Earlier this month – and it already seems like eons ago – I had a fantastic five-day holiday in Jamaica. I was writing about the south coast and more specifically Jake’s hotel in Treasure Beach for the Scotsman Magazine (I’ll tweet a link when the piece is published).

In the meantime this is just a quick compilation of some of the video I shot over there.

It’s the first time I’ve made any use of the video camera on my iPhone 4S, so it’s a bit rough’n'ready, and iMovie is a far from ideal editing option. But it’s cool to have an HD cam in your pocket so I’ll definitely be doing a few more of these.

St Peter's Square, Rome

Italian customer service is legendary. Everyone who’s experienced this wondrous, infuriating and frankly astounding phenomenon has their own story. Well, here’s mine.

We were in the bustling Termini station in Rome, the great city’s main rail hub, on a busy Saturday afternoon. We wanted to ask about tickets to Florence for a possible trip the following day, and whether there were any special deals. Noticing the ‘Customer Service’ desk adjacent to the crammed ticket office, we join a small queue. A simple quest in most other countries, but not here.

Within 15 minutes we’ve moved four inches, and behind us stand at least 20 impatient travellers. Every so often someone tries to sweet-talk their way to the front, before a gruff Roman in front of us sends them packing to the back of the line. At one point an elderly priest is even given his marching orders in no uncertain terms. Remarkably, one young Scandinavian woman succeeds where others have failed. But her sincerity is written across her face as she begs each queuer in turn to let her through – her train is leaving in five minutes and she’s genuinely frantic.

After parting us like the Red Sea, the woman reaches the threshold of the counter. But there are two customers occupying the attention of both advisers, and judging by their litany of questions it seems like they’re trying to get to Milan via Moscow. Finally, the girl gets her chance and bounds forward. The stony faced middle-aged madam (there are two of them and they’re practically inseparable in my memory) looks her up and down, impervious to her panic, and sends her, distraught, in the direction of the ticket office with a wave of the hand that is contempt expressed in a single flourish.

Now it’s our turn. Or is it? Our adviser, oblivious to the baying mob that is now around 50-strong, walks away from the counter, shuffles some paper absent-mindedly by the printer, exchanges some words with her colleague, then, her nose aimed firmly at the ceiling, returns to her seat and deigns to call us forward.

I offer my usual “parla inglese?”

“Nil,” she replies, curtly.

Undeterred, we manage to express our question about prices. She interrupts us mid-flow with the set price, which apparently never changes, no matter the time or train. Having made it clear that she is in no mood to offer any more “customer service”, she looks straight over our shoulders and calls the next person, and we have no choice but to trudge away, knowing nothing more than we did half an hour ago, apart from the fact that there’s some truth in the Italian stereotype.

But that’s just one story. There was also the bartender who spoke fluent English and suggested I try his recommended beer, the old pizzeria owner who spent the whole evening loudly greeting each and every diner, and the courteous woman who rented out her apartment to us and was a pleasant, if rarely seen, host.

Actually, I don’t want to complain too much about the way Italians treat tourists, because it’s part of who they are. On the flip side of the coin, what would Rome be like if you couldn’t sit at a café and watch the couples exploding in rage one minute and embracing the next, the old men who know everyone in the neighbourhood, or the manicured women strutting imperiously along on their four-inch heels? They’re hard-wired for confrontation, for the kind of heightened fits of passion that would entail either  fistfights or official complaints were they to take place in Britain.

Ah yes, but there’s still the 2,500 years of history lurking in the crumbling remnants of the Empire, the Renaissance glories of the Sistine Chapel, the ornate sculpted fountains of Bernini, the winding, trattoria-filled streets of Trastevere or the bustling markets that crowd the piazzas.

It can be frustrating when you need to do something or go somewhere that involves seeking the aid of the locals, but that’s Rome. It was born on an arrogant belief in its own superiority, and it’s not going to change that for all the camera-clutching tourists in the world.

A few tips if you’re going…

• While I wasn’t as impressed with the pizzas as I thought I’d be, Pizzeria da Gildo in Trastevere gets my nod for its generously topped capricciosa.
• If you have a day spare, take a trip to Ossia Antica, a virtually complete Roman port town, and the seaside resort of Lido. While the beach isn’t the best, you can take in both these destinations with your Metro ticket.
• The Vatican Museums, which house the Sistine Chapel, are a must-see, but I’m not alone in that view. So you need to get there before it opens at 8.45am if you don’t want to spend half your day in a queue.
• Fed up with the overpriced drinks? Stop by Il Baccanale in Trastevere. It’s a cosy place with good quality beer at near UK prices, cheap cocktails, and friendly staff.
• At the Colosseum it’s worth paying the five euros extra to skip the queue and get the guided tour. I learned that ‘arena’ means sand in Latin. You can’t put a price on nuggets like that. And remember, the ticket also gets you into the Forum and Palatine Hill.

There are more photos from my holiday on my Flickr page.

The unconquered Buachaille Etive Mor, pictured from the car on the way home

For weeks I had been looking forward to it, thinking of the sweeping mountain landscapes, of challenging hikes followed by rewarding drinks, of campfires and camaraderie. Even the occasional stag or golden eagle would pop up in the film that was forming in my mind, as if to remind me that this was no central belt getaway but the real, great outdoors.

But as our weekend trip to Glen Coe drew nearer, a great big cloud drifted over this idyllic vision in the form of the BBC weather forecast, which, of course, predicted heavy rain.

Undeterred, our group of nine (it’s amazing how appealing the chance to get out of Edinburgh during festival-time can be) sets off in two cars on Saturday morning, heading north-west, through Stirling, Crianlarich, Tyndrum, over Rannoch Moor and eventually into the great curve of Glen Coe itself, passing the rocky sentinel that is Buachille Etive Mor.

This mountain was meant to be our main challenge, but as we don’t reach the campsite near the Clachaig Inn until after two o’clock in the afternoon, we decide that the six-hour walk isn’t achievable today and we half-heartedly postpone the ascent till tomorrow.

Instead, we pitch our tents and wander along the single-track road towards Glen Coe village, stopping for a picnic at a wee loch as the sun threatens to make an appearance. Along with a gang of ducks, who end up fighting over the scraps of bread we throw at their webbed feet.

Back at the campsite, we now attempt to build a fire. It seems like the obvious thing to do. Us males sense our caveman gene kicking in and so we go off to gather the logs, while the females of the species whisper doubtfully about our plan. With the help of a neighbouring camper who has come prepared with firelighters and kindling, we get it lit. But keeping it lit is the problem, and one which defeats us when the only timber to hand is absolutely sodden through.

Feeling slightly emasculated, there’s only one thing for it: to the pub! We make it to the Clachaig Inn just before the kitchen shuts and sit down to a decent, meaty meal. The lounge bar is spacious but nothing more than a dining room, so we head through to the proper bar to catch the last few songs of a local bluegrass band called The Ballachulish Hellhounds.

They’re great, but tragically the place calls last orders at half eleven, when we’re only just getting into the spirit of the night.

Ach well, back to the campsite we trudge, in the pitch black and pouring rain. There we have a few more swigs of whisky before reluctantly testing whether the cheap, hastily procured tents will guard us against the Highland elements.

They don’t, or at least mine doesn’t, and the next morning I wake to feel my feet in a puddle, with the whole front section of the tent under a layer of water. This is the part of camping I don’t enjoy, and instead of getting up and moving on, I decide that dozing is a better option.

It doesn’t really matter by this point, because the group consensus is that it’s still too wet to take on Buachaille Etive Mor. There are other factors, such as some pretty unsuitable footwear and several mid-level hangovers.

As we drive off, the cloud-covered peak of Stob Dearg, our initial target, looms dramatically up away to our right, and it’s difficult to see how nine of us would have made it up there on a day like today. We carry on south, on the slow descent to the lowlands, the scenery gradually becoming less magnificent, more humdrum, until eventually we’re back in traffic-clogged Edinburgh.

And by now, of course, the sun is shining.

The unspoilt beauty of the Ang Thong marine park

Can it really be over two weeks since I got home from Thailand? Judging by my fast-fading t-shirt tan and increasingly infrequent bouts of beach-set, work-based day-dreaming, I guess it can.

While Thailand is one of the more ‘westernized’ of South East Asian countries, there was still so much that amazed and confounded. The frankly terrifying traffic in Bangkok, the view over miles of jungle from a hilltop tribe village, the lengths people go to charm gullible tourists out of their Baht, the luminescent colour of the water around the islands in the south, the abundance of ornate Buddhist shrines in front of every property, the teeming street-level life in every town and, when we were there, the fact that every telegraph pole in the country was adorned with an election poster of some stern-faced candidate.

Bangkok's Chinatown is a barrage of sights, sounds and smells

I spent just over two weeks there with friends, following the well-beaten tourist trail from Bangkok up to Chiang Mai for the outdoors experience, followed by the long journey south to the lazy island of Koh Pha Ngan for daytime relaxation and night-time recreation.

But far from any predictable, packaged trip, this was an eye-opening, dare-I-say epic journey that has really given me the jolt to explore more of the world beyond the comfortable, reigned in West.

The view from the Lahu hill tribe village we visited at dusk

It’s impossible to count the ways that a place like Thailand boggles the mind of a relatively inexperienced traveller. The overall impression I got was that, whereas life in Britain is rigidly segmented and regulated, life in Thailand seeps and smudges with few controls or barriers. Opening hours, health and safety, the licencing of designer brands, traffic hierarchies, the capacity of a scooter,  and, famously, gender, are all very grey areas in this part of the world.

While the Thai government has been known to be extremely tough when it wants to be, an unflustered, genial mood seems to define the national character, making life seem particularly sweet in a country that, despite recent political strife and ongoing economic hardship, is blessed with some of the finest scenery, nature, food and, of course, beaches in the world.

I’ll definitely be back.

Elephant trekking in the conservation camp near Chiang Mai

I have a few more Thailand photos over on my Flickr…

I’ve been playing football in this part of town for years without really venturing beyond the floodlit astroturf. While I’m sure I’ve been to the seafront as a child, today was the first time since I’ve lived in the city that I’ve bothered to check it out.

It gives my hometown, Leven, a run for its money in the faded seaside resort stakes. I particularly liked the wind-battered signs for the ‘Funpark’ and the lime green railings. While most of the entertainments of days gone by have long since closed or been demolished, the daft dogs yelping around provided much compensatory amusement. (In the picture above the tiny dog on the left was actually starting on the big, cowering boxer dog.)

There is something even bleaker about a past-its-prime promenade in February, when it’s getting dark at 5 o’clock. Still, it’s a good place to go for a walk, away from the traffic and shops of the centre, and those icy winds will blast away the heaviest hangover (not that I had one of course).

Anyway, this very ordinary Sunday afternoon out did remind me of this piece of comedy gold:

A solitary deer, staring back at the camera

This weekend past I went for a short break in the Highlands with Rebecca. A ‘staycation’, if you want to be all buzzwordy about it.

Sunset at Oban

We drove up to Oban first, the main harbour town on the Scottish West Coast, then carried on northwards to the more isolated fishing village of Ullapool, away up near the corner, so to speak.

Eilean Donan castle

I was expecting mountains, lochs and beaches, and although that’s pretty much what we got, it was the barren quality of this part of the country that took me by surprise, and the way the light pours down from the sky, and the continual succession of great vistas at every turn in the road.

The promenade at Ullapool

It was also a chance to try out my new camera (a Nikon D3000 for any nerds reading), and while I’ve yet to read the instructions, some of the pictures turned out not too badly…

View from Stac Pollaidh

Stac Pollaidh

I have no idea what kind of sheep this is

Evening sun on Wester Ross coast

I definitely recommend the north west of Scotland if you need to get away from it all without spending a fortune.

The Brandenburg Gate, focal point for most of Berlin's turbulent history

I’m currently bunged up with a cold, no doubt brought on by a combination of a few too many Berliner biers and the German capital’s even-chillier-than-Scotland autumn weather. But the trip was worth a few sniffles, because I had a great time exploring the place.

The few remaining scraps of the Berlin Wall, the site of Hitler’s bunker (now an anonymous car park) and the new Jewish memorial were all fascinating and humbling, but it was the nightlife that was the main attraction.

While we made a few wrong turns and bad choices, we also found some great bars, such as the graffiti-covered Zapata, the cool DJ bar named after Studio 54 and Silberfisch, a cellar bar that stayed open till 8am.

The quality of the pictures this time round isn’t too good as I was relying on my camera phone, but here are a few anyway, wonky panorama shots included.

My attempt at a panoramic shot of the Reichstag, Germany's parliament building

Another panorama attempt: The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, a newish site built with thousands of concrete slabs

Taken 'inside' the Jewish memorial. Looks like rows of skyscrapers to me.

The Fernsehturm, or TV tower, which is visible from practically everywhere in Berlin.

Currywurst, the local delicacy

I’m going to Berlin on Wednesday with a few old friends for five nights. It was a spur of the moment decision driven mainly by us all having to take holiday time off work before the end of the year, and the cheapness of the flights.

Unlike recent holidays to New York, Barcelona and Croatia, where I had either been before, done a bit of research or had a fairly good idea of what to expect from movies and music, Berlin remains a mystery to me.

I’m expecting big, wide public squares, hundreds of kinds of beer, crumbling Communist blocks, nightclubs that stay open till the last person leaves and a huge David Hasselhoff fanbase. But this could just be the stereotypical view for all I know.

Anyway, I’ll be back next week with my thoughts on the German capital and hopefully a few photos – although they won’t be as good as my Croatia pictures as it will just be my pitiful phone camera this time.

In the meantime, have you been to Berlin?

Care to give this clueless tourist a few tips on good bars / restaurants / clubs / sights?

I’ve been on holiday for the past week. We (me and my girlfriend Rebecca) went to Croatia for a week. It was a great trip: flawless weather, gorgeous scenery, friendly people, boats, islands and seafood, lots of seafood.

We flew to Zadar, a nice enough coastal town in Northern Dalmatia, before travelling down to Split, the region’s largest city.

Zadar's old and not-so-old churches

Split was home to the Roman emperor Diocletian’s holiday palace, which now serves as the city’s tattered but charming centre. It’s also a good base to explore some of Croatia’s many islands. We caught the ferry for a day trip to Brac, which boasts one of the country’s best beaches near the town of Bol.

Street market at dusk, Split

Finally we headed further south to Dubrovnik, which is a stunning, magical place, despite being heavily shelled during the Balkans war less than 20 years ago. Its massive walls have sustained centuries of attacks, so it’s fitting that it’s back to its former glory.

Dubrovnik old town from one of the wall forts

Stradun, the main street in Dubrovnik

Looking down on Dubrovnik from the towering city wall

Anyone stopping in Dubrovnik for more than a day or two should make the short boat trip to Lokrum island. Aside from the fact that it’s full of peacocks, it has rocky coves to explore and good swimming (as long as you stay clear of the sea urchins).

A resident peacock lords it over Lokrum

We had booked our plane tickets with no preconceptions about Croatia other than that it was an up and coming destination. The part of the country we saw would suggest that it’s already a worthy rival to the likes of Italy and Spain. It’s not particularly cheap, and the kuna currency takes a bit of getting used to (around 8 to the pound), but the Adriatic coast has to be seen to be believed.

Sunset from the Brac-Split ferry