Five weeks through Mexico's sacred sites — the initiations, the hitchhiking, and the places that did nothing at all.

My PM brain had absolutely nothing it could latch on to. A cave, a monastery, and a year in Asia coming to an end.

Despair, hope, nagas, and a gigantic Shiva party

From north to south: ayurveda, an ashram crisis, a tiny temple on a building site, and a goddess who said 'this is all my temple’.

“No one's coming to save you." Two months in Varanasi — the guru disasters, the cremation grounds, and the one Sadhu whose face still shows up.

No temples. No sacred sites. Just the local beach restaurants and the 7/11. A short trip, some very strange things, and a sign that sent me off again.

Three months in Bali — the temples, the nutcases, and plunging to uncomfortable depths.

I remembered who I was then. Three months across Java, following a calling I couldn't quite explain.

I stood before the mountain and tears came pouring as though straight from my heart, as lifetimes of separation melted into the vastness.

I'd given my van – complete with double bed, kitchen, wardrobe and wood burner – to a deity. Nine weeks of preparation, a circuit of the temples, and an initiation in the desert. I dozed off for most of it.

‘Why am I seeing a giant vulva in the sky?’, I thought. And carried on.

Nine articles remembering van life and my Underworld journey during Covid. What took me from London to Peru.