I have a theory: that great writers, make dismal dancers. And the reason? It’s down to rhythm. Writers store it within, simmering like a hearty ragu, before releasing it in sentences to their obedient readers, whose eyes and minds tap along to the beat.

If you want to be a great travel blogger, it’s less about being a great traveller, and more about learning to channel your rhythm.

Imagine yourself as the most driven, focused, and competent rhythmic gymnast, commanding your pale ribbon through the tense air like a wisp of coloured smoke. One false move, and it’s a tangle of disappointment.

Your readers will stumble awkwardly across the narrow beam of your sentence, and tumble helplessly into the blank surrounds, to the bitter echo of confusion.

There’s a balance, which all aspiring writers should learn to master.

Try too much, and risk entangling your readers in a stilted flow. Try too little, and risk releasing your readers’ attention via a flash of limp command.

Throughout our lives, our environment dictates our rhythm. Some writers crave pure silence, to be able to tune into themselves. While others — myself included — prefer to use music to neutralise a wayward rhythm.

For me, the music I choose is often without words, or in a foreign language. If I get to know the song too well, I start to sing along, and my rhythm melts into a thousand rivulets, poisoning my words and ways.

Next time you begin to write, take a moment to tune into your rhythm, and learn to give into it.

Tapping these keys conjures up a mental image of a heavy-footed walker, shlepping his way through the misty English wilderness. One blind summit, after, another.

You might wonder how I nailed such a mighty image, so early on in my opening paragraph. It’s because I’ve deleted more words than you will ever read in your lifetime.

The ones you are reading, act like gravestones marking the thirty generations of fallen Helvetica which went before them.

And now I sit, waiting for a bright orange rectangle to make this awkward sentence go away by asking…

Where have you been, Ant?

I left New Zealand back in October 2010. Remember those days? Me neither.

My girlfriend, Reb, was already back in England; by her dad’s side, as he went head-first into a series of tests for cancer.

I travelled to Malaysia for three weeks.

With so many uncertains swarming around, it seemed like a compromise.

I got lost in jungles, burned on beaches, and in an unexpected milestone, I met my first travel bloggers since starting this blog, in April 2007. We had dinner and everything.

This is to lighten the mood. Kind of like an IKEA print. Or a glass of Shloer

Then, in late October, as winter was setting in, I arrived back in England.

He arrived back in England? Gasp.

I bounced from an inflatable bed in Macclesfield to a spare room in Loughborough, then another one in north London, another one in Lincolnshire, one more in Reading, and then back again to the one in north London.

In mid-February, I started a new job, as STA Travel UK’s, Online Community Manager. They gave me the keys to their social media accounts. I gave them a knowing wink.

Three days later, Reb’s dad died of cancer.

Seven days later, I moved into an abandoned bungalow in Essex.

You can rearrange those three sentences to suit. They won’t get any easier to digest.

I still have a hundred thousand words to say about my own travels; but with the weight of grief, the buzz of a new job (and a ninety minute commute), and the drain of moving into a new (ramshackle) house, I just haven’t had the words in me to WOW! you.

OK. You twisted my arm. I’ll try to WOW! you

Last weekend, I headed up to Manchester to surf the wave of expectation surrounding the imaginatively named Travel Bloggers Unite 11 (TBU).

I met a dozen movers, and two dozen shakers; a couple of melody makers; money-rakers; one or two fakers; and three or more potential heart-breakers.

There’s a lot I could say about TBU. But I’ll just say this: it was good. I learned some relevant ‘stuff’; and I met a lot of genuine, beautiful, smart people.

I felt assured, that if I wanted to, I could just poke the right buttons, and money will pour out of the DVD drive of my laptop.

I learned that Brand You is applicable to everything. (So I’m stuck with explaining that my name is Ant, and TrailofAnts is a play on my travelling life, and not a reference to an army of small, black insects.)

I learned that the software which powers this blog, WordPress, really is as complicated as I first thought.

I learned that a large bottle of room temperature water is 22p cheaper than a small bottle of cold water in Tesco’s.

I learned that two hours sleep is not the right preparation to an early start, and that British hotel breakfast buffets haven’t changed since I was a boy. Last year.

I learned that my efforts at understanding podcasting, were not far off the mark. I also learned that people do care about good, solid, writing. But not quite as much as making money, or flashing their knickers at Google.

I learned that two hours of listening to a panel discuss the trials and tribulations of working with PR companies and tourist boards, really is as interesting as it sounds. Perhaps even more.

The point I’m making is: I’ve learned a lot these last few months. And you are going to benefit. Somehow. I just need to work that bit out. Just promise me you’ll stick with me, and we’ll work it out together, OK?

Don’t blink. What you’re about to see is Tibet, in full-fat Pummelvision*. Surprisingly, Tibet was one of the most calming regions I visited along The Trail, and memories of my time there are proving some of the most indelible of my life.

I concede this is a big claim; and you should know, I am not one to carelessly misuse words.

I travelled into the Tibetan capital, Lhasa, by train from Chengdu, a city in China’s Sichuan province. It’s the highest railway in the world and despite rumours of pressurised cabins and oxygen on tap, it was remarkably standard.

Plus the toilet window was open, which I presume — without any qualification to do so — undoes any viable attempt at pressurising the carriage.

The Best Thing About Tibet?

In the weeks before the journey, I’d been reading Paul Theroux’s Riding the Iron Rooster, and I remember the author insinuating that “the best thing about Tibet, was that the railway will never reach it.”

Of course, Theroux travelled through China in the 1980s, and I travelled it in 2007, one year after it opened (to the chagrin of those who said it couldn’t be done, due to the massive engineering obstacles; such as permafrost and earthquakes).

There’s also an ethical argument. Although I found Tibet to be unmistakably Tibetan; there is an air of Chinese authority. Not least the red Chinese flag flapping in the bright blue skies above the Potala Palace (the traditional residence of the Dalai Lama).

Inspiring Contrasts in Tibet

As a photographer — or simply a quiet observer — those vibrant blue skies contrasting with the brilliant white walls of the city’s monasteries, made for some beautiful scenes.

As a writer, the sight of prostrating pilgrims sifting between gangs of young monks and mobs of tourists, made for some inspiring contrasts.

There was a keen sense of remoteness, anchored to a strong feeling of community. Whether it was a united community or a fractious one, wasn’t immediately obvious. The famed unrest that shook Lhasa to its knees followed through six months later.

Tibet in 39 Seconds

As a destination, Tibet is a place with a powerful sense of story. It grabs you immediately; and like a child, you begin to crave the next chapter. Aside from the global headlines, towns in Tibetan are some of the world’s best places to people-watch.

There is always something happening.

Tales from Tibet

One of my favourite stories involves my astonishment at watching an elderly man skulk around the market in Barkhor Square, firing stones at tourists from his catapult.

He clocked me eventually, and shyly moved on.

A few days later in Lhasa, karma rapped me on the knuckles, when I was shot with a BB gun from a mystery sniper.

In contrast to the mischief; I enjoyed conversations with curious monks and discovered the region’s children were some of the most responsive and enjoyable to be around (although I did hear some worrying stories from cycle tourists, who had rocks hurled at them, and sticks rammed through their spokes).

(In retrospect, I don’t know where I gathered this notion of calm!)

I’ll share some more stories about my time in Tibet over the course of the year. If you’ve visited the region; I’d love to hear some short tales about your time there, and I know my readers always appreciate a variety of points of view.

Lay it all down in the comment thread, or catch up with me on Twitter.

*My final nod goes to Pummelvision, who made the groovy little video possible. I love the concept, plus it’s FREE and really easy to do. Give it a whirl yourself, over at Pummelvision.

Paradise. It’s 2011, and with travel being so inexpensive, most of us have found paradise already, right? Its streaks of blue and white; sandy in all the right places and desperately empty. Its daubs of warm and balmy; soft on your ears, yet tangy on the tastebuds

Walk with me, traveller.

Pad slowly through paradise and scoop up some momentary peace amid the crackle and dazzle of your day.

Now, forgive me for interrupting this blissful moment of yours; but I ask you to shake the sand from the shadows of your buttocks, to step into the shade and take a cold shower.

I’d like to know where paradise is.

I believe you know.

I do too.

Paradise, for me, is far away from the curtsy of crashing waves, or the respectful bow of a glowing palm tree.

For a start, my paradise is found in the shallows of autumn, as appose to the height of summer. I feel autumn is full of spice and fragility: a season infused with blazing survival, while all around me, people are active. They’re doing things, before the onset of those dark months.

Of course, I’m generalising an autumn here in my home country, England. A few months ago while naively cascading through a tetris of Bangkok flights, I realised that I’ve travelled to many places around the world in autumn. Yet, in many ways, never been there at all.

My paradise also features the gentle flow of water, because I find my paradise on misty riverbanks.

Rivers are believable; plausible routes, silently guiding my wayward thoughts.

A bright autumn day, silently creeping along the riverbank. That’s my paradise.

Would you care to share you own?

Hands up if you like surprises? Hands up if you like travelling? Hands up if you’ve got three hands?

I’m constantly trying to inject creativity into TrailofAnts.com. I do it because I love the genre, and while I do receive some wonderfully humbling comments about my writing, I have also accepted that if I am to grow, my content needs to diversify.

Creative Blog Ideas

Recent attempts have been the SlideShare for, 10 Most Misused Words in Travel Blogs (that was awesome), and the matter-of-fact review of the Trans-Mongolian Railway, which used an Animoto slideshow as its centrepiece.

I’ve tried some lyrical gangster rapping, and in late summer I bent my nib on a series called Colour Vision.

Today, it’s a secret photograph. Everybody say, “Oooooo…”

The Secret Photo

It’s down there, on the right, but don’t click it yet!

I need to explain something first.

The photo you’re about to see is neither shocking, nor particularly striking. It was taken on a footbridge in George Town, Penang, during a mighty downpour. I thought twice about taking the photograph, so when you look at it, it’s worth considering if you would have. Put yourself in my shoes.

I’d also like you to notice the graffiti; this was the spark which led me to take the photo, and I believe it compliments the overall energy of the image.

Behind the Scenes

The reason I hesitated taking the photo, wasn’t just because the photo shows an innocent young boy.

He arrived on the bridge with a young Indian man, perhaps in his late teens. They were obviously homeless and sheltering from the rain. I felt that by taking the photo — and then wandering off — I was letting him down somehow.

Perhaps I did?

And then there’s the real reason. Look closely at what this kid is wearing. It’s disgusting that a child should be made to wear a Manchester United shirt. If it were an Arsenal shirt, he would have looked smart and respectable, but whoever bought him this shirt was quite obviously intending to ridicule him.

Poor chap.

I’m curious to know whether the hidden photo behaves itself on your smart phones and in your RSS readers. My hunch is that it won’t work, in which case I hastily apologise. Perhaps go retro and visit the original post on a computer.

I thought twice about showcasing today’s video montage. It features the world famous railway route, the Trans-Mongolian. Many people don’t realise, but the Trans-Siberian Railway is actually made up of a few different lines, of which the Trans-Mongolian is one.

Other options include the Trans-Manchurian line, which slopes off to Beijing and the Trans-Mongolian line, which hooks down to — you guessed it — Mongolia.

The Trans-Mongolian Railway

The reason I thought twice about posting it, was because the slideshow doesn’t exactly enthuse me. I’ve watched it around ten times, and each time I’ve been distracted by a passing sparrow or the steam rising off my coffee.

However, before I explain my doubting, watch the video.

It’s only around three minutes long, and by the end of it you’ll feel good about your own photography skills…

The Truth About the Trans-Mongolian

Now, the real reason I decided to post it, was that despite it being a little melancholy and rather pointlessly dragging your gaze over the tracks, it’s actually a fairly good representation of the Trans-Mongolian railway.

The Trans-Mongolian railway is boring.

There, I said it.

I’m often asked by readers of TrailofAnts.com — and by my mate’s mothers — what the Trans-Mongolian was like. The question usually goes: “Oh wow! You’ve been on the Trans-Siberian railway, I’ve always wanted to do that, how was it?”

I stare into their wide eyes, and watch their slithery tonsils swing in the dark void of their throat.

“It was good,” I lie. Because it’s the most famous railway route in the world, it should be good. People should want to travel along it.

Review of the Trans-Mongolian Railway

The truth is, I was travelling alone and couldn’t leave the confines of the train for five days straight. It’s so easy to write that: Five days straight. Five days straight.

Five.

Days.

Straight.

What were you doing five days ago? Four days ago? Three? Two? Yesterday? If you’re reading this while pulling up to Ulaanbaator, you’ve probably been on a train.

The same train. With the same people. With the same little toilet. With the same miserable restaurant car. With the same pine forest landscapes. With the same thrum of the engine. With the same narrow aisle. With the same dim bed light.

I made the mistake of leaving myself no choice but to undertake the journey in one foul swoop. My final days in England were spent at the Glastonbury Festival in southern England, and I was eager to get to the Naadam Games in Mongolia.

I genuinely love travelling by train, it’s second only to motorbike for my preferred mode of transport. But this was too much.

Tips for the Trans-Mongolian Railway

If you’re thinking of travelling along any of the routes of the Trans-Siberian Railway then I recommend the following:

• Take a friend. It’s natural that you will get to know your cabin-mates, but pleasantries are no substitute for a solid friend, or lover.
• Stop en route. Don’t do what I did. Stop along the way at any number of interesting points. Perhaps you can recommend one in the comments?
• Take a variety of distractions. Laptop and DVDs. Books. Cards and candy. Magazines and mints. iPad, iPods (other MP3 players are available).

Don’t get me wrong. The Trans-Mongolian was one of the most relaxing journeys of my entire life. There was no TV. No internet. No front door. No cooking (or washing up). No chores. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Just me, and a row of dirty windows.

We stopped occasionally at nondescript stations. I alighted, grabbed an armful of fruits, vegetables, fish and vodka, then clambered back into the Iron Rooster and played swapsies with my cabin-mates.

I accept that the length the Trans-Mongolian is epic by today’s standards.

I can look at a map, and like Ewan and Charley, I can say “I crossed that”. For them, it was one of the most difficult and rewarding journeys of their lives. For me, it was painfully easy.

I like most places of worship. I grew up in the shadows of spires, sprinting through the graveyard’s of England’s old cathedrals and churches. Since then, I’ve found meaning when meandering through Tibetan monasteries, marvelled at mighty mosques, and the spicy smells which pervade the world’s Hindu temples will never stop inspiring me.

I’ve schlepped round stupas, and joined pilgrims on their marches and still, I’ve yet to find a house of worship which doesn’t impress me.

But I’ve never had my fortune told in any of them. Until now.

Buddha’s Sixth Sense

Not long after I entered the quiet realms of Buppaharam Temple on Penang’s Perak Road I came across a strange contraption. It was crude and kitsch, with a crooked coin slot, and dominated by a large tin disc with a serrated edge and covered in numbers.

I obliged, and it span around in a rather comical fashion before rattling to a stop, and signalling the number four. There was a large shelf beside the machine, and it became obvious I should pick out the sheet with the corresponding number. I’m quite clever, you see.

Misfortune Telling Machine

Here’s what the piece of paper said:

“Charming,” I thought “I’m going to live the life of a lonely chicken.

Then I read it again, and I began to do what we all do when reading horoscopes and messages in fortune cookies.

I started to believe it.

Behind the Words

A monotonous and lonely life? I’m a traveller, who is often alone. At times, yes, I guess it has been monotonous and lonely. Perhaps I have been a chicken who has been unduly “separated far away from others”.

As far as, “I will meet my supporters in the future, but it may take a long time”. I had dismissed that one.

But soon after this occasion, I arranged to meet David of Malaysia Asia and Mei of Cumi & Ciki in Kuala Lumpur. As fellow bloggers, I think we can agree that we support each other. And with regards “…it may take a long time”, well, I’m sure David won’t mind me saying this; he was over an hour late picking me up.

I “should not go forward with your business at present”. Between me and you, I have several businesses in the pipeline (I’m a man with many fingers in many pies, so to speak). So this one clearly hit home.

“Prepare myself for immediate alteration”, well, this one was as clear as day. I was in Malaysia on a stopover during my journey home to the UK. A place I haven’t been for three and a half years. Immediate alteration? Tick.

“A sick person in your family will get well soon”, well this one really struck a cord. The reason I’m returning to the UK, is because my girlfriend’s dad has cancer.

“Your absconded debtors will not be found yet”, again, very pertinent. Because I work as a freelancer, I am open to this kind of risk, and sure as sure can be, I’m owed a substantial amount of money from a pesky debtor.

And finally, “your wife who is now in pregnancy will give birth to a boy”.

At this point, I screwed the piece of paper up, dismissing it as rubbish. I found it a week later in my bag. The day before, a good friend phoned to tell me his girlfriend was having a baby boy. Long shot?

I had planned to write a long, juicy, drawn-out post about the delicious food in Malaysia, and in particular, the food in George Town, Penang. Then I suffered acute Mini Syndrome*.

*Mini Syndrome is a curious affliction which happens when one drives a Mini. As a former Mini owner, I could only see Mini’s, when I was actually driving one. The same oddity has happened while riding motorbikes, driving lorries, and driving anything in the Australian Outback.

Symptoms include moronic waving, awkward eye contact, exaggerated smiles and the right to act as a complete and utter goof.

Returning to my original point; as soon as I sat down to write a post on Malaysian food, I realised the topic had already been covered. And more importantly, it had been covered by people who really know the subject well; rather than — like me — someone who had just sat down, and eaten.

“Look, no guidebook!”

Having left New Zealand in somewhat of a hurry, I was gloriously ill-informed about travel in Malaysia. I opted for the rebellious, “Look, no guidebook!” approach.

It’s in vogue, don’t you know?

I like to tell people it’s because I’m something of a groovy travel hipster. Truth is, I’d just paid £90 for three weeks’ worth of travel insurance, so I figured that paying another £15 to keep me out of trouble seemed an utter waste of time and money.

Nevertheless, I made the right decision.

Penang, Malaysia

Prior to my arrival in George Town — the World Heritage capital of Pulau Penang (pulau is Bahasa Malay for island) — I’d done a quick recce of numerous travel blogs and filled my notebook with some morsels of information to guide me in my hour of need.

I left my humble lodgings for a long walk and as planned, it culminated in the charming Kedai Kopi Sin Hwa* (Sin Hwa Coffee Shop) which I’d enthusiastically scribbled down during my research.

As was normal for me in Malaysia, I smiled at the chef (in the smaller cafés, the chef is usually found cooking at the front of the café, not least so that you can discern the house special) and ordered my food before taking a seat at the back of the open-fronted eatery.

There were ten tables covered in period world maps, and six weary ceiling fans tirelessly punching their blades through the air, delivering alternate wafts of pollution from the main road and spiced air from the wok.

Char Koay Teow in Penang

I’d ordered char koay teow, which is to Malaysians what a fry up is to we English. In a nutshell, it’s a little bit of everything: flat noodles, chives and bean sprouts, cockles, prawns and egg (optional), all fried together in a hot oil, soy and chilli paste. But somehow, it’s more than that.

A beautiful old lady took my drinks order via a comical series of kindly exchanges, and I settled back and watched a handful of lonesome diners elegantly flick noodles into their mouths.

The char koay teow (above) was so good, I ordered the bihun goreng (below) with the same trimmings, and a delicious home made lo hong ko (bottom; I can only guess it’s a drink made from honey, or perhaps a fruit) on ice.

I was replete. Never had I been happier, than to just sit back and watch the world go by.

The Power of Food

A steady stream of locals schlepped along the road. Occasionally one would wander in and take a seat. It seemed an unspoken rule that they were having the char koay teow, and it seemed mandatory that it would be a trade of few words and solemn faces.

My own expression, was one of boyish contemplation. People began to look at me and smile. I suddenly became paranoid. Continuously wiping my chin for fear of a stray noodle, or slither of chive. I wondered why I had been suddenly revealed from my dark corder at the rear of the coffee shop.

And then it dawned on me.

Having cheerfully consumed the char koay teow, and bihun goreng I was in the throes of Mini Syndrome. Suddenly, I was engaged in awkward eye contact with a gaggle of lunchtime diners, and I strained out a series of exaggerated smiles to appease my paranoia.

***

*Kedai Kopi Sin Hwa is located at approximately 328 Jalan Burma (Burma Road), George Town, Penang.

Today’s post takes the form of a traditional slideshow, and covers a niggle I’ve had for a while. In the race for readers, hyperbole seems to be in vogue among travel bloggers. While I’m indubitably guilty of random chunks of exaggeration, I am very wary of its presence in my own writing.

I was taught very early on, that my travel experiences are incredible enough to most people, without staining my writing with outlandish statements. These days, I write beneath a spotlight of realism that keeps me in check.

If you find yourself compensating with overstatement, it’s time to take a step back and take a look at your writing in a literal sense, where magic is reduced to the realms and brilliant is brighter than white.

Once you’ve stripped it back, I believe you’ll create room for it to regrow in a less scattered, and sarcastic style.

Blog Writing Tips & Advice

Take a look through my Slideshare, and let me know your thoughts on the featured content.

How was it for you?

It’s (yet) another new feature for TrailofAnts.com, and while I’d love to tell you it will become a regular one, the truth is it will just pop-up every now and then.

As a writer, did you find it useful? Or perhaps you’re a reader, and happy I raised the point? Either way, this travel blog is open to feedback in many forms, not least via the comment thread just below this post so please consider sharing your thoughts.

TrailofAnts.com is well known for its letters and lines, and poetic prose, but I’m equally passionate about photography. It’s usually plays second fiddle to my writing here on the travel blog, so I felt it was time to let some of my travel photography shine.

As this is the first slideshow, I thought it was fitting to showcase the first stop on The Trail, which was Moscow, Russia.

Travelling to Moscow, Russia

If I’m honest, it wasn’t the finest destination I’ve ever visited. I found it rather unwelcoming, and severely lacking in character. But then: I was there alone; I didn’t speak the language; hadn’t done any research; was feeling a little shy; and just getting from the airport to the city was a mission in itself.

When I visit Moscow again, I’ll make a point to look for a quirky, underground scene where things are a little edgier than what you might find in a deserted Gorky Park or a tourist speckled Red Square.

Photography of Moscow

The slideshow is under two minutes, and while I don’t believe it gives you a rounded view of the Russian capital, I do think it should give you a friendly Monday morning jolt.

If you enjoyed this slideshow featuring some of my photography from Moscow, please show your support by leaving a short comment below. This is the best channel for feedback available to me, and helps me to focus on bringing you the types of content you want.