Reading ahead

Oh wow, they have bubonic plague in Mongolia. How cool is that?

The National Stadium

I walked around the Bird's Nest stadium - it really is an impressive structure. I peered in. I thought of that moment when the first marathon runner enters the tunnel then comes out onto the track, and my scalp began to tingle. I remembered the drumming at the opening ceremony and tingled some more.

I walked around again at a lower level, looking for the tunnel. There were a couple to choose from and I looked through, letting my imagination play. Then I went and bought a ticket to go inside - I couldn't resist it. So I ran the last lap and a bit of the marathon. The sandals and daypack, dodging-the-tourists marathon. It felt fabulous. Well worth 50 yuan (about five pounds). I got some funny looks, but frankly the only thing that seemed funny to me was that no-one else was running. In fact, most people didn't even walk far from the entrance and I had the back straight almost to myself. I wandered round again, until on the brink of being overcome by that flood of familiar knowledge that I will never do, or be, anything great, I hoiked myself off to sit in the stand with an ice-cream and watch some olympic highlights on the big screen.

Walking round Olympic Green, I saw that the torch hadn't been removed as I'd thought from inside, but has been folded down onto the roof of the stand. The green itself is wide and pleasant and generously scattered with interesting sculptures adorned with children posing for photographs. And of course there are enough tacky bird's nest souvenirs being offered to have you running the other 26 miles.

Beijing

I've spent the last two days wandering the streets of Beijing. I haven't seen any sights, unless you count the Mongolian Embassy, but I have done what I love best - seen everyday life, navigating my way semi-randomly from one corner of the city to another.

I love the way that life is lived out on the streets - men hunched over games of Chinese chess on tiny stools on the pavements, old ladies in slightly saggy pyjamas and slightly saggy bodies taking their morning exercise, street vendors sizzling up more things on skewers than you could, well, shake a skewer at.

My essential Mandarin phrasebook has not been able to have me living up to the promise on it's cover of 'chatting away like a local'. Even pinyin is devillishly hard to get right and I still have to look up every letter and vowel combination before trying out the simplest phrase. And I still receive blank looks 95% of the time. Generally sign-language is more successful, but in trickier situations I can always point to the Chinese characters in the book. Some friendly shopkeepers have helped me practise my numbers, but even this can be tricky as some think I am questioning the price when I ask them to repeat a number or two. But all my attempts are greeted with appreciation and a huge amount of humour. I think the staff at the noodle shop near my guesthouse are probably still clutching their sides.

Tongli

Sadly, we had less than two hours to explore this medieval water-town, but it was still very pleasant to stroll along some of its canals and admire the traditional buildings. It has been much used as a film set, but interestingly it wasn't discovered by tourism until about five years ago. With a bit more time I'm sure I'd have enjoyed wandering further off the main tourist drag and there were also various museums and so on which I didn't even find. Still, a lovely little town, with some excellent roast pork.

Our return to Shanghai signalled the end of our tour, with another good meal. Despite my frustration at the pace of the tour and the lack of 'free time', I have enjoyed this trip a lot. I've met some really lovely people and enjoyed the company of everyone in the group - the odds of that must be pretty long. I'd say it's really been a 'taster tour' - lots of big highlight sights - and it's certainly given me some ideas about what I'd do or where I'd go if I come back to China again.

Suzhou

In Suzhou we visited another nice garden, the museum and a silk factory (with the compulsory shop at the end of the tour). The silk factory was quite fascinating as I'd always wondered how a cocoon can be so neatly unwrapped. In the example we watched, eight cocoons were unravelled by machine to make a single thread, although many more are used for higher quality threads. They bobbed in water, or some other liquid designed to make them amenable to unravelling, and as they neared their end a transparent blob was left, in which we could clearly see the pupa. Apparently these are eaten by those who like them, fried up as a little snack. Double cocoons are opened by hand and stretched over a bamboo frame, ten layered together. When dry, these are stretched out to make the filling for duvets - so now at last I know how my gorgeous duvet was made.

Later in the afternoon, we joined the thronging bike lane by taking rickshaw rides down to the river for a canal cruise. This city - once a charming small town, now still small with a population of only 6 million - is built on a maze of canals, and is no doubt dubbed the Venice of the East. Yesterday's heavy rains meant that many of the smaller channels into the old town were closed off, but we caught some enticing glimpses. Later we explored this area on foot, snacking on street food, drifting in and out of souvenir shops and stopping at a canal-side cafe for a bit of light refreshment.

Eventually exhausted, we decided to try to get a taxi back to the hotel, but before we could do so we were approached by a motor-rickshaw driver. The tiny box on the back of his bike hardly looked suitable for the four of us, but he insisted and we thought it was such a laugh that we didn't even consider haggling the price down. Gursh and I hopped in, choosing what we later found out was the more generous seat, which also had the advantage of being enclosed at the sides. Sian and Sandra got themselves and their shopping in, facing us on the seat next to the spaces that acted as doors, and when someone asked "Is everyone in OK?" Sandra merrily replied "No, not really," as we chugged off into the night with her right buttock slightly exposed to the traffic. I have to say she was pretty game, although we were all worried about the effects of sharp corners. Gursh suggested Sian and Sandra linked arms to help hold each other in, helpfully demonstrating by linking his through mine, which was rather nice so I didn't complain. We began to get the giggles, which only got worse when it became doubtful that the poor little motorbike was going to be able to get its weighty cargo up the incline of a longish bridge. Other rickshaw drivers and cyclists laughed and pointed, and despite Sian saying that we wouldn't be laughing so much if we were in their seats, all four of us were beside ourselves. We were still bubbling with it when we finally squeezed ourselves out, like some sort of a magic trick, popping back to our real size as onlookers on the pavement watched in disbelief. I woke up the next morning still giggling.

Xidi (and some rain)

Leaving Huang Shan in the pouring rain, we sloshed along half flooded roads towards Xidi. Arriving in the pouring rain, the bus was quickly besieged by umbrella and poncho sellers. Kitted out in a fetching knee-length yellow polythene number, I waded into this charming Unesco heritage site. It really was quite amazing, though I had to keep reminding myself to look up from the rapidly moving four-inch-deep water that flowed down the gently sloping stone paved alleys. Away from the tourist-shops of the main road (alley), the village became even more fascinating. Open doorways offered glimpses into homes where a family dealt with baskets of corn cobs or an old man tinkered with some parts of something vaguely mechanical. On a tiny street, in which I couldn't have spread my arms full width, I noticed a rack of wooden racks - curious, I looked more closely. Fat white caterpillars crawled or at least wiggled a little. I struck up one of my better sign language conversations with the old lady inside, miming the caterpillar spinning a thread to make clothes. She nodded with a delighted smile - yes, they were silk worms. Gursh was still in sight so I called him to have a look and commissioned him to take some photos (my camera was left on the bus as it can't swim). Then we noticed that the other half of the floor was covered with silk worms on a bed of leaves, as an old man appeared through a small hole near the floor, presumably from an adjoining room. I love it when I stumble upon this sort of thing - one of the real delights of travel. We continued a silent but smiling conversation for some time, able only to utter our thanks in Mandarin, which we did many times as we left.

We carried on to Shanghai, though none of us (guide included) knew why, as it would have been closer and easier to go straight to tomorrow's destination. It was another five or six hours on the bus, but we passed a large chunk of the time playing a Chinese card game with Li as our teacher. It all got a bit complicated with four of us playing in teams of two, but only one person knowing whose team they are on. I won't even try to explain.

Arrived in Shanghai to find that my bag had spent most of the journey underwater. Not a happy camper. I spread every piece of clothing, battery chargers, shoes and books over every surface, including the floor, and surveyed the damage despondently. Began to think that what with the Bank of China swallowing my ATM card on day one, a snoring room-mate and now not a dry bra to be found, this trip was maybe not my luckiest ever. But as I flicked through the pages of my Lonely Planet with a hairdryer, I couldn't but think that these were minor irritations in the great scheme of things. And so to the roof-top terrace of the Youth Hostel down the road for a much-needed pint and a view across the river to the gleaming sky-scrapers of Shanghai.

Chinese fashion

Women are wearing alarming clothes. Puffball shorts are everywhere. These can be full bloomer length right up to something a toddler might wear over a nappy. Footwear is varied, but popsocks, usually ankle-length, are in. These are worn with all sorts of short skirts and shorts. Other leg-wear options include knee-highs and also down-to-the-knee leggings (coming out from under the shorts) which generally look like patterned tights, if not fishnets.

Maybe the rest of the world is also dressing like this this summer, and I have been spared the sight, living in blissful ignorance in the land of the abayya.

Men wear ankle length patterned navy blue popsocks with their shorts and sandals. Women's dresses range from five-year-olds' party frock to cocktail dress to tart - and those are just the styles you see being worn by sightseeing groups.

But it's this thing with the puffball shorts and the ruffly tops that gets me. No it isn't, it's the socks...

Huang Shan

Huang Shan is stunning. It's the China of my imagination - sheer rocky peaks rising up from bamboo-clad foothills and forested upper slopes. Of course, it's been touristified and concrete pathways and flights of steps lead you from peak to viewpoint to peak. And ugly hotels perch on pretty summits and tour groups clog the paths. But find the right spot, block out the distractions and this place is amazing.

The views were atmospherically misty, clouds brushed the higher peaks and threatened rain (which thankfully never came). The signposting was somewhat inadequate, so with my trusty companions Alex and Gursh, I spent a pleasant day wandering the ups and downs of the mountainside, making guesses at each junction based on our pretty good instinct for what felt right. We didn't have time - or the psychic navigational skill - to find some of the more enticing features such as a natural rock bridge, the "Gleam of Sky" chasm and so on, but it was still a good day out. I'd love to go back when it's quieter and spend a couple of days hiking, spend a night at an ugly but perfectly situated hotel and stand above the cloud-filled valleys as the sun comes up.

Back in the town, I pottered around the pretty Old Street on my seized-up calves. This street is hung with red lanterns, brimming with tasteful tourist shops and flanked by lovely old shop-houses. Six of us shared an enormous but well-earned meal at a point-and-wait restaurant - you choose dishes displayed as sets of raw ingredients or, in the case of dumplings and various carbs ready cooked samples, and write down their number on your order pad. Handing this in to a member of staff you return to your table and soon dish after dish appears. After dinner we wandered some more, and I particularly enjoyed the calligraphy shops with their inks and brushes and pads of thick purple paper on which I was encouraged to practise my brushstrokes by a man who was delighted to help with my attempts at Chinese characters even though I had no intention of buying a thing.

Eclipse

Despite the 4 o'clock wake-up, there was a buzz of anticipation on the bus as we headed out of town and into our first real dose of rural scenery. Within a couple of hours we were into the mountains and staggering views rose above us, and more engagingly plummeted away from us, as we snaked up the tightly winding road towards Purple Mountain.

I'd had no idea what to expect of our eclipse viewing site, but it was perfect - a mountaintop observatory. Places had been allocated around the edge of a small reservoir and the crowd was thinly spread. There were plenty of tour groups kitted out in their own team shirts featuring the eclipse they had yet to see, a boggling array of telescopes and long-lenses, geeks and eclipsoids of every nation. In addition to this there were some fenced-off areas housing visiting scientists who were camped out with telescopes the size of jet engines and other unidentifiable paraphernalia. The sky stayed determinedly cloudy.

Then, maybe ten minutes before first contact, the sun came out. A cheer went up and my goosepimples went down. Gursh had set up a simple but ingenious viewing device, projecting through a telephoto lens onto a piece of card and as the partial eclipse began, this drew quite a crowd.

Things happened slowly - as you'd expect from the longest total eclipse in a hundred years - but every moment was worth seeing. Thin cloud continued to wisp sporadically across the sun, but never for long. An hour later, a strange dusk began to fall, the colours around us saturated like just before a thunder storm. The sun became a slender crescent, then with a flash of its diamond ring, it had gone. I took off my glasses and saw the black sun. A halo of light glowed gently around it. I think I stopped breathing. Then I cried. Words cannot describe how it felt to see it. I was overwhelmed. Slowly I started to notice that night had fallen, that there were shades of sunset orange above the horizon, that there were stars to be seen. But my eyes were drawn back again and again to the sun, the black sun.

I joined the others and Gursh half-teased me for being overcome, but I think he was really quite pleased at my reaction - he's already an eclipse addict.I sat on the grass and gazed some more, then as the moon looked just ready to slip away, the halo of light a little wider at the top, Gursh passed me his lens to use as a telescope for a closer look. Within seconds of me sighting the sun, the moon moved that crucial fraction and the diamond ring appeared. I froze in a silent gasp. It was staggeringly beautiful. A voice in my head said 'photo' but I ignored it. I couldn't have torn myself away if I'd wanted to. It was over in seconds, but somehow time stood still. Luckily I did listen to the voice in my head telling me to stop looking through a powerful lens as the sun began to reappear and quickly switched it for my solar glasses.

The eighty or so minutes of partial eclipse that followed totality passed with us happily flitting between watching, chatting and comparing photos. Many groups packed up and started to leave, but we stayed to the end, marvelling at what we had seen and what we were still witnessing.

An hour later, the heavens opened. Rain fell, no, cascaded from the sky, all but
obliterating the view even a couple of meters from the bus windows. We had been lucky. Or should I say even luckier than we had known up on the top of Purple Mountain.

Hangzhou

Yesterday's quick and comfortable train ride brought us to Hangzhou, where I suddenly crumpled. Ten days of trying to sleep with a snorer as my room-mate had taken their toll. I paid the extra for a room of my own and took to my bed. This morning I felt well rested, but my head still pounded. I mooched miserably around West Lake, supposedly China's most romantic lake, much favoured by emperors and honeymooners. It is probably very lovely, but today it had all the relaxing romantic charm of Alton Towers on a bank holiday. It was, you might say, a little crowded. And noisy - bear in mind that the average tour group has a leader with a microphone/loudspeaker set, as well as about forty noisy, path-blocking followers dressed in matching hats. Oh, and the souvenir of choice, being sold (and ceaselessly demonstrated) about every ten yards along every path, was a bird-call whistle. Any bird that sounds like that deserves to be shot.

In the afternoon we visited a tea plantation, although we saw only a token tea-bush or two. I could barely stagger off the bus, so was allowed to skip the history talk and go and wait in one of the tea-tasting rooms. My fellow travellers soon joined me and our delightful host poured green tea, told us all about it, showed us samples and added orange peel and things to our glasses while teaching us a little tea etiquette. Somewhere around my third or fourth glass I realised I was restored! I'd started chatting and felt good and was quite gobsmacked by the suddenness of it. Marvelous stuff. A small tin of the very finest quality 'Emperor tea' is now tucked in the bottom of my rucksack.

Nanjing

After a good night's sleep in my cosy top bunk, I woke to a whole a new landscape: paddy fields, buffalo ploughing the land, farmers in big Vietnamese style hats. We were still two or three hours from Nanjing, and the views continued to change.

Nanjing is another likeable city. We visited a huge 'scenic area' up on the hillside beyond the city, where cicadas sang almost deafeningly, toytown trains drove tourists around what looked like an extensive network of roadways, and a few 'sights' were dotted around. I opted out of the 392 steps up to Dr Sun's mausoleum and instead pottered the woodland walkways and relaxed with a cold drink. It all felt rather Malaysian, though actually quite a few places do.

In the afternoon we were let off the leash to roam freely, so I went with three others to Zhonghua Gate in the city wall. We had a quick shot at the archery on offer before exploring the site. There was lots to see, most of it well explained. The buildings on top of the walls have been reconstructed - we didn't realise quite what this meant until we got close enough to see that they were simply scaffolding, cased in plyboard on which polystyrene tiles had been stuck and painted to look like bricks! The whole 'gate' with its three courtyards (let the enemy in then shut the gate and shoot them from the walls), tunnel-like 'cave' accommodation for 3,000 soldiers, storage for half a million tons of food and so on is really a whole garrison rather than a gate.

We walked back via the very pretty canal area and semi-pedestrianised square and surrounding streets, where tour boats ply their trade, buildings are very traditional (even though I doubt they are very old), bridges have a wannabe Venice look and a squillion Chinese tourists throng. In the evening we wandered here again and were blown away by the twinkly lights, the even thicker throngs and oh, the kitsch of it. It was fabulous. Everythring that could be trimmed with coloured lights was gleaming, huge illuminated dragons and rotating circles glowed from the wall of a temple whose wall banked the canal, the whole place was unbelievable. But overall, the effect was rather lovely, maybe because of the happy buzzing crowd, maybe it had just been quite well done, and though it can only be described as complete Disneyfication, it worked.

Had fun getting ourselves fed, language being an issue, but we made friends with the staff in the restaurant quickly - I don't think they get many linguistically challenged foreigners willing to have a go without a tour guide.

This morning I went with Gursh to the Memorial to the Massacre of Nanjing. It was a very informative museum, extremely well done, and of course at times somewhat harrowing. But I do think it is important to learn about the horrors of a place's past in between enjoying the pretty bits. I won't even try to explain it all here, but in six weeks an estimated 300,000 civilians (including women, children, babies) and disarmed soldiers were slaughered by the Japanese - shot, bayoneted, drowned, burned or buried alive. In the first month 20,000 women between the ages of 11 and 76 were raped. There were numerous eyewitness accounts, photos proudly taken by the Japanese, even a Japanese newspaper egging on two officers who were engaged in a race to be the first to kill 150 people. I could go on...

Instead I will flick quickly to the scene outside the museum where we had a very interesting conversation with taxi driver... spurt after spurt of rapid and animated Chinese flew in response to our maps and hotel card (an essential communication device) and it really wasn't clear whether we were going or not, but we eventually set off with the driver clutching the four-street map on the back of the hotel card to the steering wheel.

The Terracotta Army

Today I reached an all time high in the naff tourist stakes. Our local guide, equipped with a little flag on a telescopic stick led us off in the direction of the terracotta army. But not, of course, until the compulsory stop at the replica warrior factory and shop. We tumbled out of the bus amindst gales of horrified laughter at the sight of the headless warriors behind which you could stand for photos. Then proceeded to pose for said photos.

Joking, and cringing, aside, the Terracotta Army is quite something. In the first pit, 6000 warriors, nearly all infantryment, stand in neat ranks in battle formation. Each face is supposed to be unique, modelled on a real soldier. There is something about their composure that had me gazing, eyes trailing up and down the ranks, pausing here or there on a particular figure or some broken body parts still half embedded in the earth. Originally, they were brightly painted but time underground and, more recently, exposure to the elements has left them faded to almost pure clay, matching the trenches in which they stand. Some areas are yet to be excavated and there was one place where warriors were partly pieced together - a seemingly endless task for archaeologists.

In other pits archers, horses and chariots have been found. The bronze chariots have survived well and were intricate and quite amazing. Unlike the warriors, which are a little larger than life size, the chariots are half-size. While the army was needed to protect the emperor Qin Shi Huang Di in his next life, the chariots were for his personal use and it's a well known fact that your soul shrinks after death.

There was a mildly entertaining film with a dramatic reconstruction of wars and the building of Qin's mausoleum and the terracotta army. It told us that 700,000 people were involved in the project, which took 40 years. Not long after this some rebel force or other entered the site, smashed lots of warriors, stole the weapons held by them and set the place alight, bringing down the roof beams. All of this, along with the effects of time, explains why virtually all of the warriors were found in pieces.

A disappointing lunch in a touristy restaurant was followed by a snooze all the way back to town in the bus. Sweaty and tired, with no showers on offer at the hotel (having checked out in the morning), three of us set off for a foot massage. It was heavenly and included a bit of an arm, leg, neck and shoulder massage as well as a few interesting stretches where the sweet young masseurs stretched us backwards over their knees. I walked out with rejuvenated feet and legs and just enough time to buy a few snacks and drinks before setting off to catch the night train to Nanjing. Sorry to be leaving this city, there's much more to see and it's a lovely place to just wander the lively sidestreets. So here I sit in our cosy four berth compartment, browsing guidebooks and chatting with my travel companions and watching the city lights turn into countryside, hilltop lights just visible in the distance.

The city walls and dumplings of Xi'an

The old city is surrounded by a massive city wall, 12m high and 15m wide at the top. Standing on the wall gives a pretty good view of the city, but to blow a few cobwebs away some of us hired bikes to cycle on the wall. It's 14km around the perimeter in a neat rectangle with pagodas at the corners and occasional displays of battering rams, catapults, wall-scaling ladders and the like. This was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon and I came back with a glow from having enjoyed the exercise, freedom, good company, views.... or maybe I was just sweaty.

In the evening we went for a 'dumplings banquet - 18 varieties, no repeat'. Dumplings are apparently a speciality of Xi'an, dating back to when some emperor/empress/concubine demanded that the cook make something different that she had never had before (or be executed, of course). So for a hundred days the cook made different dumplings, and shaped them according to their fillings, "duck inside, looks like duck; walnut inside, looks like walnut..." - you get the idea. Sure enough, some of our dumplings were quite clearly shaped - the little fat pigs with eyes, snout and tail were particularly cute. These were little thin-skin dumplings, dim-sum style, rather than thick bready pau. Some delicious, some so-so, but well worth the experience of sampling them all. John, if you're reading this, you'd have been in dumpling heaven.

Feeling rather like a dumpling myself, I squeezed between the tables and waddled to the exit before the evening's musical extravaganza began - a song and dance show telling the story of the Tang dynasty. As soon as they started handing out the programmes, I knew I couldn't face it - the photos confirmed my worst fears. So I wandered back to the hotel - city walls are a great aid to navigation - trying but failing to find a foot massage on the way. So here I am, tucked up in bed after a lovely day in Xi'an. I only wish we had more time here.

Xi'an

I loved the night train. The extremely bijou but comfortable sleepers. Watching Beijing disappear into the darkness. Opening a beer and chatting with other travellers before drifting off to the gentle rhythm of the track. Waking up and seeing a powerstation and a few dilapitated buildings... looking out of the opposite side to see a range of rather nice hills. 1200km later, there we were in Xi'an. Barging our way out of the station (I'm so kiasu now!) I could see immediately that I was going to like this place.

We took a morning walk through the Muslim quarter. Again I had to escape the group so that I could take the time I needed to watch a butcher attack a mountain of hooves. photograph the carcass-man who pushed his cart from shop to shop collecting ribcages and spines and other almost bare bones. People cooked up interesting looking things in vats of oil, worked at sewing machines on street corners and pushed towering loads on handcarts and bicycles. I love these streets, where people go about their daily lives and the exoticness (is that a word?) is heightened by the fact that for everyone but you, this is normal. I could wander places like this for hours, maybe days.

Eventually I made my way to the Grand Mosque, which is quite unlike any other mosque I have ever seen. Inside what is essentially a walled garden there are a number of pagodas, each of which had its own purpose when the mosque was active. In the centre is a three tier circular building (pagoda?) which apparently served as a minaret. It was a beautifully low-key place, old wooden buildings blending easily into the serene garden.

Beijing and my bid for independence

Today's sightseeing is best described as a yomp through Beijing's crowded must-sees. I've been on a few organised tours before, but nothing like this one. Despite being sold by a well-known UK 'small group adventure' operator, our guide (sweet and professional as she is) is definitely from the same school as all those Chinese and Japanese guides you see leading groups on whistlestop follow-my-umbrella tours of London, Stratford, or wherever.

We raced through the delightful Temple of Heaven park, where I got left behind every time I dared to stop for long enough to take a photo. Eventually I persuaded Li, against her will, to let me hold my own ticket so that I could make my way alone and meet the group at the exit at the appointed time. The park is enormous and contains a number of pagodas and the like. But for me the real joy was seeing thousands of locals going about their morning exercise. This ranged from strolling, through badminton and a sort of keepy-uppy played with a giant shuttlecock to ballroom dancing. There was also a bit of line dancing and lots of unspecified dancing in aerobic formation but using middle-aged music and middle-aged aunties. Strangely, the one exercise I'd expected to see - tai chi - was noticeably absent. Of course, we only took in a fraction of the parks.

From there we went on to Tiananmen Square, stopping off for a tasty lunch in a backstreet cafe. It's a big old square alright, but something of an anticlimax after all the hype about how big it is. The hordes of happy tourists pottered about, a scene quite baffling in its contrast to the picture in my head of the day that shall not be mentioned.

We were allowed a full ten minutes here before we were shepherded into the Forbidden City. This is huge, and stunning. But it was heaving with tourists, enormous groups following their guides' little flags, bottlenecking at each walkway between pavilions. Li continued to spout history as massed school groups bumped their way round us. I had had enough, there were few places where you could stop and think ooh or ahh, and again begged leave to make my own way. It was like edging your way out of a stadium all the way around this wonderful place. I would love to go back when it's quieter - the ornate decorations of each building are exquisite, the sheer size and grandeur of the whole city is amazing.

I was relieved to get back to the hotel and hose my weary self down in the shower. We had yet another good meal (more about the food another time) before rushing off to catch the night train to Xi'an.

The Great Wall

An early start allowed me time to get my ATM card eaten by the Bank of China before three hours sleep on a bus took us to The Great Wall at Simatai. This is a mountainous (well, hilly at least) area, and the wall snaked along a steep ridge. It was easy to see how this must have been a pretty handy bit of defence against marauding Mongols. We walked a gentle path to the second tower on this section, low down by a small reservoir, then began the climb up, along the wall. Lush greenery stretched down the rocky slopes on either side and the wall ahead faded into the hazy distance. It was steep enough to work up a good sweat pretty quickly, but I had to keep going as any stop had knick-knack vendors buzzing round you like flies, fanning you or trying to take your arm to 'help' you along. A pity, as it really is the sort of walk that you want to savour. Still, just beyond tower eight I was able to sit quietly and enjoy some peaceful contemplation. I walked part of the way down before taking the 'cable car' (rusty buckets with seats) the rest of the way. This was great - suspended in the misty quiet, looking back up at the wall.

Back in Beijing, there was just time to run through a fantastic rainstorm, splashing through rivers swirling well over my ankles, to get to the bank and beg for my card. Luckily Li came with me to translate useful questions such as 'What does it look like?' (they already had my name and the issuing bank, so I couldn't think of much to add - rectangular and about this big? Anyway, I'm pleased to say that card and I are now reunited.

In the evening we set off to see "Chun Yi - the story of Kung Fu." Which is basically a sort of Andrew-Lloyd-Webber meets karate kid show. It was both naff and spectacular. Well, a spectacle at least. And there were some pretty good acrobatics, kung-fu based dances and so on, including a noisy and impressive stage full of men doing loud and whacky things with swords, shields and athletic bodies.

Beijing

There was something not quite right about coming in to land at Beijing. The fact that we were still above the cloud with only two minutes to go, the way the on-board camera stopped working and showed a plain grey screen. Then out of that grey, vague city-like shapes appeared and seconds later we touched down. Smog. Of course... felt stupid not to have expected this, having heard so much about the city's smog problem.

Through the haze, Beijing looked buzzing as any Asian city, with its busy streets, bicycles with unlikely loads, odd moped-in-a-box vehicles, street vendors and shabby buildings with vibrant signs. Standing outside the hotel later in the evening, I breathed it in, the sights and sounds, the gentle warm humidity, the smells of cooking, and thought, I need to be in Asia.

In flight entertainment

In the middle of the airline-imposed night, I staggered blearily to the galley at the back of the cabin for water. I flipped up the blind in the window of the door and gave an involuntary gasp - below me in bright sunlight spread the mountains of Northern Pakistan. Fold after fold of steep smooth brown rock, white with snow along the ridges, rose up from deep valleys. Rivers snaked coldly on the valley floors, the patchwork of small fields beside them just discernable. I gazed in awe as the mountains rose higher towards me, the snow now thick and constant, reaching down into higher valleys. Grey-green glaciers edged their way down from the snows into the rocky landscape. I tried to work out where we were - it was indeed Northern Pakistan. Below me somewhere was the bridge built by Greg Mortenson, the school, the village he described so well... I could see it now even more clearly, dwarfed by this huge, harsh beautiful landscape. I stood and watched unable to tear myself away, until the mountains gave way to desert.