Belgrade, 30th November 2012. Riot police flow between the Old Palace and the Serbian Presidential building, heading in the same direction I am. Yesterday was the date of the national day of the former Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY) and I’d been warned at the hostel that there may be some people out marching “because of nostalgia”. What kind of nostalgia requires riot police? I continue down the busy main road of Kralja Milana, trying not to let the increasing numbers of riot police worry me; no one else seems to be paying them any attention. Ahead the police have closed off the road and a procession is marching towards the town centre and the bored looking, shield carrying officers. It’s a only a small march, perhaps two hundred people waving the plain blue, white and red striped flag of the FRY. In the middle of the column is a flat-bed lorry with a sound system playing a slow heavy marching song, the brass instruments sound harsh through speakers designed for bass heavy beats. With the march in the road, flanked by police, the pavement becomes very crowded, but shoppers carrying on as usual, pushing past each other with bags of food and new clothes. Few seem to be paying attention, only one or two stop and watch the march.

Belgrade, 29th November 2012 “Budapest? Quick I’ll take you to the other station, otherwise you’ll miss the train!” Herman hoists his big rucksack on his thin frame, wobbles for second, steadies, then follows the taxi driver at a jog and vanishes past the end of the train. “Good luck” I call after him. Wait, there isn’t another long distance railway station in Belgrade…is there? My mind is only half awake as I’m tired from a poor night’s sleep in a hot and dry sleeper compartment and I struggle to remember anything about Serbian trains. I look at the quiet of Belgrade station’s eight tracks at six thirty in the morning. Perhaps the taxi driver is right, but I don’t remember any mention of another station. All other international trains depart from this station, why wouldn’t the Budapest trains?

Sofia, 28th November 2012. After a long sleep I head out and start exploring Sofia. I don’t have very long in Sofia as tonight I’m taking the night train on to Belgrade. I start the day by wandering south to the National Palace of Culture and then head north and east to the park surrounding the Monument to the Soviet Army, one of a number of monuments built under soviet rule to express Bulgaria’s gratitude for their liberation. The park is filled with many little childish statues which have been sprayed in bright and slightly creepy colours. The monument itself is a large column on a raised square, atop stands a copper Russian soldier, flanked by a Bulgarian family, proudly waving his gun in the air and staring to the North.

Bulgaria, 27th November 2012. “Passport!” I’m woken with a start by the shout and the knocking on my compartment door. In the dark I fumble for the light switch, my glasses and then my passport. I slide open the door to see a heavy set border guard wearing a green bomber jacket and holding a stamp. He looks briefly at the passport, stamps it, passes it back and moves on. I check the time, four o’clock in the morning, then turn off the light and fall into a half sleep.

Istanbul, 26th November 2012. After stopping at the glorious Blue Mosque I go nearby to the Basilica Cistern, a large underground chamber constructed in the 6th century. Inside a walkway takes you on a gentle lap through the ordered forest of stone columns, below me in the clear water a few fish glide past. The chamber echoes with the splashes and drips of water, orange lights illuminate each pillar gently, reflecting sharply in the shallow and gently rippling water. The atmosphere is pleasantly quiet and humid, the steady repeating pattern of columns offers a simple beauty. What I like most about the cistern is that unlike the other sites in Istanbul this wasn’t intended to impress people or deities, it was designed purely to be functional, but it has still become a beautiful space.

Istanbul, 25 November 2012. Today I’ve decided to take a cruise up the Bosphorus to the edge of the black sea, hopefully giving my legs a chance to rest while the ship does the hard work of sailing us up and down the narrow straits that separate Europe from Asia. I take the tram down to the waterfront at Eminönü, the closest pier to the Galata Bridge on the south side of the Golden Horn. All along the waterfront are touts shouting “Bosphorus, Bosphorus, Bosphortour…”, each wearing a cheap fancy dress captain’s hat and holding a laminated card with a picture of a ferry and various sights along the Istanbul Strait. Ferries depart from here to many parts of Istanbul and in the morning rush hour thousands of people flock to and from the piers. The only ones who seem unhurried are the many anglers lining the Galata Bridge, chain smoking while leaning wearily against the railings next to their rods, watching of the web of lines that hang across the restaurant terraces below the bridge and into the green waters.

Istanbul, November 24th 2012. I start the first day of my holiday with the inclusive hostel breakfast of olives, cheese, bread and cucumbers in the colourful downstairs canteen. I eat these clumsily with a fork in one hand while I try to flip between the pages of my guidebook with the other. I’ve already decided that ebook readers are the future purely on the ability to read from them over breakfast without these one handed contortions or having to use stray heavy objects to hold the pages open.

Bristol, November 23rd 2012. You have to start somewhere and for me it is Bristol Temple Meads Station and the eleven o’clock to London Paddington. A clear November sky lets a low and yellow sun give the countryside a slumbering fuzzy glow, inviting the start of hibernation. The recent heavy rain has resulted in flooding, causing the Avon to be lost in wide, smooth brown lakes that run under hedgerows and across fields; in Bath the river is almost touching the undersides of the bridges.

The idea is simple; fly to Istanbul and then travel back to Bristol by train. My 3700 kilometre route should take me through Turkey, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, France and finally back to Britain. I love travelling, seeing the world roll by, the kilometres counting out the changes in peoples, beliefs, countries and cultures. In two weeks there is no chance of grasping anything but a small fraction of the history and people covered by my route, but even that small fraction will be fascinating.

Hidden down a single track lane and announced only by a softly spoken brown sign in the shadow of the M25 it is a treasure of aircraft design evolution. The de Havilland Heritage Centre is a fantastic collection of aircraft from a fast evolving period of aviation history. Having most of the collection come from the same company provides a consistency of approach that makes changes easier to identify between aircraft. It high-lights what drove design decisions, from payload capacity to engine integration.