I always keep a journal when I travel, but something's different about the one open in front of me now — the notebook in which I was writing just a few weeks ago. My normally smooth script has deteriorated into a scrawl, the black biro scoring angrily into the cream-colored pages.

"I am fed up of being cold. Why am I even trying to write this? My fingers can't hold the pen."

"It's 8 o'clock and I'm going to bed. I'm so tired I can hardly think, let alone talk or write."