Tawny – almost a port, it was a pretty bolshy wine to be drinking at half ten in the morning, but somehow we managed.

Next stop was the slick looking Rochford Estate (where the above photo of us was taken). This winery has recently diversified its offering by hosting an upmarket music festival each year. 400 AUD will get you a night of wine, food, and this year bands like The Pretenders and Simply Red. The tasting was fantastic. I particularly enjoyed the 2008 Chardonnay, which I learned was made from a combination of steel and oak aging to give a much more lively wine than you might expect from the grape. From the nature of the kiwi girl's interruptions this time round, it was clear she had hit the bar fairly hard at Yering Station after the first tasting. I began to wonder whether she could keep it up...

We lunched at Rochford in their swish on-site restaurant, overlooking sunny but barren winter vines. Washing my hands in the gents after the meal I discovered the kiwi girl emerging from one of the cubicles. She looked confused and muttered something about poor signage before staggering off. Two more wineries to go.

Yering Farm was the smallest of the the vineyards we visited. They position themselves as a 'boutique' winery, only putting out as much wine each year as they feel meets their high standards – a much lower yield than the more commercial vineyards. Absolutely lovely people, we bought a bottle of their delicious Late Harvest dessert wine to share with Kate and Tim when we arrived in Sydney.

Last but not least – Domain Chandon. The French champagne company established this vineyard here in the late 80s, and single-handedly kicked off the revival of the region ('If the French think this place is worth a crack, let's get in there!' Property prices doubled in as many years). Unfortunately they're not legally allowed to call wine made here champagne (they market it under 'Bubbly' or 'Sparkling'), but the process is exactly the same, right down to the labour-intensive 'riddling' stage where the bottled wine is left in racks for 25 days, and turned by hand daily so that secondary fermentation can create the trademark bubbles.

Being a French-owned winery, obviously the people working there were trained to be as snooty as possible. All wine was served with a sneer. Our kiwi girl didn't notice. At this point her boyfriend had gone to wait in the bus in disgust, leaving her to spill wine over the bar whilst posing increasingly slurred questions to whoever was serving her next drink. She was quite quiet on the way home.

The guy was wearing skinny black jeans that clung to his calves but sagged at the crotch, tied up with a belt that looped below his proudly displayed polka-dot boxers. His jacket was made of blue corduroy, and he wore a small straw pork pie hat atop his artfully messy hairdo. As he walked past us down Collins, he was debating with his equally eclectic friend where they could find the best espresso on Centre Place.

Toto, we're not in Tassie anymore. After a week in the wilderness, the metropolitan delights of Melbourne were both a surprise and a relief - 'There's actually some culture down here!'

Melbourne is often considered to be a more European City and Sydney more an American one. The laid back feel of the place and frightening number of coffee shops certainly bear this theory out (I can understand our hipster friend's espresso dilemma), but wandering around the boutique shops, museums and skyscrapers I found it hard not to think of Melbourne as being like New York, with trams.

Like New York, Melbourne is made up of lots of different little neighbourhoods. We had a great four days strolling around the sandstone civic centre, chic Collins St, edgy Collinwood, arty South Bank and chilled-out beach-side St Kilda. My favourite area was Carlton. Just north of the university campus, it used to be the run-down Italian quarter but has now smoothed out most of its rough edges and is virtually wall to wall with busy cafes, small restaurants and bookshops. A whole afternoon disappeared on us just sitting in the wonderful Tiamo coffee shop.

Also like New York, Melburnians are more than a little fitness-obsessed. On our first day in town we got up early and caught a tram from our hostel in St Kilda into the centre. As we rattled north, we found that the entire population of Melbourne had got up before us and was already hard at work enjoying the winter sunshine – running or cycling in packs, playing footie or strolling around the parks, rowing up and down the river. To top it off, when we arrived at Federation Square there were a couple of hundred happy healthy people being led in a warm up before a half marathon.

So between the active lifestyle, museums, coffee shops, restaurants and seemingly healthy work/life balance, Melbourne ranks pretty high on our 'Liveable City' Index (much to our parents' alarm when we phoned home). In fact the only bad thing about Melbourne was where we were staying. City prices and a ludicrous exchange rate ruled out all reasonable accommodation, so we ended up staying in a hostel above a pub by a main road in St Kilda. Actually, the place wasn't that bad (it was above a pub - handy) but our fellow residents turned out to be some of the most unpleasant we've come across so far: A gang of 18 year old horrors from Northern Ireland, they didn't actually seem to leave the hostel at any point during our stay, preferring to hang out in the halls, gorging themselves on junk food, alcopops and cheap wine then bawling and brawling till 4 in the morning. At one point, one of them brought out a pair of bagpipes – seriously – and marched around the corridors playing until he was told to shut the fuck up.

We wake up bright and early and leave Fawlty Towers and the 'town that time forgot' behind. As we drive out of town, we pass a tourist information board which says “Queenstown is like nowhere else on earth.” They got that about right. It does look pretty from the top of the hill though.

We drive the windy (pretty much every road in Tasmania is windy) Lyell Hwy in the early morning sunshine, wending our way across the countryside.

After a couple of hours drive we arrive at Lake St Clair, the other half of Cradle Mountain National Park. It is so early we interrupt a couple of wallabies breakfasting on the edges of the public area. Despite this, we are still not the first people into the park – another very enthusiastic couple beat us to that title. Second in doesn't seem so bad.

St Clair is usually the finishing point for the Overland track, so a lot of the walks here are a minimum of a day long. Since we have a flight to catch at 5pm, we opted for a few of the shorter walks through the local area, which give great views of the lake. We also take the opportunity to search for platypuses which apparently fish here, but we don't spot any at this time of day.

We continue our journey onwards. The friendly bottle-shop owner we met last night told us to look out for the “Hungry Wombat” for a great lunch, which is situated just after the “mighty Derwent Bridge.” We were expecting great things – what we actually found was a greasy spoon cafe (albeit with delectable-looking cakes) just after a mini-bridge. It barely qualified as a bridge to be honest. However, considering this was also the guy who described Hobart (population 200,000) as “The Big Smoke,” I don't really know why we were surprised.

It being a little early for lunch anyway, we decide to press on to Hobart. And what a good decision it was. The sun was shining as we enjoyed fresh fish with a glass of wine on the Elizabeth St Pier, overlooking the marina. Bliss. If this is an Aussie winter, then bring it on!

After an early start in Launceston, we drove out of town with the morning 'rush hour' (two other cars on the highway) and west to Deloraine through icy valleys full of mist and cows. Strangely sinister.

From Deloraine we left the safety of the main roads and began our windy ascent towards Cradle Mountain. Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park is perhaps the most famous tourist attraction in Tasmania due to the Overland Track – an 80km, 6 day hike south through snowy mountains, moorlands and temperate rainforest – which is regarded as one of the best hikes in the world. We didn't have the time, weather, inclination or fitness for the hike itself, but in our circuit of Tasmania we were able to visit the start and finish of the route.

Cradle Valley is always a couple of degrees colder than the lowlands, so Sarah and I spent a frosty 5 minutes in the Visitors Centre car park, hopping around to keep warm by the boot of the car, putting on all the clothes we had in our backpacks. There are a number of day walks at the Cradle Mountain end of the Overland Track, so we decided to do the 3 hour walk around Dove Lake which sits beneath the park's namesake mountain. It rains 7 days out of 10 in Cradle Valley and is cloudy 8 days in 10, so we were very lucky with the weather, catching a glimpse of the 'baby in a cradle'-shaped summit as it briefly emerged from the clouds.

Back once more on windy roads and refreshed after the bracing mountain air, we drove down deeper into the west coast wilderness. The west of Tasmania is still the most underdeveloped part of the state – the small towns that hunker down into the base of the valleys exist only to serve the mining and logging industries. Strahan (pronounced 'Strawn' for some reason) is the exception, due to its location on the side of the Maquarie Harbour – one of the first harbours and site of the first penal colony in Tasmania. It was discovered by sailors in the 1800s looking for Huon pine – a valuable hardwood – and its relative inaccessibility (both from land and sea, through the treacherous 'Hell's Gates') led to its being used as a penal colony. From 1821 to 1834 (when Port Arthur was founded) prisoners on the tiny Sarah's Island worked 12 hour shifts, logging and working timber outside in the rain and cold.

In the summer Strahan must be a tourist machine, but on a rainy winter's day there's not much going on. We had a hot chocolate in a cafe by the marina, admired a rainbow that had materialised in the rain, then left. As we couldn't do the boat tour to Sarah's Island we drove out to the head to see the Hell's Gates, parking in what must be the most depressing campsite in the world. Standing on the beach, staring across the narrow entrance to the harbour and its churning brown waters you could see how intimidating the sea-route would be for any potential convict escapees. A beautiful sunset distracted us from the fast encrouching tide which snapped at our heels as we retreated to the warmth of the car.

In one final hour of driving, we sped back through Strahan and over a mountain pass (in the dark – more fun driving!) to Queenstown and our hotel. We stayed in 'The Empire,' a formerly decadent, currently decaying vestige of Imperial pretention. Climbing the grand creaking staircase to the first floor you are greeted with a horrifying 6 foot tall painting of Queen Elizabeth. Damp had eaten at the oils and her face seemed to be rotting – a zombie queen. This was all a bit too much for Sarah after our Port Arthur ghost tour, and I had to act as a supernatural bodyguard for the night - escorting her down the darkened corridors on bathroom trips.

We enjoyed a leisurely start with breakfast in the 'unit' now affectionately known as home. We even settled down to watch the Aussie equivalent of This Morning (called The Morning Show here. There's a lot more flirting between the presenters. It's quite disconcerting over your cornflakes).

Today we started our sightseeing at Binalong Bay, the beginning of the Bay of Fires – so-called because when the Europeans first arrived, all they could see were the fires started by the Aboriginals to put them off landing. Needless to say, this strategy didn't work for long. It's a beautiful beach, and at this time of year the waves crash along the shore pretty aggressively.

We started the day's driving proper and headed out towards St Columba Falls, 'allegedly' the tallest falls in Tasmania. No one wants to come out and say definitively it is the highest, just in case there's another one they haven't found yet. It was discovered by a farming couple who trekked across the mountains with their 10 kids just to farm the land here. This dedication clearly paid off, as the descendents lived on the farm for over a century. The falls were beautiful, although James took the instructions about 'closing your eyes and opening your ears' to listen to the water a little too seriously, as you'll see from the picture here.

We were aiming to stop for lunch in Scottsdale, but it turned out to be a bit of a local town for local people, so instead we stopped at the Forest Eco-Centre and had a picnic in the sunshine. I'm still not sure quite what the Eco-Centre was for, despite having been inside, but it looked pretty from the outside and had good picnic benches.

From there we drove on to Launceston, the second biggest town in Tasmania (population 100,000). I am afraid I have little positive to say about Launceston, so I will have to defer to the guidebook, which says it “maintains an unconcerned, big-country-town pace.” I would describe it as a shithole. It was a bit like how I imagine going on holiday to Slough or Didcot Parkway might be. However, resourceful individuals that we are, we did managed to find a couple of redeeming features: beer and cataracts.

1) Beer: we went to the Boag's Factory. Although too late for the tour and tasting (tours in winter stop at 2pm, I'm not sure why) we wandered around the museum, which included some gorgeous advertising shots done by Helmut Newton, as part of the 'Who is James Boag?' campaign, and also lots of bottles through the ages which we marketing geeks enjoyed looking at immensely.

Rather than tasting the beer on a tour, we consoled ourselves with a beer of Boag's in a local bar. It's a little better than Cascades, but not a lot, so we weren't too disappointed about having missed out on the 'tasting.' Our very nice bartender also explained to us the different measures of beer they have over here in Australia:
The Pint: Self-explanatory
The Schooner: A bit like a 330ml tall glass, used for drinking Peroni and Star
The Pot: Just over a half-pint, this is the standard beer measure in Oz. It is perfectly acceptable for grown men to order and drink pots in a pub
The Pony: An 8oz or 6oz glass, generally (but not exclusively) for the ladies

2) Cataracts: actually not as weird as it sounds, this refers to Cataract Gorge, a beautiful limestone gorge and fast-flowing river about 10 minutes outside of Launceston. There's a suspension bridge which was built in 1906, and several beautiful walks. As it was getting dark when we arrived, we only wandered around for a little bit, but still managed to see some peacocks strutting their stuff. James also claimed to have seen a thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger, but since they've been extinct since 1936 I think it was probably a possum.

We woke up freezing in our cabin on the Tasman Penninsula. We were in a bunkhouse on a campsite, but as it's the off-season we were the only occupants. Sarah and I huddled together for warmth on the bottom bunk of one of the three triple-deckers in the room. Having failed to figure out the heater, we had had to pile all of the other bedding onto our one bed in order to survive the night.

Checking out of the campsite I asked the receptionist if there was anywhere good for breakfast nearby:
'Hmm.. well there's a bakery in Dullersbury (5km away) that might be open (on a Wednesday at 10am, you would hope so), or you could drive to Hobart (the capital, 1.5 hours away), or there's Mackers (MacDonalds) in Sorell (1 hour away)'. I am beginning to understand Tasmania's reputation as being somewhat more 'provincial' than the mainland.

We lucked out with the bakery, so come 1030 we were both full of pastry and coffee, speeding north up the A9 with the car stereo belting out some quality local radio.

Tasmania reminds me of New Zealand – lots of stunning scenery, and very few people. We drove all morning on empty roads through rolling fields and forested hills before arriving at Triabunna by the sea. From there we continued north up the coast, winding around the headlands. Great fun to drive. I snatched sideways glances of the amazing sea views whenever I could safely do so.

Nearing Swansea (!) and a lunchstop, Freycinet Peninsula reared up across the water to the east, enclosing Great Oyster Bay. This was our destination for the afternoon: Freycinet National Park is the home of the stunning Wineglass Bay, apparently one of the 'Top 10 Beaches in the World'. (according to whom, they didn't say). To reach the bay we hiked up through temperate rainforest to the mountainous peaks of 'The Hazards' – four pink granite summits that guard the entrance to the peninsula. From these heady heights we were afforded a fantastic view of Wineglass Bay: As the afternoon sun threw the forest around it into shadow, the beach still gleamed white, and the sea a sapphire blue. We climbed down to walk on the beach and stood listening to the booming surf until it got cold and dark enough to make our hike back a little interesting.

As the final fragments of sunlight left the sky, we drove the up to the town of St Helen's in the North East of Tasmania. On the way we very nearly annihilated a wallaby which had decided to take a breather in the middle of the highway. Blinded by the full-beams, he sat there for a good couple of seconds before hopping off into the undergrowth. It was quite a shock to see a living animal on the road, having observed such a massive amount of roadkill over the previous two days of driving.

St Helen's had a strangely American feel to it when we arrived: A one road town with a supermarket, off-license ('bottle store'), petrol station and a couple of diners; every other car a 4x4. We had booked into a 'Unit' for the night, which turned out to be a self-contained bungalow on the outskirts of town. Over-excited at being able to play house, we decided to eat-in and cooked ourselves a lovely dinner before settling down on the sofa to enjoy '20 best break-up songs' and other fantastic programming with a bottle of wine. It's amazing the things you miss when you're travelling – lazy evenings in front of crap TV are definitely one of them.

Our first day with the car! We were both very excited at the prospect of 5 days on the open road – James driving, me navigating. Tasmania is famous for its stunning views and as we drove out of Hobart, it certainly didn't disappoint. We headed down the Tasman Peninsula, passing long stretches of beach and beautiful countryside – at times it felt like we were back in the UK, driving down to Bath or Gloucester.

Our first stopping point was the Tasmanian Devil Conservation Park. This was a fantastic little park dedicated to helping the poor Devil, which is rapidly being wiped out as a result of a contagious facial cancer. Devils also like to eat roadkill, which obviously presents its own occupational hazards. I was expecting the devils to be ugly and also a lot like the Taz from the Warner Brother cartoons – in fact they were incredibly cute indeed. We were lucky enough to be there for feeding time, which was a sight to behold – two little devils chased each other around their area and scrapped over the wallaby on the menu that day. Devils are not fussy eaters, and will munch on everything from fur to bone. The noise of bones crunching from those little animals was pretty unsettling – no wonder the first European settlers referred to them as devils in the first place!

The park was also home to myriad other creatures, including some rather sleepy kangaroos, so we had our first experience of seeing jumping roos in action – actually pretty hilarious, although not quite as funny as an amorous couple we interrupted (see photo).

After that it was on through Eaglehawk Neck to Port Arthur, one of the infamous penal colonies which lined the Tasmanian coast back when it was Van Diemen's land in the 1800s (they actually changed the name of the state to try and disassociate itself from this grisly past). Port Arthur was the place for the worst offenders; those who had offended again after having been convicted for crimes in the UK and shipped to Australia. It was opened in 1834 and the location was picked because it was only reachable either by ship, or along the very narrow Eaglehawk Neck isthmus. It was therefore deemed to be a great place to keep dangerous criminals (many of whom had merely stolen some food or a handkerchief, and had as a result been shipped halfway around the world).

As well as being a penal colony, Port Arthur was a community and a military barracks, but the overwhelming feel of the place is pretty eerie, even today. The huge penitentiary, though largely destroyed by bush fires in the early 20th century, still dominates the skyline. There is an asylum right next to the Separate Prison (where the worst offenders were kept in solitary, silent confinement) because so many of the inmates there went insane. The prison was modelled on the penitentiary at Pentonville in London and the severe practices continued in Australia continued long after they had been deemed too harsh in the UK.

We also stayed until after it got dark and took the ghost tour around the site, which was very spooky – whilst we didn't see any ghosts ourselves, the stories our guide told us gave us the shivers. We visited the 2nd most haunted house in Australia, where an old clergyman is alleged to wander the halls, unhappy with his treatment after his death, when his coffin was passed out through an upstairs window because it was too large to fit down the stairs. But the scariest part was undoubtedly our trip to the surgeon's house, which had a downstairs dissection room. It was cold and dark, and the thought of all the things that had happened down there was pretty disturbing.

Glorious cold. Stepping down from the small plane onto Tasmanian tarmac was like jumping into a cool bath after a hot day. Except our 'hot day' had lasted 3 whole months. Sarah had got off the plane before me and was already halfway to the terminal. She looked back to see where I was and burst out laughing – I was standing still on the runway, arms outstretched, wearing a lunatic's grin and two layers of clothing, manically giggling at the fact that I was NOT SWEATING. Pure joy.

My expectations of Tasmania from somewhat limited research were that it would be a snowy wilderness of dense forests and gloomy port towns, within which mean-looking locals sat hunched over strong ales, spinning tales of Antarctic adventures and escaped convicts.

And this was exactly what Tasmania was like.

...two hundred years ago. Tasmania's heyday was the early 1800s. As one of the furthest outcrops of the English Empire it served as penal colony, a source of timber for furniture and boat production, a key hub for the whaling industry and was also one of the biggest apple exporters in the world. The docks in Hobart were a rolling maul of convicts, sailors, 'timber-getters', prostitutes, local merchants, recent free-men and the odd crusading Jesuit trying to offset the mayhem and moral turpitude.

By the 1850s gold had been discovered in nearby Victoria and the action shifted to the mainland. Wandering around the capital it doesn't feel like Hobart has ever really recovered. 'The Smoke' - as Tasmanians call it (eliciting stifled guffaws from Sarah and myself) – still feels like a small, slightly sleepy market town. Which is amazing really, given that it's one of the best natural ports in the world, is under an hour's drive from several immense national parks, 20 minutes from some great vineyards, and home to such an incredible history. I think that Hobart is simply a victim of its location – at the end of the earth.

At the moment, Hobart's tourist offerings seem to be limited to rely on a scattering of Georgian civic buildings, an art gallery and a number of seafood restaurants. Surrounded by predatory sea-gulls, we enjoyed a fantastic lunch of fish and chips by the Constitution Docks – where the Sydney to Hobart yacht race finishes on New Years Day. (Aside: As we ate, we heard a young American student telling her friends how amazing her meal was with the choice phrase: 'This is tasty as shit!')

Things are changing though. The number of people down-shifting and moving from mainland Australia to Tassie is on the up, as is tourism – mostly from mainlanders, but also from Asians and Europeans. Hobart seems like it's beginning to wake up to the commercial opportunities these off-islanders represent. The swanky cafes and art galleries of the Salamanca redevelopment at the base of Battery Point – the oldest settlement in Hobart – is doing well, as is the new 'Elizabeth Street Pier' complex of restaurants and apartments at the docks. We noticed a couple of other 'luxury lifestyle' projects going up as we strolled around the town.


From our stay, we feel there are still two critical barriers to Hobart's regeneration:

1.Opening hours. Sarah and I went out to find some food at 8 one evening, and every restaurant in town was shut. I know it's the off-season, but what gives?

2.Beer. It's incredibly expensive to drink in Australia, so if you are going to save up some money to buy a whole pint (to our surprise we learned that the standard measure in Oz is a 'Pot' – just over a half pint) you would hope that it would be worth it. Unfortunately the two Tassie local brews are pretty poor. Lusting after a real beer after 4 months of Asian lager, Sarah and I made our way pub-wards within hours of landing in Hobart. Sitting down in 'The Best Pub In Hobart' – Knopwood's Retreat in Salamanca – we therefore had high hopes for 'Cascade', which has been brewed in Hobart since 1832. After our first sip we thought the taps might be off. Cascade tastes like a watery, fizzier version of Budweiser. 'Boag's' from Lanceston in north Tassie wasn't much better. Chatting with some very drunk locals who had clearly been in the pub for some time, they recommended we avoid both of Tassie's home-grown beers completely and stick to James Squire ale (from Victoria) or better still, the wonderful Spanish wine that they had discovered a few hours back. Unfortunately by then we had no money left, so had to leave.

Our last stop in Asia was Singapore. A little confusion over our flight dates meant we only had 24 hours here, rather than the two days we were initially expecting. That said, since we were both reaching the point where the thought of another bowl of noodles was making us vaguely nauseous, this was perhaps no bad thing.

The highlight of our trip was undoubtedly the accommodation. Thanks to a very generous birthday gift from Swills, we enjoyed a night of 5* luxury at the Four Seasons. I don't think they knew quite what to make of us when we rocked up in shorts and backpacks, but they were consummate professionals throughout our stay. Nothing was too much trouble – I honestly don't know why A-list celebs (who practically live in places like this) ever have cause for complaint in life, since our every whim was catered for.

Our room was amazing, on the fourteenth floor with views over the city, a deluxe king size bed, 42 inch plasma and DVD player, his and hers bathroom with walk-in shower and L'Occitane toiletries. I was in heaven – I just about resisted the urge to squeal until after our 'usher' (whose job it was to show us to our room) closed the door behind her, but I am sure she heard me down the corridor. After 4 months of hostels, I was in hotel heaven.

As a result, it was very difficult to leave the hotel at all (especially with the swimming pools plural, gym and complimentary use of the tennis court), but we managed an afternoon of sightseeing, cramming in the best that Singapore has to offer.

We made the obligatory pilgrimage to Raffles Hotel during a wander around the old Colonial District. It's a beautiful place, lovingly restored, albeit slightly incongruous compared to the concrete and glass giants all around it. We ordered Singapore Slings, but we couldn't quite bring ourselves to drink them in the Long Bar (where the cocktail was created) because it would have meant sitting surrounded by all the other tourists doing the exact same thing. Apparently Raffles makes up to 2500 Slings EVERY DAY. I say 'makes,' but it's a little-known fact that the drinks now come ready-mixed - it would require just too many man hours to shake each of those drinks by hand!

Two observations about the Singaporeans:

Number 1: Shopping appears to be something of a national pastime here, and it shows – Singaporeans are very well dressed indeed. Orchard Road, near our hotel, is a legendary mecca for the shopaholic, with mall after mall of designer brands. Even I couldn't resist the urge for a little retail therapy. Plus we spent a happy and nostalgic hour browsing Borders, which appears to still be thriving here.

Number 2: Singaporeans also seem incredibly patriotic. We stumbled across the sound check and dress rehearsal for what we discovered was the National Day Parade. This will be a star-studded event in the town centre, featuring films about how awesome Singapore is (especially its military – there were lots of shots of tanks and marching soldiers). I accosted a sound check guy to find out when the event was happening:
“Is it tomorrow?” I innocently asked.
“No miss,” he replied, eyeing me sceptically, “It's on August 9th.”
So a month's worth of preparation then, necessitating working late on a Friday night. Let's hope it's good!

And so, this is it, the end of our Asian adventure. Here's to the next chapter.....

Melaka was our last stop after nearly a month in Malaysia. It was founded in the 14th century by a Hindu prince called Parameswara. He saw a white mousedeer kick one of his dogs into the river nearby, and was so impressed that he decided to name his city after the tree he saw the deer standing under. As good a reason as any for founding a new town, we suppose.........

For the next few centuries Melaka was an important trading post as a result of its geographical location and position as a place of shelter from the monsoon rains. Initially protected by the Chinese in 1405, it came to be colonised first by the Portuguese (in 1511), then by the Dutch (in 1641), then by the British (in 1795). As a result, the historical town centre is a curious mix of architectural styles and religious buildings, along a waterfront which is home to enormous monitor lizards.

We only have time to spend a day here so it's a bit of a whistle-stop tour of the sights. However, after 4 months on the continent we've had our fill of Chinese temples and replica tribal houses, and so we're happy to miss a few out! We do however make time for the Stadthuys, a huge bright red brick building which was the town hall and governor's residence, and is now home to the history museum. It's a pretty confusing place, which seems to travel hapazardly through time, and is also a big fan of telling stories through the medium of papier mache models. But we get the gist. We then wander up the hill to the remains of St Paul's Church, built in 1521 by a Portuguese sea captain. The only interesting things here are the old Dutch tombstones, carved with elaborate fonts and intricate bas-reliefs of skulls and ships.

Melaka is a big fan of the museum. We bypass exhibits devoted to the art of governance, to education, to literature, to stamps and even to kites. We do however make time for the Beauty Museum, a study of the weird and wonderful things people do in the pursuit of 'beauty.' We learn about foot-binding, scarification and tattooing. We see pictures of African tribes who shove big wooden discs into their lower lips, others who wear gold rings around their necks to make them look longer, and young boys who bind their waists to make them more attractive to the opposite sex (apparently women, the breadwinners in this culture, desire men with small waists because it implies they have smaller appetites).

But my favourite is the story of Ethel Granger, “the most famous lady in English history,” who, by wearing corsets throughout her life, managed to reduce her waist to a mere 13 inches. Never heard of her? Us neither, but apparently she was a pretty big (though small-waisted) deal in the early 20th century.

Our arrival in Kuching marked a return to civilisation, and I could feel my stress levels return to normal as I took in familiar sights:
McDonalds – check
Body Shop – check
Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf – check
I realise that after the ecological delights we have seen over the past two weeks, admitting this makes me a philistine. I do not care.

Kuching means 'City of Cats' in Malay, although there is no explanation as to why it was given this name in the first place. Perhaps it was originally home to a colony of wildcats. Who knows. Today the tourist board has decided to adorn the entrance to the city with “the Great Cat of Kuching,” a giant fibreglass white cat with life-like whiskers. More cat statues are visible at the centre of roundabouts throughout the city, including a lovely montage in the centre of town, featuring a whole group of cats at play. It is odd.

Cats aside, the city is a lovely place, very quiet and almost European in feel, with a riverfront promenade and lots of coffee shops and delicious eateries. This was fortunate, as our time in Kuching coincided with us developing a serious craving for western food and cafe culture. We spent a very pleasant morning in Bing, a coffee shop that would not look out of place in Soho – it was all minimalism, brushed aluminium walls and orange accessories. We also dined at Junk, decorated to resemble the inside of a Chinese junker ship, and the Living Room, where we gorged ourselves on western food served by lady boys.

Kuching has been the capital of Sarawak since the days of the 'White Rajahs.' James Brooke, a soldier from the south of England, declared himself Rajah here after helping to defeat the Sultan of Brunei's advances in the area, and was later succeeded by his nephew and his nephew's son. It was an interesting time in the period of the area's history, and as a result, a lot of the older buildings would not look out of place in Victorian Britain. Fort Margarita was built by Charles Brooke in 1879 as a defensive fortress against pirate attacks, and it looks like a small white castle on the hill, complete with coat of arms and an impressive collection of cannons. The courthouse looks like a set for To Kill A Mockingbird.

I also paid a visit to the Sarawak Museum, part of which is still housed in the original 19th century building. It's the best museum in Borneo in my opinion, filled with exhibits about the many local tribes in Sarawak and their rituals. Highlights for me included the way of dealing with sickness (solution: create a model of the spirit responsible for the illness, then say spells over it and spit at it), the addiction to tattoos and to cock-fighting, (which was eventually banned by the Malaysian government as a result of the amount of betting the tribes would indulge in before a fight) and the rules which accompanied pottery-making (no farting during production in case it makes the pots explode).

We took a day trip to Bako National Park, which is famous for proboscis monkey sightings. Our day there certainly didn't disappoint, as we saw several big-nosed monkeys, some of them surprisingly close-to, especially considering how shy the animals are renowned for being. It was a day for monkeys, as we also saw some silvered leaf monkeys and lots of macaques. The macaques were incredibly cheeky, stealing food from out of people's hands in the cafe, and even clambering onto one poor girl in order to relieve her of her Oreo cookies!

On the way back from Niah Caves, we stopped to visit an Iban longhouse. The Iban are the largest of the native tribes of Malaysian Borneo, and longhouses are their traditional dwellings. As the name suggests, longhouses are big long houses within which all members of an individual tribe can live together. They come in all shapes and sizes - some more traditional and wooden, others new and made of brick and concrete; some with satellite dishes and new cars parked out front, others built by poorer tribes from a patchwork of rusted corrugated steel and salvaged wood.

We entered the longhouse from one end into a large corridor that stretched the entire length of the longhouse. This was the main shared space of the longhouse, the centre of communal life for the tribe. The corridor was about 5 metres wide and 200m long, with a floor of polished timber. All the way down the left hand side were the front doors to the apartments of individual families – about 80 in total. The beauty of a longhouse is that as the tribe grows and more families join the tribe they simply build more apartments on to the end of the house.

As walked down the corridor a couple of small children peered around one of the doorways, giggling with amazement at the foreigners and shoving their terrified younger sibling out in front of us, who shot back inside like a startled cat. We snuck a look in the open door after him and caught a glimpse of large sofas, rugs and a widescreen TV. A comfy modern home.

On the right hand side of the communal space, doors open out at regular intervals onto an exposed wooden balcony, where rice and wood and washed clothes are dried and feats are held during important festivals (including the annual harvest festival). Sitting on the floor in the breeze of these doorways were many groups of older tribespeople, whiling away the day with gossip.

Halfway down the longhouse is the chief's apartment, outside of which, hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the corridor is a collection of wicker and rope netting. As we got closer, we saw the skulls hanging within. These were the skulls of the tribe's defeated enemies – the Iban used to be head-hunters. Inquiring of a group of old men and women quietly chatting near the skulls, our guide told us that they belonged to fellow Iban from a rival tribe that they fought long-ago.

Talking further with the tribespeople in Malay our guide told us that they were quiet today because they were all tired from staying up late to watch the football, and most of the younger men weren't even awake yet, having drunk a little too much rice-wine with the game. Once they ascertained that we were from England, one of the men slapped his hand to his head and said, 'England? Wayne Rooney! England he play badly! No good! Play better Man United!'

From Brunei we took a short 6 hour bus ride back into Malaysian Borneo, crossing the border at Kuala Belait. I then spent 16 hours holed up in a hostel in Miri with the tail-end of a bout of food-poisoning, willing myself well in time for a tour to the Niah Caves that we had booked for the following morning. Sarah tells me she spent a lovely afternoon exploring the 'sights' (browsing the shops and getting a pedicure).

Aside from a mild fever virtually indistinguishable from my base-level of tropical sweatiness, the next morning I was good to go and we set off with our guide Ken west on the coastal road to the limestone cliffs of Niah.

The Niah Caves are the result of similar limestone rock formations to those we saw in Halong Bay in Vietnam – they're enormous humps of rock, big sore thumbs in an otherwise flat jungle landscape. In Halong Bay water still laps the base of these rocks, in Niah the sea has rolled back several miles leaving jungle and more palm oil plantations between the beach and the caves.

Niah and its big brother Mulu (another set of caves in Sarawak) housed some of the oldest recorded human settlements in the region. Inside the mouth of the Great Cave at Niah, 'modern' human skulls have been found in a highly organised burial ground that dates back 40,000 years – the oldest in the whole of S.E.Asia – as well as a series of very faded cave paintings of boats and monsters dated at 20,000 years old.

We strolled the 4km from the camp to the caves, protected from the rainforest by a raised wooden walkway, before climbing the wooden staircase up the face of the limestone cliff to the enormous cave entrance. Once inside the mouth of the Great Cave, sunlight quickly became a distant memory and our torch did little to penetrate the heavy darkness around us. Following our guide's heels, we felt our way over damp wooden walkways deeper into the cave system. Only the clicks and screeches of bats and the echoes of dripping water gave us an idea of the scale of the space, until we rounded a corner and saw light lancing down from holes in the cave roof 50 metres above us.

Tourism in the Niah caves exists side by side with two older industries – guano (bat shit) farming and birds' nest collecting. Nitrate-rich guano from the 2-3 million bats living in the caves is shovelled up daily by groups of locals living in camps within the caves and sold as an expensive natural fertiliser. The ammonial stench hit us like waves in the more popular bat-caves. I've no idea how the farmers live with it day-in day-out.

Bird's nest collecting is a less disgusting but much higher-risk profession. Collectors ascend 100 foot high bamboo poles to knock down Swiftlet nests attached to the cave roof. The saliva that the birds use to construct their nests has supposed aphrodesiac properties that make them the most valuable ingredient in Chinese 'bird's nest soup'. It is this rich export market that causes otherwise sane locals to climb to such heights with no ropes.

Both these professions require their practioners to live in the caves in semi-permanent camps to guard their territories from interlopers. As we walked through the caves, we came across a guano farmer standing by the walkway on a rock in the milky half-light, smoking a cigarette and looking very much like an overgrown Golem – wearing only shorts and a non-functional head-lamp, he was skinny and pale with clammy-looking skin that stretched over a little pot belly. After our guide exchanged a few words with him ('Nice weather'?!?) we walked quickly on.

We flew into Brunei almost on a whim, as it was en-route between the Sabah and Sarawak provinces of Malaysian Borneo. We're glad we did, although I very much doubt we'll be going back. Brunei is deeply weird, and very boring unless you happen to be a Sultan.

Bandar Seri Begawan is in the midst of a city-wide ego-trip. The 15th of July is the Sultan's 64th birthday, and to celebrate the entire capital city has been bedecked in flags, ribbons and 20 foot high posters of His Majesty in various action man-type uniforms. This in a town that already has a dedicated 'Royal Regalia Museum' proudly displaying the thousands of gifts that other nations have presented the Sultan arranged around a pimping solid gold chariot.

(Top 3 Worst Gifts in the Regalia Museum:

3. 2ft tall, solid crystal statue of a rearing wild horse from Indonesia. Classy.
2. A cartoon, smiling, marble walrus from Canada. Nice work.
1. A wooden shield-shaped presentation plaque (kind of like my grandpa's bowling prizes) surrounding a moody and slightly out-of-focus photo of the Syrian president. 'I thought to myself, “What would make the perfect gift for a Sultan?” and then it struck me: A photo of yours truly')

Outside the capital we also visited the Sultan's Polo Club (he keeps Argentinian horses in air-conditioned stables), and the $1.1BN Empire Hotel (golf course designed by Jack Niklaus, penthouse $130K a night). The Sultan's younger brother is still lying in low in London having been discovered to have gone on a $16BN spending spree whilst holding the post of 'Finance Minister' in the late 90s. It's pretty sickening how much wealth is held in the hands of so few, and just how extravagantly it is being spent infront of the people who should be sharing it. You would have thought the country ripe for revolution, but the thought honestly doesn't seem to have occurred to them. They're probably all just too bored.

We were only there for a day and a half, but were already struggling with the boredom so decided to visit the premier (only?) amusement in Brunei – Jerudong Amusement Park. When it was opened by the Sultan in 1997 all the rides were free. Now half the rides are broken, and when we turned up the rest were shut for prayer time. Even the rebellious teenage skateboarders had sat down and faced west. Too late to get our money-back, we wandered around the ghostly quiet park till the rides opened again and we could get onto the go-karts.