Lapsed

Far too long has elapsed since I last pressed fingertips to grubby keyboard for The Miranda's benefit: weeks of hours and minutes dissolved into a flurry of timetables and lists and arrangements and French.

There was more than simply admin and faceless pieces of paper to order about: six countries soaked up in espresso shots of time. First, Amsterdam, where grizzly grey skies contrasted sharply the fragrant florals which tumbled from market stalls along the River Amstell. Only platefuls of mouth-watering poffertjes (Dutch pancakes), thick and fluffy and laden with glistening butter, managed to soothe pavement-battered feet.

From flattened avenues weaving amongst a tangle of waterways to sharp skyscraper edges and an abundance of midnight blue spotted with golden stars: Brussels, the EU administrative capital. Chocolately aromas curled around the lace fronted shops which swaddled the Grand Place before this metropolitana melted into thickly-forested green rolls and humps of countryside: the descent into the Belgian Ardennes was akin to diving into a mossy green pool.

To Paris, a city riddled with cliches. Hand-clasped lovers swooning on bridges stretching from the Left to the Right, hordes of tourists with emblazoned t-shirts proclaiming "J'adore Paris". Stomach churning heights from the Eiffel Tower and burning thighs mounting Montmartre. Beautiful boulevards melting into a shimmering horizon. The city of lights.

The blustery Normandy beaches set the scene for solemn contemplation and remembrance; picking one's way through the pock-marked scenery where slices of metal still scar the wild grasses and thousands of white marble crosses serve up sobering thoughts in cemetery surroundings.

Six hours of shut-eye later and feet stepped onto England's green and sacred land, where fat splats of raindrops quickened a return to reality. Elbows are sharpened for the plunge amongst London's myriad of tourists and trips through time: stepping back a thousand years at Tower Hill, rubbing shoulders with royalty at Buckingham Palace, or simply getting groovy with the cast of Sister Act. A plunge into the murky depths of the Tube and the terror of being swept away with the crowd provided a nail-biting finale.

Nerves were tested in the wildest corners of Wales; teetering on the brink of a castle where the solid grey blocks tumbled away to nothingness and every nerve needed to be mustered to bounce to the ground, with eyes to the sky and damp hands clamped to rope.

And so to the finish, on the Irish coast at the point where the sea and the sky become one in a gigantic, cavernous space inhabited by the friendliest souls one could ever wish to meet. The Ring of Kerry: the absolute highlight. A morning spent snuggled on traps pulled by hardy ponies, hot soup and sandwiches filling growling tummies before drifting away an afternoon on silent waters crowded by verdant mountains.

Squeezed into less than twenty days, the whistle-stop tour still manages to cream off the very essence of each place; a taste of its soul, a touch of the identity. It's enough to make one wonder why bother galumphing off to exotic beaches half a world away when there's oh so much to savour on our doorsteps.