Today the snow is back in South Down. After a few days of respite the temperatures have dropped and the white blanket has returned. It was this time last week, a few days after my arrival home from Argentina, that the first tranche of much heavier snow fell rendering the roads around Warrenpoint undriveable and closing many workplaces and schools.

I stepped out of the front door, hat and gloves adorned, my walking boots dryly crunching on the white covering underfoot, my ultimate goal to reach Haverns or the Cabin or the Tuck Shop so that I could buy myself a newspaper. A real physical one made of paper. Not an online article or an instant pop-up story. A newspaper.

On making my way down from Jenny Black's Hill I saw people, like me, taking to their feet and abandoning cars. Families out walking together getting groceries and holly. Local businessmen tucking their pinstriped suit trousers into their wellies. Red cheeks. On Duke Street and Church Street, a lively bustle where coats are king. I overheard two ladies outside the post office remarking that the snow made even the municipal toilets in the square look beautiful.

And I continued down to the seafront. As rays from the sun bounced from Carlingford Lough I thought I saw the water wink knowingly at me as I captured what would probably be the only few moments of light the short day would deliver. To my left, the Mountains of Mourne, brooding and magical. To my right, the Cooley mountains of the Free State capped in virgin white.An innocence not present in the banking affairs of the Republic. The snow all around me was indiscriminate - nestled under its care were roads, fields, houses, cars and leafless trees.

The beauty of the scene before me brought Clive Staples Lewis to mind. It was obvious to me at that moment looking out over the snow covered range how such a scene could inspire his fantastical world of Narnia, Lewis having explained often how the setting for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was based on the spectacle of the Mournes.

Lewis, like myself, did some travelling. But it seems he was not as open-minded as I was, especially with regard to the English. He explained his struggle with the cultural shock of arriving in England after spending his childhood in Ireland by writing "The strange English accents with which I was surrounded seemed like the voices of demons. But what was worst was the English landscape ... I have made up the quarrel since; but at that moment I conceived a hatred for England which took many years to heal".

Describing an encounter with a fellow Irishman Lewis wrote: "Like all Irish people who meet in England we ended by criticisms on the invincible flippancy and dulness of the Anglo-Saxon race. After all, there is no doubt, that the Irish are the only people: with all their faults I would not gladly live or die among another folk".

As I sit back in Dallan Avenue, hot chocolate and rum in hand, I cannot help but reflect on all the wonderful people I met while volunteering and travelling this year, even including the English, Mr. Lewis. While I consider myself to have developed a healthy cycnism in life, the people I have met this year, both locals and other travellers and volunteers, have instilled in me a new found hope for humanity - even if the world is going to collapse in on itself because of cheap credit and 'those w*nking bankers'.

I am also drawn to reflect on the differences between Ireland and the places I have been this year. There are no jobs here. And the banks are in crisis. And front line public services are taking huge hits. And X-Factor continues to poison the population.

But you can turn on a tap and clean water will come out. In Ghana water for cleaning bodies and clothes was fetched from a well by my host family's children and was undrinkable. In Peru, the volunteers in Pisco had to do regular runs to the beach so we could fill barrells full of seawater for flushing the toilets. The earthquake there had damaged the sewage system meaning all volunteers had to take a few weeks of diarrhoea under their belts as standard.

And here we have roads. Look at the M1 from Newry to Dublin. In Bolivia I spent 10 hours on a bus that had no toilet or proper seats without encountering one road. And I don't mean that the road was bad. I mean there was no actual road. Picture a desert of rocks and bumps. And I can assure you that it was ten times worse than that picture in your head. Sometimes you can't even get to places without risking your life. The boat we took from Banggi to Manianglan in Malaysia. The Ecuadorian collectivos on their last legs.

And Ireland has food. Hygienically prepared with options to beat the band. In Africa the food was so strange I was unable to tell what it was. Usually some form or yam or plantain or beans. And try looking for something other than rice in the Andes.

So fully appreciating the easily flicked switch on the kettle in my Warrenpoint kitchen, as I began the process of making another brew, the many highs and lows of the last year filled my mind. There were tough times. Getting Malaria in Ghana was unpleasant to say the least and I am currently awaiting results from my doctor as to whether or not I contracted Typhoid in Pisco. Having all my money, Ipod and camera stolen from me on a night bus in Peru was a kick in the balls. Spending 10 hours at a time on banged out buses every second day was a nightmare. Dealing with a difficult official who speaks only Twi, Malay or Spanish is highly frustrating.

But the highs far outweigh the lows. The polo tournament I was taken to see in Argentina and the overwhelming hospitality of Arnaud and Luli in Buenos Aires just before coming home. Working on a classroom in Akuapem as the school kids played around us. Visiting Mole National park on safari. Playing music with Ghanaian drummers in Mamfe, with Malaysian students in Sepilok, with Ecuadorian guitarists in Quito and with Belgian singers in Peru. Shovelling trenches with children in Pisco. And seeing semi-wild orang-utans descend to me from the trees as I call them for feeding in the Bornean rainforest. You couldn't beat those experiences, even if you boiled them.

And so as my job hunt begins, the next project has already been locked in. Another adventure to excite the C.S. Lewis in all of us. In September of the coming year I will be taking part with my friend, Darren Rodgers, in an event to raise funds for Cancer Research and Frank Water Projects. We will be racing across India starting in the Meghalayan capital of Shillong and heading west from the mountains of the far east to end up in the desert city of Jaiselmer. And all in a rickshaw. The Rickshaw Run. Darren is a man who does not like spicy food and big journeys so he is as perfect a companion for such an expedition as the rickshaw is as appropriate a vehicle.