Making our Way to Hampi (Just!)

My first impression of Madgaon Railway Station is that it resembles what I imagine Clapham Junction would be like for a foreigner except that, amongst other minor differences, Clapham Junction has signs which correspond to stations and platforms numbered in ascending order.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, we go in search of the Ticket office figuring that we'll find help there but the large red letters painted across the doorway suggest otherwise: 

'NO ENQUIRIES PLEASE'

Fortunately, we've already purchased our tickets and know where we're heading but just have absolutely no idea which train will get us there. What's more, we've been told not to rely on the scheduled departure times of trains to identify them as they're more of a 'guideline' than a definitive timetable - trains can arrive an hour late, an hour early, or when things are really fucked up, on time. 

Eventually we find assistance (at the Lost Property desk of all places) and haul our backpacks up the steep stairway to the main bridge. From above, we get our first real look at the extent of this madness. In the distance, the sun is rising casting light onto the railway tracks and the dozens of Indians scattered along it. Some are washing in water spouting from broken pipes, others taking shelter from the intensifying heat, tucking themselves away in the shadows of the sunken bunkers. 

Above ground, the scenes are scarcely better. Beggars shuffle towards us with open palms and pleading eyes, mirroring the patterns of the countless stray dogs meandering between waiting passengers on the platform. 

After what feels like an eternity, our train finally appears and small, tanned bodies fling themselves from the open doors before it's steadied to a stop. We jump on wherever we can, endeavouring to simply walk through the coaches to find our seats once we're safely on board. Simple, of course, does not come into it. 

Squeezing through the narrow corridors with our huge backpacks and the large crowds of people crammed into the suffocatingly small cubbyholes on either side is a fair mission. It occurs to me then that on this occasion, we probably deserve the endless stares from onlookers which we've become so accustomed to. This time, they're likely no more struck by our pale skin as they are our complete incompetence in boarding a train. We've clearly missed something and we're causing a mess. 

After fighting our way through four coaches and at least four hundred people, we reach a barricade which divides the different classes. At the next station, we disembark and try all over again. It's a panicked seven seconds sprinting down the platform but we do thankfully make it and we're rewarded with the air-conditioned and slightly less crowded carriage of second class. Finally we can sit back and enjoy the scenery flying past us like an old school VHS fast-forwarded from start to finish. I can quickly understand why many locals choose to sit in the open doorways for the duration of their journey, disregarding their seats which offer no more comfort and far less of a view. 

The heat of Hospet hits us the moment we step off the train, enclosing itself around us and absorbing the breath from our lungs. We welcome the little breeze the Tuk Tuk provides as we direct our driver to our homestay in Hampi. He takes us far as the river where we say our thanks and transfer onto a rickety longboat which jolts to a stop just seconds after departing the sandbank the other side. The river is not wide but with no bridge in place, it's the only way to cross with our backpacks and belongings. It costs us all of ten rupee, ten pence. 

Handing the scrumpled pink note to the driver, we step ashore. The thirty other travellers who'd shared the ten man boat with us all quickly disappear up the hill ahead. Our directions instruct us to turn right. But right? Really? At first glance we see nothing but shrubbery but on closer inspection notice a hint of a path in the form of trodden grass leading straight through the middle of it all. I guess that must be it. 

We trudge along in the unbearable heat and just as I begin to think we've taken a wrong turn, the butterflies overhead suddenly scatter and the voice of a young man booms from above. He speeds towards us and relieves us of our heavy backpacks which he pulls onto his shoulder with the utmost ease. 

With a smile, he leads us to the entrance of the homestay which overlooks the river and the most stunning view of the temples on the other side. It's breathtaking, and with little breath left from the long walk anyway, we collapse onto the cushions which constitute the reception area. 

The young man asks us if we've eaten and I suddenly realise we haven't; not since nine o'clock last night and it's now almost five in the afternoon. He disappears in a hurry and a different man returns. His dark eyes find mine. 

'Welcome...'

Stephanie & Surita, Palolem

Stephanie sits down first. She's wearing a full length emerald green sari with a red scarf thrown across one shoulder. It's close to forty degrees but she's smiling. 

'Hello, my name is Stephanie. What is yours?'

We introduce ourselves and pause, allowing her time to launch into her sales pitch. But it doesn't come. 

'You very beautiful milky white skin. Where from?'

Her own deep tan is desirable to my eyes but in India it tells a different story; a story of poverty. Though she's dripping in jewellery and her sari is exquisite, neither speak louder than the darkness of her skin. She's happy to cover it up. 

'Be careful. If you stay out here long, you be like me.'

Her smile tells a story too; one of kindness. It extends beyond her grin to the creases in either corner of her dark eyes. I realise then just how dark those eyes are, the pupils entirely indistinguishable from the surrounding irises. She's beautiful but she looks weary. 

'You're mother and daughter? I have two sons, aged six and nine.'

Stephanie goes on to explain that the boys are at school back home in Hampi. She spends eight months of every year away from them whilst working in Goa. 

'It's how I afford them education. I want for them education.'

Her face lights up as she speaks of her children, the hope for their future overcoming her heartache of the separation in the present day. 

'You're married?'

I realise the question is aimed at me and laugh. No, no, I'm not married. I'm twenty-five, twenty-six in a few days.

'Twenty-six?! You look baby!'

I cringe realising my mistake. She thought I was younger. 

'I'm twenty-six. Next month I'm starting twenty-seven.'

I feel my eyes widen but the words don't come. Instead I stare back at hers, urging those two black holes to swallow me up. 

She's twenty-six. I'd thought her to be at least thirty-six and wouldn't have been surprised at forty. Her tired eyes carry the weight of a much older woman. 

My silence is broken by the arrival of another girl who kneels down beside us with a shy smile.

'This is Surita. She's not married neither. She's nineteen.'

Surita looks embarrassed as she shakes our hand. Moments ago I'd have assumed she was Stephanie's daughter. 

'I was married at sixteen. So young, too young. It is good for Surita not to be married.'

Surita noticeably relaxes and chimes in with the conversation. Her English is perfect. 

'Many girls are married at sixteen, most by eighteen. My parents want me married now but I want first to study more. And I want a good man to marry. Not lazy man like Stephanie's. I tell them.'

I'm pleased that she seems to have some say in her future, yet sad that it's even a consideration. 

'My husband very lazy,' Stephanie agrees. 'Not like me. He does no work, he does no care. No for me, no for my sons. But that's how it is. For some, good. For some, bad.'

As the sun sets and the girls retreat to their 'little mosquito shop', it's Stephanie who holds my thoughts. How can we, two girls of the same age on the same beach watching the same sunset, live such entirely different lives? 

It seems so wildly unfair and yet I realise that no part of Stephanie's speech resembled a complaint; her tone was that of acceptance, for the way things are and her inability to change it. 

It's that which hurt my heart the most.  

Getting to Know Goa

Staring out at the ocean with a fresh watermelon juice in one hand and a book in the other, I felt a million miles from home. And yet I didn't feel I was in India. 

Having landed in Goa late the previous evening, we'd had little chance yet to explore and so far the only Indians I'd encountered on Agonda Beach had four legs and an udder. After the cows, the second largest population is undoubtedly the Europeans so whilst I'd heard plenty of exotic Italian, French and Swedish accents, I'd barely heard a whisper of Konkani.

It perhaps didn't help that the book in my hand that morning was Shantaram, a true account of a man living in a slum in Bombay, from which I could draw no comparison. However, even without this extremity in mind, the rooms were pristine, the service too timely and there were as many British options on the menus as Indian. Who comes all the way to India to have a Full English Breakfast?

Fortunately, we found a handful of restaurants a little way down the beach offering authentic local food where we indulged in an okra masala and vegetable kadai with lemon rice, raita and plain roti. This quite literally gave us a taste of the real India so as soon as we'd paid the bill (a grand total of 300 rupee- the equivalent of £3) we headed out in search of more. 

'There, Palolem.' 

We were dropped at the side of a dusty road by a man in a green and yellow Tuk Tuk who's name I didn't catch, though I asked three times. Not yet shed of my British mindset, I nodded and smiled rather than asking for a fourth. 

At his fingertip was a narrow path between a cluster of trees which presumably led to Palolem, another Goan beach which we'd been told was more alive with locals. 

The path appeared to pierce through the middle of a dumping ground with huge scraps of metal, rope and broken wood piled between the shrubbery. It took me a long while to realise these were homes. Each was surrounded by a bed of more rubbish; plastic bottles, cans, wrappers and rags, which seemingly housed the camp's pet pigs, as well as some other less welcome guests. 

At closer inspection, we noticed further small huts concealed beneath the camouflaging leaves which constituted the slanted rooftops. They were more like tents than houses, too low for even the smallest of children to stand up in and yet would likely have to suffice for a family of six to sleep. 

Others stood taller but none stood strong - certainly not stable enough to withstand the oncoming monsoons of next month. Ravi, the young boy who'd brought us from the airport to Agonda, had told us the rains inflict such destruction that even our guesthouse is forced to close and rebuild their entire property the following season. 

The contrast between this small community and the beach the other side was quite shocking. Palolem wreaked of perfection. There wasn't a drop of littler spoiling the golden sand, nor one sign of the poverty we'd just emerged from. 

Bars, cafes and small shops formed a definitive divide between the two so nobody need know what lies behind. It was clear that Palolem would offer no more of India than Agonda had but we decided to stay and at least watch the sunset from this beautiful spot. 

Whilst we waited, we were joined by two Indian women who introduced themselves as Stephanie and Surita and sat down beside us. From our short conversation with them, I learnt more about this country than I had in the twenty-four hours we'd spent in it. It was at that moment I decided to document this trip through the people we meet as well as the places we visit. I believe it will give a more accurate representation and it all starts with Stephanie and Surita. 

A Weekend on the Lake

Two days. 

Five pictures. 

Zero Filters.

A thousand words. 

Spanish Winter Sun

This year, the thought of spending the Christmas holidays not on holiday seemed ludicrous. My job leaves me so restricted with annual leave that it would be a wasted opportunity to not travel during the only five days of the year that the office is officially closed. 

Therefore, just moments after gobbling down my last slice of Yule log, I was in the car on my way to the airport with my mum – the thought of spending the Christmas holidays not with her seemed ludicrous too. 

In a matter of hours, we’d landed in Valencia and whilst it wasn’t the traditional Christmas setting, I was more than happy to swap the festive pines for exotic palms and catch a few days of Spanish winter sun. 

We began the way I like to begin all city breaks; with a historical walking tour. I usually find this gives a good overview of the city and the chance to note down places to return to later on. Thanks to our guide Helena, a Spanish-Dutch girl studying in Valencia, this tour was amongst the best that I’ve taken. From the very outset, she diverted us away from the traditional tourist route and instead uncovered the secrets of the city which would otherwise have gone unnoticed. 

For example, we passed the Palace of the Borgias which from the street, appears to be like any other grand building built for a wealthy family in the 15th century. However, Helena led us down the neighbouring alleyway to reveal that whilst the ‘Palace’ is impressive in terms of its height and width, it’s in fact the narrowest building in the city – only six strides deep! In a sense, this is an accurate representation of the Borgia family who hid a life of organised crime behind the grand front of being holy men of the church. 

Later we stopped to admire the intricate architecture of the Silk Market which does well to distract from the master-bating gargoyles  (yep genuinely) poised on the surrounding turrets, as well as the Towers of Serano, the sole survivors of what once made up the city wall, and San Juan hospital where all Valencia’s want their children to be baptised. We also visited the old wheat factory but I have to admit the story behind it was a lot more entertaining when Helena’s strong accent had led me to believe she was talking about weed. 

After four hours of walking, we’d worked up quite an appetite which was fortunate considering the paella we ordered for dinner arrived in a dish the size of a small spaceship. It tasted pretty out of this world too and we finished it off with little trouble. 

The following morning, we set off on a mission to find bikes to hire in order to cycle through the Turia River. Yes, through! The Turia River, as it is still known despite no longer holding any water, was emptied and transported to the other side of the city following a devastating flood in 1957. There was much debate over what should be done with the dried up riverbed, the most likely option being a highway. However, the people of Valencia came together and successfully pitched an idea to the government for this space to be transformed into one very, very long park! The 25km route is now home to numerous sports grounds, playgrounds, cafes, restaurants, fountains and even a zoo!

Over the course of the day we covered the majority, stopping for lunch at the epic Centre of Arts and Sciences which is so futuristic, it looks as though it belongs in Dubai. It’s completely stunning but in an entirely different sense to the rest of the city and quite bizarre to stumble across on route to the beach. 

In the evening, we had a date with a Valencian man called Gabi who’d arranged to meet us just outside the Cathedral after sundown – a romantic start to our Spanish Tapas Tour! 

We began at a small restaurant just off the main square but before he let us tuck in, he insisted we know the history behind what we were eating. Gabi explained that this Spanish style of eating was born of the need in previous times to cover one's glass of wine with a slice of bread or meat to deter fruit flies. In fact, the very word 'tapa' is derived from the verb 'to cover.' Bartenders soon realised that the meat, whilst served initially as a practical measure, was very salty and so was simultaneously helping to increase their alcohol sales.  As a result, they invested in finding dishes which complimented their wines in this way. 

A secondary theory is that a law was introduced during King Alfonso's reign which dictated that alcohol served in public houses must be accompanied by food. The reason behind this law is widely believed to be that the King was tired of calling upon his army to fight, only to find them completely drunk. 

Respecting the King's law, we accompanied our meal with wine, arguably a little too large for the small pintxos on our plate; two slices of bread topped with croquettes and soft cheese. 

We finished these quickly and followed Gabi deep into the maze-like streets of the Old Town. Along the way, he pointed out his favourite shops, cafes and corners which he recommended we return to, should we ever find (or more likely stumble upon) them again. 

At the second restaurant, we dined alfresco with typical tapas including patatas bravas, garlic shrimps, calamari and more. As we ate, we shared stories of our lives back home and listened to Gabi's account of the city where he was born and bred. The fact that we'd just met this man and yet conversed with ease between picking at the plates spread out in front of us highlighted the sociability of this way of eating. Though I'm sure the second gigantic glass of wine accompanying it helped too. 

Despite being completely stuffed, we still had one more stop which Gabi assured us was completely unmissable. He certainly did save the best till last. The moment we sat down, our table disappeared beneath a large platter of toasted bread and intriguing dips. My favourite consisted of goats cheese, scrambled egg and courgette - three ingredients which I would never normally place together but it tasted delectable.

Just as I thought the evening was coming to a close, Gabi ordered not a glass but a pitcher of wine for us to try. It was a dessert wine and is traditionally consumed by tipping back your head, positioning the spout at an arm's length from your mouth and pouring it in. It vaguely resembled something we used to do on sports socials at university but the delicate Spanish porron from which it flowed somehow added a touch of class.

I woke with a slightly fuzzy head the next morning but nevertheless made it up to the rooftop of our hotel in time to watch the sunrise over the city. Our immediate surroundings were rather unattractive high rise flats but casting our eyes a little further on, we could see the beautiful spires and domes of the Old Town piercing the pink and lilac sky.

On our final day in Valencia we took the bikes and cycled to the very centre, keen to cover every inch. I was pleased to realise that certain routes were beginning to feel familiar and I was gradually getting to know my way around the city, guided for the most part by the memorable street art on every corner. We soon found ourselves on top of the world again, this time in the midst of the scene we'd admired earlier and gazing out from the middle on the balcony of the bell tower. It was a different perspective but equally as perfect. 


With just hours left, we returned to the beach and dined at Panorama, a beautiful restaurant on the peninsular with an incredible view out over the ocean. I was very sad to be leaving that day and was so taken in by wanting to stay, that we came very close to missing our flight. 

Looking back on it, it wouldn't have been the end of the world. 

New York, New York!

Never before have I felt so familiar with a city that I've not yet set eyes upon. New York has existed in my conscious for so long that despite this being my first trip, I felt instantly at home in my surroundings. When I felt the ground rumble beneath me, I already knew it was the Metro. When I saw the steam rising from the sidewalks, I knew it was the drains. I wasn't even surprised to see the spiral staircases wrapped around each and every building; I already knew what they were for. All of my questions had been answered before I'd even voiced them. 

The only slight oddity was not seeing the familiar faces I'm so used to seeing roam these streets on my television screen; Brad Pitt, Courtney Cox, and Blake Lively were nowhere to be seen but there was at least one friendly face there to welcome us ; the lovely Hannah who had kindly offered to put us up during our stay. Hannah's little studio flat oozes New York City style with its vintage décor and exposed brick wall. Though it consists of just one room and a bathroom, it was perfect for the four of us to huddle in together and play SATC for a long weekend.

It's also situated directly opposite Chelsea Market so it made sense for that to be our first stop. This urban, underground court reminded me a lot of Brixton village with slightly less edge and a little more sparkle. We weaved in and out of the shops and stalls, picking up snacks, taking snaps and making note of the happy hours at each and every wine bar. Then, as if by a gravitational force, we found ourselves being pulled towards the flashing lights at the centre of Times Square. It’s absolutely mental; like Piccadilly Circus on ecstasy and we placed ourselves in the very centre in complete awe. The clock chimed eight but I have no idea how much time had passed before that point. We were completely lost in the madness.

After a brief visit to the gigantic Forever 21 in the square, we headed in the direction of the gigantic Christmas tree outside the gigantic Rockerfeller buiding for the turning on of the gigantic Christmas lights (all nine-thousand-and-ninety-something miles worth, ahem Sophie!) Unfortunately, we were also faced with gigantic crowds and never actually made it to the event, despite Bianca's best efforts at playing the 'I'm lost and British and speak like the Queen' card with the policemen guarding the entrance.

We turned away defeated, not all that fussed until the next morning when we heard whispers of Michael Buble performing alongside Sting and other A-list stars at the opening. We should've known that New York would do nothing by halves and certainly should’ve remembered that fact just a few hours later when we foolishly ordered two stacks of pancakes and a Full American breakfast between us at Bubby's. I'm not sure which is more of a wonder; the fact that we finished every scrap or that we managed to walk out afterwards and continue our day.

We didn't stop walking in fact; after an extremely brief encounter with the Metro which didn't see us even getting to the other side of the turnstile, we decided to explore the city by foot as much as possible.

Our first leg was along the High Line, the old railway which follows the riverfront and has since been transformed into a beautiful boardwalk. I imagine it to be even prettier in the summer months when the flowers are in bloom, breaking up the city concrete with colour. 

Once we'd reached the end, we took a turn towards the centre estimating that it should take us about half an hour to reach the very heart. In reality, it took us almost two but we can blame Zara for that. And Tiffany and Macy, and all the other old friends we just kept stopping to greet. 

It was exhausting work and by the time we made it to Grand Central station, we were ready to crash despite it being just midday. Cue our first prosecco pick-me-up of the day! One glass turned into two bottles which we polished off whilst people-watching from a balcony under the twinkling stars of that giant dome. We must've seen more than a hundred thousand people storm past beneath us; everyone in a hurry, everyone with somewhere to be. It was rather refreshing for once, to be so far removed from it all; to be the ones with no agenda. We could sit here all day if we liked and believe me, it was tempting! 

Nevertheless, we eventually tore ourselves away and rejoined the rat race below. I'd been warned previously about the chaos of New York and the skyscraper-induced claustrophobia which so many people experience but somehow I found it the contrary. Though the crowds of people easily compete with those in London, the excessively wide streets and overwhelmingly large buildings gave me a sense of infinite space which could never be filled. They say that you stop being a tourist in New York when you can walk down the road without looking up but I could live there forever and still find my gaze drawn towards the tallest spires. It's difficult to feel suffocated when you're continually reminded of the endlessness of the skies above you. 

On that note, I was pleased that our next stop was one of the tallest buildings of all - the Rockerfeller. The sun had set when we reached the 70th floor and the city in darkness was quite something; hardly dark at all in fact, but alive with thousands upon thousands of sparkling lights in every direction for as far as our eyes could see. We quickly found our bearings and identified the Empire State; a building which was once so famous for being enormous but now sticks out little more than the hundreds of other sky high towers surrounding us. At the very top, we were completely exposed and the sheer distance between ourselves and the ground suddenly felt very real. As did the hammering wind edging us forwards like a less than gentle nudge from a passive aggressive friend. What truly amazed me was the size of the cars on the road - even those typical American SUVs seemed no bigger than my fingernail. It occurred to me that this was the only time I could recall in the last few days thinking that something was small. 

As the lift descended, I felt on a literal comedown. Perhaps it was all the walking, or perhaps it was the overwhelming events of the day but after a couple more proseccos (which in hindsight could also have been a factor) we gave into exhaustion and called it a night. 

The next morning was a whole other story. I woke up feeling completely refreshed and so rather than focusing my energy on another gigantic stack of pancakes, I decided to go for a run along the Hudson. Somehow, I managed to convince the girls to join me and we were soon out in the crisp December air stretching and pulling Usain Bolt poses on the pier. The river, just like the roads, is extremely wide and shockingly blue. It struck me as sad that this surprised me, having become so accustomed to the dull grey shade of the Thames. The route was so beautiful that we'd smashed through 8 kilometres without even realising. 

Following a quick shower and green goddess smoothies, we then returned to walking pace and ambled back towards the centre again, this time to Ground Zero. Having never seen the Twin Towers whilst they were standing, I was unsure what to expect from this memorial site but I soon realised that it made little difference to the effect it had on me. The contrast between the vast open space and the cluttered life surrounding it is devastating. Two gaping holes now lie where the towers once stood, with water trickling down the sides and into the depths beyond view. It's a peaceful feature but one that, at least in my interpretation, signifies a continuous sadness. Beneath the exuberant positivity of New York, the water will still always flow, like the city's endless tears for those who were taken from it. 

Before we left, we took a moment to note some of the names inscribed into the border of the fountains and admired the white roses which had been laid upon those who would have been celebrating a birthday on this day. We left the site wondering who these people were and what could have been, our hearts breaking for each and every one. Though they’re one in three thousand killed that day, each one has a story and they deserve to be remembered as more than just a statistic. The memorial stands as a strong depiction of this. 

Moving on, we felt it appropriate for the Statue of Liberty to be our next stop. Rather than paying for a tour, we hopped onto the free commuter ferry to Statton Island and passed by the lady herself along the way. Though we didn't get too up close and personal, her beauty was evident from afar and the iconic representation of an incredible city.

Upon our return to the mainland, we were suddenly struck with hunger and though still miles from Brooklyn, had our hearts set on a pizza from Grimaldi's just over the bridge. It was a long while before we made it (the bridge alone is a twenty minute walk!) but the size of the pizza served once we sat down was more than enough to compensate. 

Unbeknownst to us, the day was disappearing to night outside. Whilst we'd been busy inhaling pizza, the sky had darkened to a midnight blue and as we crossed back over the bridge into Manhattan, we just caught the final glimpse of the sun on the horizon turning the skyline pink. It was absolutely stunning. 

Back at the flat, we met Hannah and popped open the champagne to mark the start of pre-drinks. Tonight, we were going out out! 

Once sufficiently tipsy, we walked down a couple of blocks to Catch where we were met by Hannah's friends and another few bottles of prosecco. It was a fairly reserved start to the evening but the guys explained that a lot of the clubs here are restaurants and hotels and that they 'pop off' later on. That, they did. 

How we got there is a little hazy but we ended up at the Jane Hotel where there were more people dancing on tables and sofas than on the dance floor itself and the music resembled an old school garage/rnb/hip-hop compilation. Basically as soon as the diners dispersed and the tequilas made a timely appearance, it all took a turn for the better, or worse judging by my hangover the next morning. 

Worse still, we woke up twenty minutes before our brunch booking at Paradou which just so happened to be unlimited mimosas. Oh god. 

The only option was to power on through it and by midday my hangover had been replaced by a warm and fuzzy state of merry which was much better for my head but less so for the shopping which followed. Goodness knows what I bought (seemingly everything) but it was enjoyable nonetheless. 

For the remainder of the afternoon, we wandered through the city, making frequent coffee stops to simultaneously sober up and warm up as the prosecco blankets abandoned us and the winter chill hit. It felt very much like any ordinary Saturday afternoon and I realised how quickly we'd adjusted to life here - we were already referring to Hannah's place as 'home.' With my best friends in tow, I truly believe I could live anywhere but New York definitely sits at the upper end of the list. 

There was still one last thing we needed to tick off before leaving so on Sunday morning we headed out early in the direction of Central Park. We'd hoped to cover it all but had once again underestimated the size of all things American. We managed about half, passing the reservoir, lakes and Alice and Wonderland memorial which all contribute to its wonderful character. 

Before we knew it though, we were flagging our final yellow cab for the airport and reminiscing on our favourite parts of the trip. We covered so much in our short stay and yet it still feels as though there's so much more to see. In a city like New York, there will always be more and we're certainly not done with it just yet.

Budapest Spas & Bars

Landing in Budapest, we quite quickly realised we knew nothing about the city. One of our party (though she'll remain unnamed) thought it was a country, I'd thought the currency was Euros and none of us had any idea how to go about even saying 'hello'. We'd booked the trip a while back but life seems to have run away with us as a little lately and we'd found virtually no time to do any research. Well, this should be fun. 

Our first pleasant surprise was that the exchange rate coupled with the low cost of living made us really rather well off. The taxi from the airport cost the equivalent of just a couple of pounds each and within less than an hour of landing we were outside our Airbnb in the city.

Two Hungarian guys were there to meet us and showed us up to the room via a rickety lift that looked as though it belonged in the 1920's. Fortunately, the apartment itself was considerably more modern with two double bedrooms and a spacious living area which was more than sufficient for the five of us for the weekend ahead. 

We wasted no time in changing out of our plane clothes and pouring our outrageously cheap vodka concoctions. Despite finishing the entire bottle, we thought we were relatively sober until we couldn't work out how to get out of the building. Looking back on it, we were also blaring out Justin Bieber and playing sardines in a cupboard so it really should have been more obvious. 

Having eventually cracked the Fort Knox code (i.e. pressing the exit button...) we were finally free and jumped into a taxi to Szimpla, one of Budapest's most famous Ruin Bars. 

Embedded within what remains of Budapest's original flats and factories, the Ruin Bars are the epitome of understated cool. Whilst they should have long been condemned to destruction, the buildings were instead filled with rejected furniture from the depths of the city bringing a retro feel to the place and soon after an unstoppable wave of young people to enjoy them.  

Lost amongst the neon lights and crowds of unfathomable accents, it was difficult to believe that we'd been sat at our desks that very morning. That same thought also brought on a sudden tiredness and despite our best intentions, by 3am we were shattered and called it a night. 

Consequently, we were up at a fairly reasonable hour the following day and headed out straight away to make the most of our short weekend in the city. Our apartment was conveniently situated right next to the Central Food Market so we wandered over there for what was supposed to be a light breakfast. What it turned into, however, was langos; a gigantic deep fried flat bread topped with virtually anything you ask for from, vegetables, to Nutella! We could easily have shared one between the the five of us but somehow smashed through one each (plus an obligatory strudel...)

Recognising the need to to work off the 9,000 calories just consumed, we dodged the Metro and instead walked all the way into the centre of town. It was a relatively long distance but the journey took far longer than it should have, had we not been continually distracted by sights along the way. The first was the Chain Bridge which we did not need to cross but very much wanted to. The view from either side was incredible with pastel coloured buildings lining one side of the river and tall green hills with the remains of castles peering out from within the cliff face of the other. It was exactly how I'd imagined it to be but better, and made better still for the fact that we had a bright blue sky to frame it all in. 

After an hour or so we reached our destination; the Széchenyi Thermal spa. It felt bizarre to be stripping down into our bikinis in single figure temperatures but the steam arising from the baths themselves promised warmth. We began inside where there were dozens of pools in a long line, allowing us to hop from one to the next, dipping our toes in those that were only lukewarm and fully plunging into those that were dreamily hot. Some were bubbling, others still and each contained a variety of minerals which are meant to perform miracles on your skin. 

I was hoping to emerge from the waters feeling an entirely new woman and perhaps I would have if I hadn't been entirely numbed from head to toe; cold is the only thing I felt as we sprinted from the indoor halls to the large outdoor pool in time to catch the last glimpse of sunset. 

As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the sky turned a deep mauve and the pool's lights glowed like stars from beneath the surface. With such beautiful surroundings, it was difficult to muster the motivation (let alone the courage) to ever leave the pool again. 

Once we finally made it back to the flat, however, we had a cheeky power nap followed by an extensive MI5 operation to carry out, as we thought our apartment was being broken into (which it wasn't), so we were somewhat delayed for dinner. 

Without any real reasoning, we'd just assumed that Hungary would follow the same routines as the likes of Italy and Spain when it comes to eating late but it soon transpired that they do not. Our dreams of the cheapest Michelin Star meal ever eaten were soon shattered when we struggled to find a single restaurant still open close to midnight. My mind was already starting to wander back to the 4am Pad Thai we'd had the night before but fortunately we stumbled across one nice looking establishment still willing to welcome us in just before I was forced to find out how terrible drunk food tastes sober. 

This place was an absolute find and for less than a tenner, we had starters, elaborate mains and a lot of wine before moving swiftly onto Instant where we'd heard promises of a great night.

As soon as we arrived it was immediately obvious why people rave so highly about this particular ruin bar. The rooms appear infinite and lead off in every direction, with each one slightly darker and considerably stranger than the one before. To give you an idea; the entrance has flying bunny rabbits stapled to the ceiling and a glittering pig disco ball, and that's only the beginning. 

The people we encountered inside were no less strange but it was amusing for the most part. My favourite by far was one particularly high guy who's opening line to every girl who had the pleasure of his forthcomings was 'Can I have your drink?' Not usually how it works but I rate his efforts... 

The beauty of such a big place is that there's a whole range of music but nevertheless, we struggled to find much that resembled hip hop. Luckily, just as Instant was starting to die down, we caught wind of an RnB club down the road and decided to swing by on our way home. It was a little like a smaller, grimier Oceana but it still kept us amused for a further two hours until we'd heard virtually every Pitbull song we could stomach. 

After just a few hours sleep, we were up and out again, this time returning to the Christmas markets that we'd passed the previous day for a better look around. The plan was to pick up some gifts to take home but the strong scent of mulled wine proved rather distracting and we soon found ourselves huddled in a log cabin sipping steaming drinks and gobbling down traditional Hungarian food. We ended up with quite a mixture of sorts but thankfully all avoided the rooster testicles; I'm all for trying local delicacies but I was still feeling pretty fragile from the night before and that did not sound appetising. What did sound appetising, on the other hand, was the chocolate and cheese strudels on our way out – a delectable combo and the perfect way to end our weekend in Budapest!