At five minutes past ten we set off into Dereham to begin the long chain of connections: car, bus, train, tube, flight, and finally a taxi to Uluwatu in Bali.

“It’s a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no telling where you might be swept off to.”

Oh hang on—I’ve forgotten my phone. An inglorious start.

The bus, at least, was on time and dropped us off with enough margin for a coffee before the train. Well, Jay and I behaved ourselves and had a coffee, but Mamu insisted on having a pint of Bure Gold, still it meant he slept most of the way to London. I remember when catching the train to London felt exciting. This time, as with many others, it was uneventful to the point of dullness, arriving at Liverpool Street exactly on schedule. I’d read earlier about overhead cable problems bringing the Norwich–Liverpool Street line to a standstill on the Friday after we travelled, so I was quietly pleased to have dodged that particular stress.

We chose a carriage towards the back of the train, giving us space to acclimatise to the sudden change of pace that always seems to happen on arrival in the capital. The downside, of course, is having to navigate the army of four‑wheeled suitcases being pushed with little awareness of direction or consequence. I could write an entire post about how much they annoy me, but that might turn into a full-blown Victor Meldrew style series, and nobody needs that.

We could have taken the Elizabeth Line—newer trains, shorter journey—but it’s twice the price of the Underground, so without much deliberation we went with the tried‑and‑tested route: Central Line to Holborn, then Piccadilly Line to Heathrow. Fifty minutes door to door, and an excellent opportunity for people‑watching while sitting on what must be some of the most uncomfortable rolling stock TfL still owns. In one carriage the lights flickered relentlessly; every time they dimmed I half-expected an alien to burst through the doors in hot pursuit of Doctor Who.

We were flying from Terminal 4 and had booked a hotel connected by a covered walkway. Finding it, however, proved less straightforward than expected, until a very friendly security guard pointed cheerfully at a door and said, “Yes—it’s literally just through there.”

We headed into Hounslow for dinner. Walking from the Tube station, the smell of onions, garlic, and base gravy was heavenly. In Dereham, that combination usually means you’re on Norwich Street; here, the source was harder to pinpoint. It slowly dawned on us that the source was (was tempted to go with Sauce) people’s homes as we passed, which felt both comforting and faintly disappointing. We reverted to Plan A and went to Wetherspoons instead, adding another carpet to our ever-growing (mental) collection.

After a big breakfast the next morning, accompanied by more people-watching and a bit of quiet grumbling about food waste, we made the three-minute walk back to the airport. It’s advertised as two minutes, but once again we were slowed by the flotilla of four-wheeled suitcases. I remain convinced that people should require a licence before being allowed to operate them in public.

Check-in brought a minor scare when we were asked to prove we’d be leaving Indonesia within thirty days. Fortunately, we had printed copies of our visas showing our plan to stay for sixty, which solved the issue without needing any onward flight evidence – a little strange, but welcome.

I know airports are stressful places at the best of times. When so much money, time, and anticipation ride on a single journey, it’s understandable that people worry about visas, passports, dates, and documents. Still, airports seem uniquely adept at bringing out the worst in human behaviour. If people could hear how they speak to staff, notice how they move as though the rest of the world is fractionally out of sync with them, or see what they leave behind, I suspect many would be horrified. I know I would be, though I’ll admit I’m always a sizable fraction out of sync with reality anyway.

For one of Malaysian Airlines’ premium routes, it was very good of them to put on one of their vintage aeroplanes. About an hour into the flight, they finally replaced the hamster running the entertainment system. Sadly, once it sprang into life, the selection was so underwhelming that you almost wished they hadn’t bothered. The flight was quieter than I had expected when we checked in a couple of days before, and the guy travelling to Australia who was sitting next to Jay found some seats that gave him more space. That gave us a little more room too, and one of the advantages of being five feet tall meant Jay was able to lie down.

One of the things that puts me off long-haul flights is how uncomfortable the seats can be (in fact, writing that leaves room for a couple more Victor Meldrew‑style rants. The first about how, no matter what time of day you leave or land, there is always an illogical period when all the lights are turned off so you can sleep. The second: how come the person in front of Jay always feels it necessary to put their seat all the way back at the first opportunity? But by my own rules, no).

Now, the flight from Kuala Lumpur was on a brand-new plane, with more legroom and new touchscreen televisions. It didn’t, however, stop the woman behind us snoring for the whole flight. You would have thought her husband might have given her a poke. I mean, I do Jay 😊. The most memorable bit of this flight was watching the early morning storm over Java and looking down at the clear blue seas, particularly around the little islands north of Bali.

It is strange how removed from reality you are on a plane journey. We left the air‑conditioned Heathrow Terminal 4, boarded an air‑conditioned aircraft, and stopped over in the air‑conditioned Kuala Lumpur airport. Then, stepping off the plane in Denpasar, the sudden realisation that you are in the tropics cannot be ignored, and all those wearing big coats, jumpers, and scarves come grinding to a halt to shed some very unwanted layers. Bali airport is quite a nice airport, and the introduction of e‑passports makes moving through it pretty quick well that is until you join the queue to check you’ve completed the visitors’ form. Then everything grinds to a halt. So the gates for e-passports, not really a solution, just pushing the problem further down the line.

On the whole, public transport in Bali is very poor, almost non‑existent. We’ll test this further later in our journey. I’m not sure it’s even possible to get from the airport to Uluwatu by public transport, so we had to arrange a transfer. It’s a good job we have WhatsApp, or we’d never have found our driver. Considering the state of the roads and how the locals drive, I’m always surprised by how many tourists hire scooters here, and disappointed by how many wear no protection whatsoever. Compulsory helmet‑wearing in the UK was introduced in 1973 because of the cost to the NHS, and anyone who wears Lycra and wipes out on a corner will tell you how unpleasant road rash is – so why ignore common sense just because you’re on holiday?

Not being here for two years had clearly softened my memory of just how bad the traffic is. What was only a 20 km journey took us two hours. Stefanus, not only did the driving but also provided karaoke to his favourite rock tracks. Two hours to do 20 km!

By the time we finally rolled into Uluwatu, stiff, slightly wilted, and faintly humming along to forgotten classic rock anthems, the long chain from front door to far‑flung shore was complete. It felt like proof of Tolkien’s warning: once you step out of your door and onto the road, there really is no knowing where you might be swept off to—or quite how long it will take to get there. The journey had delivered exactly what it always does: minor panics, unnecessary irritations, unexpected kindness, and a renewed appreciation for having arrived at all. The bags were intact, the visas valid, and we were once again exactly where we meant to be—just a little rumpled, thoroughly entertained, and very ready for Bali to slow us back down again.