Days 90-91: Moravsky Kras, Czech Republic

Today, a stunning one hour trip through the underground cave system known as Punkevsky. There are some incredible rock formations, with both the forms of stalags (-mite and -tite) well represented, and other rocks that resemble melted wax. The short spelunk ends with a boat ride across the underground river which opens out into a small chasm, the contrasting light from above turning the sky line into a haze of cascading water and diffused beams.

The caves are so impressive that my enjoyment is only slightly mitigated by the gum-smacking, giggling Czechs alongside me.

The Czechs sure take their outdoors seriously. The park surrounding the cave system has free entry (and the caves themselves are less than $10), and the area is packed with people cycling and walking. Even with its communist heritage less than a generation in the past, the Czechs defy their capitalist infancy by decking themselves out in full cycling kit- I even spy a dude in head to toe Tour de France lycra gear as he propels his scooter along the path, his shrink-wrapped chicken leg no doubt scything along at an extra 10% efficiency with the aid of finest cycling technology. Next, I have a flash of nostalgia for back home as I spy the all too familiar sight of middle-aged man-junk wrapped in spandex as I sip my morning coffee. Although this time there is Czech twist to proceedings as all the cyclists tuck into a 9am half-litre of beer to refuel. It sure beats a soy latte.

Days 88-92: Prague and Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic

I think it would have been almost impossible for Prague to live up to my expectations. It's undoubtedly beautiful- narrow cobbled lanes, a stunning city square an imposing castle and cathedral lording it over the city from nearby hills. And a pint of beer will set you back much less than $2, so long as you avoid the tourist traps.

But then there are the tourists. Even in June, which is the recommended time to travel ("avoid the crowds in July and August") the place is thronging with them. And they all seem to be in tour groups- you can't round a corner without being nearly trampled by 42 croc-wearing Germans, or having your eye put out by a tour leader brandishing a pink ribbon on a stick, the rallying standard for the fat, lazy, unimaginative and ignorant that comprise a Prague tour group.

Not that I have a problem with tourists. Obviously I am one myself- the dorky backpack and utilitarian trousers are confirmation of that. But that doesn't mean I want to spend my time surrounded by a tour guide, hearing the guide drone on about how exactly 12,336 stones were used to construct this bridge, while the jowls of the tourists flubber as they nod in sage agreement, as if they knew that all along. And I do object when their mouth-breathing, painful pace across the road obstructs me on my way to a refreshing pilsen.

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So, after a day and a half it's time to head for the hills, via train to the town of Cesky Krumlov. It's a small Bohemian village, surrounded by hills and a winding river that snakes its way through the town center a number of time. A massive castle sits overlooking the town, but in a benevolent, Bohemian way, all soft edges and warm colours, rather than the imposing, kneel-before-me-puny-mortal starknesss of Gothic architecture. Fairy tales have been inspired by, and set in, this town, and more recently it was used as the location for the splatter-porn movie Hostel.

And it's mercifully free of tourists. Time to enjoy a quiet beer in an empty cafe, listening to the sounds of the river as the castle smiles down.

Days 81-83: Ypres Salient and Passchendale, Belgium

There's a whole tourist industry run out of the small Belgium town of Ieper, which offers all manner of tours and momentos related to the infamous WWI battles of the area. Part of me feels that this is horribly crass- an industry that profits from death, but then people should be encouraged to come and learn about these places. And visitors are always going to need food and accommodation. But I draw the line at Great War related puns- "all quiet and comfortable on the Western Front" in the hotel, and "Over the Top" coach tours.

While a tour was tempting in one sense, in that it would provide some historical background commentary, this would have meant a day sitting alongside the crass coach tour set, people who view their holidays through a camcorder viewfinder, a few hasty shots of the most famous landmarks and no time for reflection as they hurry off to the tea room.

My patience was also tested by the throngs of British school children, swarming in, around and over the cemeteries. But then, at least they are here, seeing if for themselves and, hopefully, learning something. And, give or take a couple of years, these are the very kids who would have sailed off to their deaths a century ago.

There's no denying the intensity of emotion that you feel in places like this- the scale of the slaughter is overwhelming. The Menin Gate alone has more than 54,000 names carved into it - and this only covers the Commonwealth soldiers who fought in the surrounding area and whose bodies were never found. A mere fragment of the entire conflict.

And you can't travel more than a few hundred metres through the surrounding countryside without tripping over another memorial to the waste of human life. Each one a minor part of the war, but representing an entire village or family lost. A smattering of white markers among the lush fields to denote the Australian miners who died attempting to sap German trenches, those who perished in the first gas attack or any other of an endless list of massacres.

But I'm not so sure that, as a collective, we have really learned anything. This was a generation of young men who grew up on notions of valour and heroism in foreign lands, but instead of finding glory they met slaughter, mown down by new industrial scale methods of death- the unthinking, unfeeling cold metal of machine guns and artillery. Yet at the memorial sites are swaddled in the sorts of symbolism that let war happen in the first place- the arbitrary, jingoistic ideals of patriotism, and the flimsy notions of king and country, god, and the flag. Exactly the levers that, even now, can send a country to war.

Every where you see the refrain "lest we forget". It may as well be 'lest we change'.

Days 75-79: Paris, France

Arriving in Paris is my first taste of culture shock. At the risk of coming across all road-to-Damascus-y and sounding like a complete prick who his changed his whole world view after a measly 8 weeks driving through Africa, it felt weird to be in Paris. I felt out of place. I'd had a few days in England, sure, but that was more like a quick pitstop at home, a wash of the clothes and a couple of beers and then I hit the traveller's road again.

Paris felt cramped, oppressive. Cars and people. No smiles. No hellos. The problem with Africa is that it makes you feel special- wide open spaces, obviously an outsider but a welcome one. And arriving in Paris, with my dusty backpack and sensible walking shoes, it was immediately clear that I was not.

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But what Paris lacked in a welcoming spirit for a newly confirmed Africa-phile, it more than made up for with eye candy, in all its forms. Beautiful people, stunning art and architecture, cutting-edge fashion. To turn a corner in Paris is to stumble across a magnificent building or sculpture that would command pride of place in any other city. It oozes class, style and elegance. The timeless beauty. And that's Paris- the most beautiful girl in the room, and she knows it. But she couldn't care less.

It drove me crazy with resentment. Still, I couldn't help but stare at her.

Days 68-70: London and York, England

A day of contrasts as I spend my morning in London King's Cross station, watching the cools kids wander past, no doubt on their way to some gig, a house party or the opening of some new exhibition. I then move to York, where things get a lot more, well, lumpen and unattractive.

I sit, amazed, at the train station. Never before have I seen such a sustained procession of misshapen, unfortunate looking people- not to mention some stellar applicants for the next edition of the Big Book of British Smiles. And then there's the accent. My god. To speak like is to immediately lower your IQ by about 40 points. If Stephen Hawking had that accent loaded into his speech box then noone would have listened to a word he had to say. Unless it was to enquire with whether you'd like mushy peas with that, love.

Fortunately, there's one more contrast - the city is a beautiful. A medieval walled city, all cathedral, cobbled lanes, ye olde pubs and coats of arms. I round out my visit in the most quinessentially English fashion- fish and chips with a lovely chardonnay on the banks of the river.

Updates soon

I'll be posting about the rest of my trip within the next week- stand by!