There's something about Japan that makes you want to burn every goddamn photo you've ever taken anywhere else.

It’s not just the temples, all serene wood and meticulously raked gravel, looking like they were art-directed by some Zen master with an Ansel Adams fetish. Or the neon-drenched canyons of Shinjuku, where every sign, every epileptic screen, feels deliberately placed for maximum visual impact. No, it’s the people - this entire country is a masterclass in aesthetics.

It starts with a suggestion, "just go, I ended up staying there for weeks". Next thing you know, you’re on a minivan climbing the switchbacks to Pai. Or you’re barefoot on a ferry bound for Gili Trawangan, your hair dusted in sand and regret.

Once you’ve been around a few hostels in Asia you’ll start hearing the names: Pai, Gili T, Siquijor, Pushkar, Vang Vieng—a constellation of places orbiting in your daydreams. Out here, deadlines mean the next visa run. Job titles mean nothing. Everyone is five years younger than they claim or ten years older than they look, clothed in a patchwork of stretched singlets and accesorised in hemp.

Okay, grab a Singha, ice cold if you can get it. Because we need to talk about maps. Not the paper kind, the ones in our heads. This particular brand of bullshit they drew for us in school.

Civilisation™ – the officially licensed version – kicks off somewhere sandy near the Nile. Pyramids, pharaohs. Then Greece, philosophers in robes, inventing democracy and art. Next stop, Rome. Roads, legions, aqueducts, conquering everything. Then darkness, maybe some knights, and boom, suddenly we're talking Florence and London. Neat, tidy, centred.

From the restaurant of the 5 star hotel I’ve got 3 nights in as part of my heavily subsidised stopover of this former flyover state, I drink tea wishing there was a cold beer on the menu. Outside, and across the bay, the city's skyscrapers twist toward heaven in impossible shapes—glass-and-steel monuments to what money can command when freed from the constraints of reason or restraint.

The sky turns a hazy crimson I wander the cobblestone streets of "Sunset Town," a grotesque simulacrum of an Italian village improbably planted on the southern shores of Phu Quoc, and island in south Vietnam.

I'm surrounded by perfect terracotta facades under a towering clocktower, but there is a profound emptiness that echoes between the walls. There's something almost post-apocalyptic about it - as if all the Italians were raptured to heaven, leaving behind only their architectural blessings and a smattering of bewildered Asian tourists clutching selfie sticks.

There’s no better way to escape the world than to hike above it. No news, no emails, no noise—just the clean, thin air of the mountains and the crunch of grass or gravel. Escaping to the outdoors has always been my sanctuary, the one thing that strips life down to its essentials. By foot or pedal, up and over ridgelines, across rivers that run clear and fast, through valleys carved by glaciers long gone but never forgotten.

There was a time when Hong Kong was the brightest light in Asia, perhaps the world. A neon jungle with streets paved with ambition. The clang of the trams, wail of distant ferries, and hustle of millions of entrepreneurs harmonised into that hum of a city that never slept. You could smell it - the scent of roasted duck, the salt of the South China Sea, the sweat of a thousand bankers and hustlers trying to carve out their piece of paradise. It was a city that made you believe in opportunity, in capitalism, in the idea that tomorrow you two could live the dream.

There’s a moment, somewhere on the winding roads of Hi Van Pass, where the engine hums beneath, the hairpin curve ahead is blind, and you’re inches from a sheer drop off a cliff into the sea below. You should slow down, play it safe. Instead, you lean in.

Riding motorbikes in Southeast Asia is the ultimate trade-off—one part liberation, one part mortal danger. It’s the closest thing to flying without wings, an open invitation to the road where you call the shots. But to many of my friends back home, it’s lunacy. A death wish on two wheels. “Are you crazy!?” they ask, horrified. I’ve seen the statistics, the numbers aren’t pretty - Thailand has one of the highest motorcycle fatality rates in the world and accidents involving tourists are a big part of it. Vietnam and Bali aren’t much better, with thousands of deaths a year, many of them foreigners who thought a rented scooter was as harmless as a bicycle.

The first thing that sticks to you in Bangkok isn’t the heat, though that comes soon enough - it’s the sheer contrast between the haves and have-nots. A Lamborghini purrs to a stop outside of ICONSiam, its driver stepping out in that latest designer outfits that cost more than the street vendor makes in a year. A few steps away, an old woman crouches beside a makeshift cart, selling mango sticky rice for a handful of baht. Over on the road, a tuk tuk driver beckons to any tourist that will look to him to offer a ride across the city for $4. The city lives in both worlds at once, without hesitation or apology.

Sukhumvit Road stretches like an artery through Bangkok’s restless heart, pumping life, commerce, and vice through its endless sprawl. Past gilding shopping malls, alongside through some of the best value for money business hotels, carved out under one of the busiest BTS lines.

It sells everything. With enough baht in your pocket you can feast like a king on street food or 5 start French restaurants. You can buy fake Rolexes, fake Ray-Bans, fake friendships. From late afternoon street vendors will display illegal vapes and sex toys for sale - including an intriguing number of strap on appendages.

I'm enjoying a premature retirement to travel the world with my camera (or at least till money runs out).

Instead of writing in an old diary to be shunned away and and forgotten, I'm doing a stupid thing and publishing my thoughts and recollections from on the road for you to read or express bewilderment at.