Greetings, readers. You may have noticed it has been quite some time now since my last post. I would like to say that there is a tremendously good excuse for this delay (i.e. I was terribly sick *cough cough,* my internets broke *sputter sputter* – yes that’s the sound of the internet breaking, or perhaps an ice cream truck was parked outside of my flat for the past week *yum yum*) but alas, it was simply because things have been a little stressful in the ivory towers of Outdoor Ed here in Edinburgh.
Even as a young child, workweek productivity slammed to a halt when Patrick got a taste of 'the frozen drug.'
Travelling, whether to an exotic once-in-a-lifetime destination, or simply as part of a routine commute, often exposes us to uncertainty, adventure, and terrible, disgusting bathrooms.
Luckily for me, (and most certainly for you, the reader) my post today contains no sordid tales of toilet trauma. Rather, it takes a look at the ubiquitous “travel horror story” (providing easy party anecdotes since, um, Noah?).
And then we totally got stuck on top of a mountain! Did I mention the rotting corpses?!