Thanks to the wonders of Skype and Facebook, I’ve kept up-to-date with events from family and friends from around the world, including my daughter’s birthday, my birthday and the birth of my youngest sister’s first child at the age of 38.

It’s been a very challenging time, and the only time I felt a little down was at the offer of another three months work. Do I have to go through all that again? Well it pays the mortgage, but I need to try to take some control back somehow, and chart a course, rather than bob around on the open sea. I pay respect to my wife and children for coping without their husband and father. With the right attitude, life is a tutor and not a torture, but it’s not easy. Thoughts about home are finally permitted, and I look forward to the chatter of children, easing some of the burden from Iris and to juvenile banter with friends.

There was a pier offering boat trips out to all the neighbouring “Greek” islands and it was a beautiful warm and sunny day to see this. I had got sunburnt on the previous day and before I did anything else I went to a chemist and bought some sun-block and a Snickers. I found a restaurant that had a spare table and ordered Sea Bass and iced lemon tea. It came to £12. I had another walk up the promenade and watched the small fishing boats bringing in their catch in baskets to the sides of the esplanade wall. Shoppers were shouting and haggling, pointing down at the fish they wanted and they were handed them up in nets and paying in the same way. Sai Kung is St Ives without the pasties and painters, but with beautiful food, crystal clear water and stunning landscape set against the hills It was that hot that I had to sit and have another iced tea, before catching the 92 back again.

One of the highlights of the whole three months in China was seeing a road sign for Fuk Man Road. The journey on the 92 is quite stunning as it takes you into the green hills of Kowloon and through some very pretty-if-isolated villages.

On Sunday I took it steady and kept local, going to the HK Museum of Art and then to…..Starbucks for lunch, and off on the ferry. I was extremely pleased with my long weekend’s adventure. It was a pity I hadn’t got a camera to capture some of the beauty, but I have some nice memories and some more self-belief.

The market was fabulous; a tourist’s paradise selling all sorts of clothes, trinkets, some nice art and so on. I bought some gifts for the girls there and I spent quite a lot of time strolling around, before settling down at a café for an iced tea and a gaze. I was visited again by sparrows, which reminded me of my girls and what I was missing, and what they were missing. I had brought fruit for lunch to save a little money, which I had already eaten by this time. It was a beautiful day, markedly different from the day before and I sat in the shade. From there I found Stanley beach, ten minutes away and sat under the shade again and read a book for an hour. The beach was small and sandy, full of ex-pat MILFs and their toddlers. I’d go again. You look out on crystal clear waters to all these little islands out in the sea – a lot like being on a Greek island, with tree-lined hills and white villas and apartment blocks. I’m so happy with myself that I have ventured out of the HK central areas to do some exploring. The island on this side is very blue and green and beautiful.

I took a different bus back, 120, because I want to see The Peak, the highest point on the island overlooking Victoria Bay. The bus took me back a slightly different route around Repulse Bay, with another beautiful beach, a boating club, country club and possibly the most expensive properties on HK, very smart and a place to explore another time.

The bus took me back to HK Island Central and I simply followed the pedestrian signs, walking up-hill to the Peak tram station. I walked past the mighty HQ of HSBC, designed by Sir Norman Foster, which looked magnificent. Behind it, towers the needle-like Chinese ICBC bank. I read in a guide book that there was controversy in HK over the design of the latter. The Hong Kongese find it to be aggressive, both in situation and design, an affront to the principles of-Feng Shui; whereas Norm’s bank was totally aligned to local tastes and traditions. I found the tram, near a large church and join the long queue, having paid my £4 for a return ticket. The original tram was built around a century ago, and the current generation is the fifth. There are good storyboards and displays on either side as you wait in the queue. I read with interest how the British Army retreated to The Peak to make their last stand on Christmas day in 1940 (from memory).

The train was a brief ten minute ride, taking us passed accommodation of various designs and price tags, woods and park trails, at a gradient steep enough to keep you pressed against the back rest of the bench. There were four compartments, each holding about fifty people, and in my compartment were tourists from all over the world.

At the top was a typical visitor’s centre, tourist trap shops, Haagen-Dazs, Burger King, Pizza Hut and some decent restaurants. I had a walk around, looking at beautiful vistas all over the island from the 550m height landmark. Then I settled down for a cappuccino and sticky chocolate something at Starbucks and watched the world (skirts) go by. I was joined yet again by my daughters in the form of a family of sparrows.

I took the tram down to Central again and found by way to the Star Ferry in Wanchoi, with the plan to get the ferry across the bay for the first time. The ferries are very old looking jalopies and are one of the famous HK sights in Victoria Bay. They were set up in the Nineteenth Century by a Parsee cook, Dorabjee Naorojee Mithaiwala. You had to wear a suit and tie in those days. The smooth journey cost 20p and took ten minutes to get over to Tsim Sha Tsui, and it was a good way to take in the sights. Then I worked my way back to the hotel through the small-but-perfectly formed Kowloon Park, which had its own aviary of exotic calling birds and water features which all had the effect of drowning out the surrounding traffic.

The evening was spent having a Billy-no-mates dinner in at The Black Stump Australian Steak House on Knutsford Terrace, and a few Billy-no-mates beers in All Night Long. In bed by 10.30pm.

The weather is dour, peeing down hard in a distinctly British style. In fact the precipitation has kept me company for most of the visit so far, a marked change from any previous months; a premature and pro-longed rainy season.

I have mixed emotions about coming to HK. I’ll be alone here for the best part of four days. I’m very much looking forward to a change of scenery and to gingerly stepping out and about, but I don’t really know the place, and already feel a little melancholy. It’s a holiday treat for my birthday last week, but as a family man, it’s an experience that should be shared and not imbibed alone. But here’s to a glass half-full and to making the best of it; it’s time for another adventure and a further bit of character building.

The ferry trip goes well, and within two hours, I find myself on HK territory. As the rain is lashing down I take a taxi to my hotel, rather than going on foot. I booked three nights at the BP International on Austin Rd, Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, very near to the ferry terminal. The taxi was there in two minutes, and I apologised to the driver for wasting his time; but I would have got soaked.

I checked in at about 6.30pm and came face-to-face with a life sized statue of Lord Baden Powell – hence the BP. I was in a 25 story tall scouts hotel. I never found out the background story to the hotel or the connection to the scouts, but it is a good four star hotel, with a nice standard bedroom, costing £80 per night, excluding breakfast.

I’d done some homework prior to coming, and had got some personal recommendations for sightseeing. So off I went to find a cash-point and then to find a road Knutsford Terrace. I’d got in on my street map, and when I got fed up of peering at it through the rain and darkness, I stopped and asked a policeman. He had no idea where it was, so off I went again, and literally proceeded to stumble up the stairs to it, around the corner. Knutsford is a 400m strip of western-style restaurants and bars.

I had a beer to start off my long weekend, and being only 7.30pm I was the single customer. The bar staff were pleasant Phillipinos. I ended up next door at Pellegrino’s, an Italian and sat outside under the awning, watching the heavens continuing to open. I ordered olives, pizza a beer. Again I wondered if I was doing the right thing coming to HK for four days, and I was wishing I had cut it back a day. It seemed a long time ahead. It was very quiet in the restaurant, apart from a chap sat on the next table, tapping away on his Blackberry. When he finished he turned towards me and started-up a conversation. It turned out to be the most amazing conversation I had ever had and took away all those dark clouds.

I thought the guy was Italian from his style, but he turned out to be a bona-fide OMG, Sex in the City New York character, called Steve, who was a dead ringer for Jerry Springer. He told the most woppingly big stories I have ever heard; much bigger than my mum’s. He entertained me for the next 90 minutes with a fabulous mixture of fact and fiction that had me laughing out loud. He was worldly-wise, funny, charming and self-effacing, and the biggest fibber in history. Basically, he was a buyer, importer from China to the states (toys, etc – and I believed that part), and also a product placement marketing consulting “you know the scene in so and so, where Jack is sipping Evian form the tall glass? I put the Evian in that. You know so and so film (I had never heard of them) where (I never heard of him) is driving the Ferrari down Mulholland, I did the car”. He knew everyone and everybody: Jack, Barbara, Fergie, Andy, Andy’s mum. He said he had lived in London for a while and that he knew Jill Dando as well.

But it was the Andy story which won the Grammy for best porky that night. His opening line was, “you know Andy is deaf in his left ear, right? I met him in the waiting room in an Ear Specialist. We got talking in the waiting room, and exchanged cards. Later that day I bumped into him in Harrods and we got talking again. From that I met Fergie. On one occasion Andy said “you must come and meet mum”. I said what shall I bring her as a present. Andy told me that it wasn’t necessary, but I insisted. You know Andy’s mum has six corgis right? So I phoned my toy maker in China and ordered six soft toys – a beefeater, a red telephone box and so on. When I met Andy’s mum, I gave her the presents. She was so surprised, that she couldn’t speak and said nobody had ever done that before”.

Meeting Steve was a great pick-me-up and put me in a great mood. We had serious conversations as well about life, Obama, loneliness and he could sense my state of mind. We parted with him trying to work out how to get one of “my rugs” into one of his next big films.

I went for another beer at “All Night Long” and watched the policeman who had never heard of Knutsford Terrace, walk by on patrol.

 What can I say about Shamian? It’s a bit like sitting down to dinner at Chung Ying Garden Restaurant in Birmingham’s Chinese Quarter, only to find half-way down amongst all the fried this-and-that, is spaghetti bolognaise; delicious but why? Shamian is like that. Walking the small but perfectly formed streets, it is reminiscent of western and central European “old quarters”. It could be old Bucharest, Basle am Rheine, or dare I say it, Westbourne Rd in Edgbaston, or parts of Moseley. C’est tres chic and bemusing. Definitely an anachronism to imperialism. The leafy roads are filled with old, gated Victorian-styled villas, grande hotels and small chapels and churches. The old buildings have plaques on commemorating what they once where and when they were built. So amongst the existing European and rest-of-the-world consulates which were once Imperial Maritime, Customs offices and banks, are banks, art galleries and Starbucks, which were once consulates, if you get me. No? Go back then and try again.

 I’m stopping at the White Swan, which is a rather ugly looking 1980’s hotel, but it’s convenient and quite posh inside. The room is costing £70 for the night, excluding meals, so I made sure I had a big breakfast this morning before leaving, and therefore can skip lunch. I wouldn’t recommend the hotel as a place to say. It’s not worth the money.

 Actually, I couldn’t have picked a worse time to come here. The weather is….well shite actually; a murky 19C, drizzly and humid. In fact the last four weeks have been rather piss poor, murky and on the whole, definitely below par. But I’m British, and at home here amongst the sogginess of it all. I won’t let the locals see it get to me; best side outwards, and all that. Added to the damp is the fact that Guangzhou will be hosting the Asia Games over the summer. We’ve all seen the effort that the Chinese put into the Olympics in 2008 (yes, two years ago). Well that was just a practice for what they are doing here in Guangzhou, a warm-up for the 1500m. I reckon if I stood still for a minute, I’d be cemented and block-paved in, or plastered into a wall and painted. They are on a mission, taking no prisoners and they won’t fail. Every street on this island is being dug up and re-paved, and you are having your building renovated mate whether you like it or not. Unfortunately half the buildings are under scaffold (of bamboo, not joking) and tarpaulin, to appear resplendent no doubt, a week before the games start. In summary, it’s raining cats and dogs, and the place is a building site, so don’t ask me to organise your holiday schedule.

 Another nice aspect here are the statues adorning the street and park entrances. They are recent, bronze and quality. Some are of individuals and others are showing small groups and scenes. There’s the old generation meeting the young generation and east meeting west. Very nice, and I’ve taken lots of pictures of these good folk at play.

 Poignantly, the island somehow does good business as a child adoption centre. My hotel adjoins the American Consulate and there are a lot of yanks here, sorry American cousins. I’ve seen towards a dozen American couples with young Chinese children (from babies to eight year olds. Some of them have more than one Chinese child and I can’t help overhear that the older kids speak with American accents, calling their Caucasian elders “mum” and “dad”.

 I had a midday pause in the small Shamian Park, once called Queens Park, at Lucy’s Biergarten, and sat at a table underneath a Paulaner Munchen parasol. There were families of sparrows here, nibbling at crumbs on the floor, just as in the Basler Garten. It reminds me of many a summer with my brother-in-law’s family, sat drinking long beers in the shade, away from that city’s summer heat; whilst Vicky and Issy feed the tame spatzes. Today, I refrained from a Hefe Weissen, ordering instead a litre of iced lemon tea, which came in a jar (£2), and sat and watched the world go by, namely labourers (quite often women) and middle aged Americans doting on their Chinese kids. I don’t have a problem with international adoption. In a loving relationship, there’s a strong sense of having to produce something (not for all, I appreciate); and in an unfair world, people faced with their own challenges, chose their own way forward. I caught the look on one foster mum’s face. She had a baby in one of those front sacks on her chest, looking down at her new little one. Her face said it all; so these emotions prevail, transcending all qualms and doubts.

 At 4pm I fell to a Cappuccino Venti and a Tiramisu at Starbucks on Shamian Dajie (Boulevard). All very nice, but the pick-me-up missed Mama Iris’s vital splash of amaretto. Starbucks is like in the UK, welcoming, faux and a place to chill. It enclosed mainly Chinese clientele (one group of six seemed to be having a seminar), with a few Europeans on their laptops (computers not dancers). The Dajie is the main road running left to right, and then north to south run five roads beautifully entitled Shamian One Road, then wait for it….Shamian Two Road, ending up with…..could it be….? 

I stumbled into a gift shop and got talking to Jenny and her husband. She closed the door behind me as I walked in, and commenced with the most charming soft sell. She beguiled me with her interest in England and said she was very happy to be able to practice her English with such a young and rich man. As I headed for the door, regaining my confidence I walked into her trap: the vote of sympathy. She told me that the refurbishments outside in the street were having a toll and that they had been going on since November. Hence I suddenly found myself leaving with a bag enclosing the two beautiful full-length “silk” (probably viscose) dresses I had bought for girls, one red with dragon embroidery and one blue with flowers. She told me that as I was her first customer that day, and it was customary for that lucky person to get a very good deal. So go on, how much? I’m embarrassed to say actually. It was charity, reverse robbery (no, not the chicken). But I got a bargain. But don’t tell the family. If you ever get to Guangzhou, look up Jenny’s Place, and be prepared to be softened up by this sweet, smiling thirty-something who gets to work stripping you of any resistance to parting with your cash. She is a black-belt in rapport and a delicate ninja in lightening your wallet. 

For dinner, I dined at La Dolce Vita, a nicely furnished restaurant run by Italians, and had my traditional Calzone pizza. I couldn’t order a Perroni, as they had no Italian beers, so I settled for a San Miguel. The beer and the pizza came to £10. The restaurant was full of Chinese families and a few westerners. The Cantonese are very big on families and on food, and always seem lively and happy together. It was nice to sit and watch all this going on and it reminded me of those closest at home, and the times we have dined out together. 

Then it was back to Lucy’s garten for a Heineken. Upon returning to the White Swan a young-ish tom timidly approached and said hello. And here I am again, pouring all this out, for whatever reason. If I can’t talk to someone, at least I can write it down. The blank page is my friend at times like this and I’m in a friendly, writing mood. It’s a document for the future I suppose, and when I’m quiet, too quiet, it’s a re-assurance for the frau that there is something going on inside. Off now for a drink. 

It’s nearly midnight and I’ve just returned from the Hare and Moon Bar downstairs in the lobby. I’ve had a couple of Daiquiris in the bar (£10) and some nuts. The clientele were mostly young Chinese couples and a couple of English old boys. A corpulent lady sat at the piano killing me softly with her songs as I sat wondering what the hell am I doing here. I’ve always believed in Karma, or at least do unto others as you would have them do unto you; so if I have ever upset you in this life or another, then I do apologise. Now will someone please just get me out of here! Looking out of the bedroom window, the promenades either side of the river are lit and there are strobe lights and neon lights attached to the sides and fronts of hotels and restaurants. At night the river cruise boats are lit up, emitting western dance music. 

I’m left wondering about Shamian in the context of my own country’s history. When I was taught the subject at school I learned about the bad Vikings and Saxons, the clever Romans, the bad Normans, the bad Germans and the bad communist Russians. I never learned about the bad British. I learned about the Commonwealth and that there was an empire. I never learned about slavery and subjugation. I learned about how Britain re-invented itself as a plutocracy with is monarchy and its democracy. I must have been off school ill that day, when that one hour history lesson gave us an objective and balanced account of our glorious past. I’ll ask my girls what they are being taught about British history. When I see Shamian, I feel quite conned, but then again, what would Hong Kong have been without the British? The succession of Hong Kong back into China increased the GDP of China by over 50%. In hindsight, are the Chinese philosophical about British colonial intervention? Where would India be now without the unifying qualities of its only common national language (English), democracy and orderly bureaucracy? 

It’s a grey world or rights and wrongs and lesser evils. It’s not black and white. Does that make me sound like an apologist, a Tony Blair? In summary, I suppose on the micro level we all have to be vigilant, and make sure we do our bit. So keep smiling, and “be kind, because everyone you meet faces a hard battle” (Plato).

 It’s my second visit to HK, and I’m pleased to be exploring different parts of the territory this time. HK is made up of a series of different islands, including HK island, Kowloon and Lantau. On my first ever visit to China in 2008, I spent two nights on Kowloon, and this time I’m on HK island itself. The journey started yesterday morning at Shun De ferry port on the bank of the River Pearl. We took the 10am catamaran. The boat was modern, clean and quiet and quickly sped along on the calm and foggy water. A return ticket costs £35 and the journey takes two hours, towards a week’s wages for a lot of the passengers. Only in horrendous monsoon weather is the schedule cancelled.

 The boat wasn’t full, there being six scheduled trips per day. There is a downstairs economy cabin and an upstairs business class. We took the cheap seats, which were fine. The passenger cabin has a flat screen TV with soaps playing, a snack counter at the front selling noodles, chocolate and drink. The half-full cabin was 97% Chinese, people of all ages, chatting, dozing, or on their phones and laptops. The weather was foggy and cool, so no opportunity to see anything. Madonna was being piped over the air.

 We arrived in Hong Kong and passed through customs. British people don’t need a visa to enter HK or Macao, whereas Chinese mainlanders do. I need to show my Chinese visa to get back into the mainland however.

 Coming out of Hong Kong ferry port, we had some business in Kowloon, which involved some walking and taxi rides. It is fascinating to walk along these streets, peering into shops that sold everything from phones, martial arts weapons, freshly squeezed-whilst-u-wait carrot juice, to herbal medicines and girls. The signs (and there are many) advertised Thai, Philippine and Chinese girls for £20. I don’t know if that’s half board or all inclusive. But it’s there on a plate, right in front of you, if you’re hungry.

 We passed streets each enveloped in a cocktail of smells, from delicious foods, incense and stinking drains. By this time the fog had cleared and you can get a great view all around. The streets have skyscrapers towering all around, and on the roads overhead, every square of daylight is filled with sign posts, awnings and banners, of all shapes and sizes, suspended on wires from the adjacent buildings, advertising whatever they do in this Cantonese style marketing.

 We got on the underground MTR (Mass Transit Railway) system and headed for Causeway Bay on Hong Kong island, getting off at The Admiralty. The subway system (built in 1979) was filled with people on this Saturday afternoon. The metro isn’t on the same scale as London Underground, but it adopts the same colour system for the ten different lines; with names such as Tsuen Wan Line and West Rail Line. Some of these stretch from HK into Shenzen, the neighbouring mainland city.

 As you approach the platform edge, it is screened off with sliding glass doors, which prevent falling onto the track, and I suppose insulating for noise and heat. It’s all air-conditioned, and it cost about 20p to from Kowloon to HK island. It is a very cheap and efficient system, with everything clearly signposted. The locals use an Octopus card which you buy and keep in your wallet. The turnstile senses it without you even having to take it out of your pocket. That’s efficient Mr Boris, Mayor of London. The train took us underwater between the two islands and out we popped onto HK island.

 We checked in at the Regal, Causeway Bay, into economy rooms, which are decorated in a sort of French Regency style (which is more tasteful than I’m describing) but without free internet access, and probably not as smart as the room I stop in at Foshan. I’m on the 24^th floor, but the view’s not great, looking ahead at a couple of tower blocks and over ring-roads and down onto a small playground. It’s a nice part of town though, very near Victoria Park, which I haven’t seen yet. As I’m sat here sipping my cappuccino, I notice over the road, there’s a school called St Paul’s Convent School. Imagine that, with my reputation?

 We mooched around Times Square for a while, staring at Swiss Watch shops, selling brands I’ve never seen or heard of before. We went in one shop and my colleague chose one for £21k. I suspect it’s called Times Square because of all the watch shops. It’s not pavement-style coffee houses around here, just shops and shops, and we struggled to find somewhere to sit and sup a coffee and watch the world go by. So we moved on.

 The White Stag, Wan Choi

From there we went into the Wan Choi district, which was is bit seedy and full of British blokes. The main road was lined with bars, Irish and English pubs, and ladies, young and old, trying to drag you into their dens of iniquity. One particularly hardened madam held me in a good grip for about ten yards. Not an inviting sales technique.

 We settled for the White Stag, which had a wide-open shop front and was an inviting little gem. It was mid-afternoon. It looked like a pug inside, complete with two flat TV’s, one showing England v Bangladesh, and one showing the English footie. A blackboard announced there were three further matches to be shown as the day wore on. You can a have a full “English” for under a tenner. I settled for a bottle of Pedigree as opposed to Tetley’s on draught. It was full of Brits, a tourists and locals, some of working age and some retired. The landlord was my age, had an estuary accent and had lived there for a long time.

 We got talking to a retired chap who had been a resident for thirty years and he had seen many changes over that time. The value of his apartment had gone up £200,000 in the last two years. He felt that the Chinese had interfered very little with the running of the island. In his opinion, everything was still maintained on an independent basis, in terms of police, judiciary and so on. Both the head of HK police and the customs are British men. Obviously there is some political control, and there is some HK-style wrestling going on at the moment here.

 Lan Kwai Fong: New Amsterdam

We reluctantly left the comfortable surroundings of The White Stag, catching a taxi to where it all happens. It took us a mile or so up the winding hill roads, past Chris Patten’s ex-residence (very grand, white colonial des-res) to Lan Kwai Fong. It was around 7pm and we strolled along the street looking into all the bars and restaurants. These were a mixture of Chinese, Indian, Italian and Lebanese restaurants, mingled in with European bar. It had a very relaxed continental European feel. We settled for and sat drinking in the Insomnia bar munching on Tapas crisps, watching the world go by for an hour. Up here was a blend of Europeans, Aussies and Hong Kongese, couples (often white men with Chinese girlfriends) and groups.

 We had a few beers and from there we caught another taxi (all only a few pounds) further up the hill towards Victoria Peak, to Soho. This area should swap names with the White Stag area. Here it reminded me of the hustle and bustle of our wedding anniversary weekend last year in Amsterdam. Again, there was a real mix of nationalities. We settled in at the Pacific Grill on Staunton St, and had a fillet steak and shared a bottle of Medoc, which came to £30 per head.

 It all felt very safe and relaxed on this side of HK. We walked passed these huge escalators that take you all the way up the hill, if your legs are tired. I don’t know the overall length, but they were hundreds of yards long.

 From there we went back to Kowloon and had a few cocktails at The Grand Hyatt, and watched a really great Philippine jazz trio. The girl was very beautiful and sang as well as she looked. It was £6 for a White Russian, and we sat amongst beautiful people and it all felt like a scene from James Clavell’s Tai Pan. It was a very nice way to finish off the evening, amongst the descendants of Dirk Struan and Tyler Brock.

 I would say that HK island is very international, in terms of its buildings: old colonial mixed with sparkling shopping centres and hotels. It is the financial centre of HK, and the shopping is more upmarket. Kowloon appears to be more Blade Runner-style downtown China old-quarter. Kowloon is very hustle and bustle, but no pushing and shoving. Wherever you are, there are reminders of 150 years of British rule with names like Aberdeen, Victoria, Nathan Road, Argyll St, Fife St and Nelson St. There’s certainly a Scottish dominance to that, as was told in Tai Pan.

 Finishing this article off, today passed slowly, the morning after the night before. We caught the ferry back to Shun De with ease. On the return ferry I read AA Gill’s Paper View, and wrote down all the words that I didn’t know: arrant, avuncular, feckless, moribund, amanuensis, fetid. So I can now tell you that although parts of Hong Kong are fetid, it’s neither moribund nor avuncular, and I hope your amanuensis skills can make use of my arrant and feckless feedback.

 It’s a fabulous city, so please add it onto your list if ever you need to do a stop-over to Australia or something. A couple of three nights is probably sufficient to give you a reasonable feel of this island that harmonises the old with the new and the east and the west. It works.

I caught the flight from Birmingham to Dubai on Tuesday evening, having enjoyed the benefits of the Emirates Business lounge in Solihull. I did particular damage to a banoffee cheesecake. Everything went like clockwork with the flights until I arrived at the hotel in Foshan, at midnight China-time, some 22 hours since leaving home.

 “Hello Mr Knight, it’s nice to see you again. But what are you doing here?”

 “Well, I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I’d just call in to say hello”.

 “Do you want to make a reservation Mr Knight?”

 “There should be one made”.

 “For how long?”

 “Three months”.

 “Three months?!!!!”.

 Quite often, Chinese people can appear expressionless to outsiders. However, my friend dispelled myth that at this stage. I got the impression that the hotel computer system was saying “no”. Anyway, the upshot was, after 20 minutes of him opening and closing drawers and tapping on screens, I suggested that he just give me a room so that I could go to sleep, and it be sorted out in the morning. So at 2am, I was unpacked, showered, and clothes and equipment laid out for the next morning. I was being picked up at eight, so I set the alarm at 7am, as usual.

 At the factory, I was warmly greeted as always. With Chinese people, once you overcome that initial set of encounters on an individual basis, and establish a rapport, they are very friendly. I count some of my colleagues as friends, and I find them very likeable souls.

 However, would you like to be greeted with “oh, you look so fat and handsome and young and fresh”? I’m aware by now, that this is very complimentary, but come on. I’d had my hair cut very short to last the three months, and I’d had a very good night’s sleep, so maybe that was it. But really, I’m flesh and blood as well you know; a guy can only take so much. About three stone too much flesh.

We were picked up from the airport by our supplier and driven in a leather seated people carrier to the centre of Wuxi. The city is on the mighty Lake Tai, the third largest lake in China, with a surface area of 2250km2. Wuxi is in Jiangsu Province, and it is a national tourist area because of the lake and its surrounding beauty. I can’t account for this as it was a very grey day, and bitterly cold. There was a mist in the air, which may be pollution. It was the type of heavy chill that permeates through your skin, into the bones;, into your soul almost. It was the coldest I have ever been.

The suppliers took us straight to lunch, via the lake. Tai was settled on by small fishing boats and not much else. There were no pleasure boats or sailing boats visible on a Thursday morning. It was too grey and misty to see anything, and we didn’t want to hang around because of the chill. There was also another very large Buddha (88m high) somewhere in the mist.

 We had a typically big lunch, washed down with Mai Tai, beer and the best Chinese wine I’ve tasted: 1992 vintage Great Wall red, very much unlike the cooking sherry stuff, normally served. Oz Clark and his mate with the long hair, would have each had a “lefter”, out of surprise. The meal was hosted by the supplier’s MD, an intelligent and capable woman in her late fifties, who professed not to speak English. She commented on how good looking I was and noted the different colour shades of my hair. I was asked if I deliberately dyed it grey. At this stage during lunch (drinking), I honestly couldn’t remember.

The food was different to Cantonese, sweeter in fact, and less stir-fry and steamed dishes. We had beef and peppers in black bean sauce, BBQ ribs, tofu, vegetables in garlic, roast duck, stuffed dates, a massive grilled fish out of Lake Tai, fried noodles. Fried rice was served last, as a filler. Fried rice is not seen as proper food in restaurants. It’s a poor man’s filler, and some establishments don’t even serve it!

We toured the factory that afternoon for a few hours and then we were met by another driver from a different supplier company. He drove us the two hours south, from Wuxi to Hangzhou. Hangzhou is in Zhejiang Province, has a population of four million people and lies about 180 km south of Shanghai. On the way down, we past Suzhou, a very major city just outside of the Shanghai metropolis – with its tall skyscrapers lighting up the dark, with their digital graphics and strobes. The motorways were busy, but not congested. The surrounding standard of driving was good, although our driver had obviously passed his test somewhere near Munich, preferring to hug the bumper of the car in front. Nevertheless, I felt safer on the motorways here, than on the suburban roads of Guangdong.

We were taken straight for a meal that evening; another banquet. Dinner was hosted by the owner of the company we were visiting the next day. He was a pleasant man, who turned out to be a local ex-party boss. So he was obviously connected, but he did seem genuinely decent, in terms of his temper, body language and so on. We had another huge northern meal, washed down with a crate of Heineken Export, heavy passive smoking, tofu, the best roast lamb I’ve ever had, crab, prawns. We were then taken to our hotel, the gloriously sounding “Quintessential New Century Hotel”, complete with the largest artificial tree anywhere in the world. They must have brought the whole of Woolworth’s bankrupt stock to decorate it. It was quintessentially crap, and I loved it. It was one of the moments when I was proud to be Chinese.

Slept well in a cigarette smoke-filled room. I was on my own, but it was seeping in from somewhere. A good room up to Travelodge standard at least with a nice shower. We checked out at 7.30am and our ex-party host took us for breakfast to a noodle soup bar. We could have been somewhere in the Bull Ring, circa early eighties. It had that sought of grey, grubby feel to it. Like the Rag Market little side shops used to be. The place was full of customers. Our host orders us a big bowlful each. Mine was a steaming mix of noodles, chopped veggies, beef and pork pieces. It cost RMB10 (£1), which is expensive, if you only earn £30 a week. It was really terrific; with a savoury like a fresh pot-noodle. I think these northerners have the edge over the Cantonese Morning Tea.

On we went to the factory, which was an hour away, giving me time to observe the local landscape. If you’ve ever been around rural Belgium or Holland, it’s nothing really like that, but I can’t think of a better comparison. There’s more space in between house; more houses than apartments. The houses have a less grandiose/ostentatious design than in the south. There are larger gardens and vegetable plots, and most seem to have some sort of workshop as well, which out host said were the family small businesses, linked to textiles, usually wool spinners.

Every town had buildings going up. There are construction cranes for miles around, new roads, bypasses and underpasses being built everywhere. We completed a factory tour (a good factory by western standards) and were then taken for a third large meal of hairy crabs, dog, Beijing Duck, noodle soup and about 20 fags wafting past. We were taken to Hangzhou Airport (size of Manchester Airport I guess) and had a three hour delay. We passed time in Starbucks watching a daytime soap set in a Chinese Tango School. It was all sideways glances and close-ups. The serving staff were transfixed by the big love story and the whole shop came to a halt. We eventually flew back on China East Airline to Guangzhou, where I had a five hour wait to board to Dubai.

I’ve had a great vist, rounding sixteen months of coming to China. I’m a better man for travelling, and I’m getting to know myself better, along with a sense of becoming a little more independant, grown-up, resiliant, philosophical. But hopefully without losing the essential character that knocked my wife bandy all those years ago. Happy new year to you xxx.

Here in China, my English-Australian brother-in-arms, my surrogate dad, has swiftly succumbed to cancer in the bile duct. Prior to my last visit in October, he e-mailed me to say that that he’d just started having tests in hospital. He was typically vague and laid back about communicating the seriousness of his condition, and I didn’t probe. We arranged to meet for Sunday lunch as usual on my first weekend. Untypically, he arrived a little late. When I saw him, his skin was jaundiced and the shade of “I can’t believe it’s not butter”. He’d lost weight and could hardly walk, he was so weak. The shock of seeing someone who had deteriorated so quickly in the four weeks since our last meeting was hard to mask. He still wanted to go for lunch, but I don’t think I was hungrier than he was. I kept on my sunglasses during my visit, to attempt hide my visual discomfort.

 He wasn’t in a condition that day be interrogated about his diagnosis and prognosis. I probed as best as I could, gathering at that stage he was still undergoing tests and was an outpatient. In the UK, thanks to the NHS, in his condition you would have been in hospital, no question. In China, all medical bills have to be paid for out of the pocket, and it is shockingly expensive – £400 per day. 

Over the course of that four week visit, his condition deteriorated further and his tests proved inconclusive, other that he was diagnosed with cancer somewhere. But they couldn’t find where on his MRI scans. I asked him to contact his daughters in Australia to advise them of his situation, but it was to no avail. He seemed to have made up his mind that he’d had a good innings and this was “it”. I felt desperately helpless and saddened by his situation. When we first met in February, he was relatively fit and now he looked like he was on his last legs. I could have cried for him and did one night.

 We kept in touch after my departure for the UK in mid-November.. He had his final tests back a few days after, to say that they could not locate the cancer, but that his major organs were ok. I couldn’t help but think he was keeping the truth from me, and I continued to feel helpless and fear the worst. 

Upon my return two weeks ago, I was met by the news that he was back in hospital, a different one, and that his daughters were scheduled to fly to China a few days later. They had been contacted by his Chinese friend Alan. When I visited him in hospital, he recognised me and could talk, but he rambled and it was clear he had deteriorated further. His daughters arrived and in consultation with the hospital and with his own wishes, they took him back to his apartment. They watched over him until he thankfully passed away a few days later. I visited him twice more whilst he was at home. On the first occasion he smiled at me, but on the second he was unconscious and breathing like a rattle. When he died I felt relieved and relaxed, knowing that he was out of his pain, and that his daughters had been there with him. They were clearly relieved as well. I reviewed whether I had done enough to help matters. Should I have been more forceful and assertive with him in October?

 His funeral took place a few days later. In China most people are cremated, and this normally occurs within a few days after death, once death certificates are signed. At the crematorium, his body was prepared, clothed and make-up applied, whilst we waited. There were a dozen of us. My customer had kindly given me time off to attend the service. We comprised of his daughters, me and the Chinese friends and neighbours to whom he had given English lessons. Whilst we were there, I reflected on how much that he must have meant to his Chinese friends. Chinese people respect their elders, often standing up for them, when they walk into a room. His Chinese friends had helped organise the funeral and expenses and some had travelled over night to be there, included one young woman who was the first to pass the English language entrance exam into university as a result of his input.

 The service as such, revolved around placing the urn containing his ashes on the ground at the crematorium, burning a piece of his clothing, burning a paper house, a paper computer, a paper housekeeper and paper money. These are bought in shops and represent the tradition of sending on items with the departed to make their stay in the next world, comfortable. Then we let off the mother of all crackers, which he must have heard from where he was laying on some heavenly beach with “no worries”. Then we were all hand some real money, which we had to spend on his behalf, which we did at the following meal. It was a brief and dignified service. No real prayers, or priests, just us. His daughters spread his ashes in a nearby river, which runs out into the sea and down to Australia. They also took some of his ashes back to Perth to spread near to his favourite, local brewery. So he’s sorted.

 I felt so attached to him over the course of the year, and admired his strength and dignity over the course of those last weeks. He’d made up his mind and accepted that it was his turn, and that there was no point anymore “raging against the dying of the light”, as Dylan Thomas’s poem goes. He didn’t fear life, and he didn’t make a fuss about death. I won’t forget him or the lessons he taught me about speaking your mind and having a sense of independence. I wish I’d known him when I was a young man. He’d have “mentored” me and nudged me when I needed the confidence I didn’t have then. His name was Roger Humphries, of Weston-Super-Mare, Perth, Australia and Gaoming, China, and I’m so glad to have known this human being. It was an edifying relationship.