As I made my morning coffee, I thought about what a pleasant and complete surprise it had been. Then I realised that of all the weather phenomenon – only snow is silent.

Walking through the park to the bus stop, I watched the neighborhood kids playing with delight. I felt just as gleeful, but it was enough to watch them as I waited for my ride.

Lots of people comment on how snow appears to purify a landscape of all its blemishes. In a city this effect is exaggerated. Gloomy old London was transformed into a winter wonderland. It was a truly memorable day for this young Antipodean.

We met after work and caught a train out to Stanstead airport before flying across to Berlin’s Schoenfield airport. When you consider recent history, it’s an odd thing flying between these two nations. I thought of the emotions that pilots and their passengers would have had as they flew across this air space during the War. Very different from my excitement to go clubbing and party I’d imagine!

After being in Berlin in July, I found it satisfying to find the place so familiar – for once I wasn’t landing in a completely foreign city. But winter had definitely arrived in the last few months. It was constantly overcast and bitterly cold.

I showed Jen how to buy and validate a weekend travel pass and we jumped on one of the massive Deutsche Bahn trains. These monsters are giant red juggernauts: They weigh thousands of tonnes and hurtle across the countryside at deathly speeds.

As we got into the central station, the sense of deja vu grew and I was happy to be able to navigate us to our hotel. Unlike last time, Jen and I would be staying in East Berlin. The hotel was a giant old communist block. Unsightly and aged, but efficient in every concievable way. Our room had a great view looking back towards Alexanderplatz and the famed telecom tower.

That night we managed to find a little Spanish restaurant. The kitchen had closed, but the helpful waiter said we were welcome to munch on the remaining tapas.

We drove back to Aberystwyth on the west coast and then followed the shore south to Aberaeron. Unfortunately, there were gale force on-shore winds, so I didn’t get the swim I was hoping for – it was freezing just to get out of the car, let alone into the water. But I have already swum in the Irish Sea so there was no loss.

After a leisurely drive down the coast, we stopped in at a charming little pub for a Sunday roast and pudding. Sadly, it was then time head back, so we joined the M4 outside Swansea and jetted back to old London town.

Welsh roads are very narrow and windy so it was slow going to get there, but the countryside was stunning. When we finally arrived, we had a quick breakfast in a little cafe before picking up some maps and advice from the local tourist office.

The weather didn’t look promising, but we parked the car at the start of the footpath and started hiking across the moors. At the top of the first ridge you could look across to the ocean in the west, and Snowdonia to the north.

The weather closed in just as we made it to the summit. The icy wind was fierce and the blanket of cloud brought rain and darkness. It would have been pretty scary except there were other hikers up there who were just as foolhardy as us.

We had very sore legs by the time we made it back to the car and there was about an hour’s worth of light left. We tried to have a look at the coast by looping past Tywyn on our way home – but night had already descended by the time we got there. We stopped only briefly for a couple of pints at a nearby village before heading back to the cabin.

Great day.

On Welsh TV that night, the “Jones Jones Jones” concert was being televised from Cardiff. It was a record breaking event where all the performers were named Jones (Tom, Grace, Catherine Zeta) and everyone in the audience was also named Jones – you needed to bring I.D with your ticket or they wouldn’t let you in! There were 1,400 Joneses in attendance, smashing the record previously set by Sweden’s Norbergs.

I felt at home.

The place was completely transformed once the sets, lights and lasers were in action. We had a few dinks at the bar before wandering around the different halls. Roeland was justifiably proud of his set designs and the models working them.

I had a few questions about the club’s visual setup, so we climbed up into the A/V booth to watch the wiz kids play with their toys. I wasn’t really surprised to discover that the entire light show was being controlled by a couple of scrawny kids on high-powered laptops.

After a while, we all went up onto the roof for some fresh air. Roeland unlocked a dusty old goods elevator which took us up to the top floor. Here was the ancient machinery and conveyor belts that fed the grain into the silos below. The music echoing up through them sounded very far away. Up on the roof, you could look out over all of Rotterdam. I liked to think I could see past the harbour (Earth’s busiest) to the open sea.

I spent the day cycling through the lush, perfectly flat countryside. Not far from Gouda is a series of shallow lakes criss-crossed with narrow corridors of land on which the roads and residences are built. It was great to cycle out there and watch the locals sailing, canoeing and cycling home from school.

On the way back to the station, I picked up 2 dozen Strubewaffels from a bakery in town – they are Roeland’s favourite.

It was great to be back after so many years. I visited all my old haunts: Vondelpark, the Grasshopper, MelkWeg, the Flying Pig youth hostel – I love Amsterdam. It brought back so many memories and had hardly changed at all.

On the way back to the station I picked up a book (Jim Dodge’s Stone Junction) to read on the return journey. A blonde, blue eyed Aussie girl worked at the bookstore. We had a nice chat before I raced off to meet my train.

After breakfast, I crossed Pont Neuf to the Latin Quarter and walked up Boulevard St-Germain. Passing the Sorbonne on my way, I came across the little apartment that Ernest Hemingway lived in on Rue Cardinal Limoine. Immediately next to it was an identical flat that was up for lease. Mmmmm tempting.

My plan wasn’t to escape the rain by going indoors, but by going underground. At Denfert-Rochereau was one of the (legal) entrances to the vast network of catacombs that exists beneath Paris. In the late 18th century, the cemeteries of Paris were overflowing with dead. This was adding to the plague epidemic and so the cycle continued. A decision was made to move the dead to the abandoned quarries beneath the city. So now the hundreds of kilometres of dark, winding tunnels are all filled to the ceiling with neatly stacked skeletons. Cool!

After paying the 7 odd euros for entry, I was impressed at how far down the tunnels were. I must have spiralled down at least 50 metres until coming out into a small antechamber. It was cold and damp and dimly lit. “Here is the Empire of the Dead” was engraved into the stone lintel above the next passageway. Beyond it, I could see the bones stacked high. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I tried to stop from shivering at the sight.

The endless maze of tunnels joined countless small chambers, each one filled with the occupants from a particular cemetery. There were also deep wells and large tombs that seemed to contain military personnel. There were whole legions of soldiers, some with musket holes punched through their skulls. Cool!

I descended the narrow musty staircase; clinging to the cast-iron railing and trying not slip on the tiny, spiralling wooden steps. Outside, the school kids were already playing in the park opposite – I had slept in!

I hurried north to Republique and caught the Metro to Anvers. Like the day before at the Arc, I had only just emerged from the subway when the sight of the Sacre Cœur Basilica almost knocked be back down the stairs.

It was stunning – shining perfectly white on that verdant hilltop like some elven palace. I was so spellbound that I passed through the outer perimeter of Nigerian hustlers without even noticing them.

After savouring the view and taking a few photos, I eventually climbed the last few stairs to the pinnacle. Buskers and magicians were performing on the steps which were crowded with tourists and dope smoking hippies. The entire city of Paris was laid out beneath us. I made a mental note to return for sunset.