To get to Bagan, land of a million pagodas, we had to sail down the Irrawaddy.  As we drew up to the river to find our boat we delightedly spotted a sleek luxury liner, complete with steamer chairs, teak furnishings and elaborate awnings.  Wow.  That's the way to travel.  

Sadly of course, rather like that advertisement where the push bike is parked behind the Porsche, so it was for us.  Our boat, or should I say tub, bobbed away, alongside the grand vessel, barely clearing the water line due to the several hundred people who had arrived moments before us, reserved the best chairs with their belongings and were now leaning against the dilapidated rails looking at us pityingly as we clambered up the gangplank and found a little cubbyhole to squeeze into between the engine and the toilets. And so we floated along for nearly eight hours clinging onto the handrails, eyeing the wicker deck chairs with barely concealed envy and keeping an eye out for dolphins, but seeing only people washing their clothes at the side of the river, and small children gazing at us in astonishment.   They just couldn't believe we hadn't got up earlier either I imagine,

Bagan is a wonderland of green fields, palm trees and lots and lots of stupas and pagodas.  They are dotted around the landscape rather like random garden sheds.  Some are restored, some are still slightly dilapidated.  Some are small, some are large enough to wander around inside and marvel at the glories of chipped Buddhas and ancient decorated walls and ceilings.  Hand drawn paintings of faded monks gaze down at us, illuminated by our flickering torches.

Our hotel even has a pagoda in the garden, and we had dinner on the lawn in front of it on the first night listening to the chirrup of the cicadas and the chanting of a distant monk, who was occasionally melodically joined by some wailing nuns.  It was all very atmospheric.  At midnight however the chanting was starting to become a little annoying.  By 3am the novelty had definitely worn off and by 5am it was no longer funny.  By the time the sun rose, we presumed the first monk had long since tucked himself up in his little monastic cell with a mug of ovaltine and a bourbon biscuit and been replaced by a succession of fresh faced and well rested monks.  All in fine voice.  

At breakfast the next morning we asked the kindly receptionists when the chanting might end.  They laughed and told us that sometimes the chanting has been known to last 9 days, but, we were in luck.  This time the chanting was only going on for 3 days.  Sadly it was the same 3 days we were in residence, but you know, rather like having a railway at the end of the garden, you do get used to it after a while.  We were resigned to wall to wall chanting, hey, by the end of 3 days we even knew some of the words, and could organise a sing-a-long.  If necessary.

We spent the next day zipping around the various pagodas which, rather brilliantly, all had their own shopping arcade of stalls set out in the lane leading up to the main entrance.  Some even hosted their own pagoda shopping mall inside.  We went a bit souvenir crazy for a few hours and there was a bit of a contest as to who could get back on the bus with the biggest bargains.  I don't think it will come as a great surprise to any of you to know that I acquitted myself quite well, despite some fierce competition.  Amateurs mostly, with no shopping stamina.

Whenever we stopped we were assailed by small grubby, but adorable, children selling a collection of their hand drawn pictures for 80p.  How do you choose between one little urchin's wobbly painting of a buffalo over another?  Nightmare.  And really, do we NEED five bits of paper with some well intentioned child's scribbled attempts at a coconut palm?  

Haha, as Brian pointed out.  Rather sarcastically I thought.  Did I really need those (exquisitely painted) lacquer boxes either?    Tch.

So I just gave the dear children the money for the paintings and returned the pictures to them, with a smile and a shrug that I hope conveys that, whilst I am normally the world's most enthusiastic collector of naive contemporary art, at the moment my walls are simply too full of similar high quality pieces to squeeze in any more masterpieces.  We're all happy;  they can't believe their luck.  And Brian can't believe what a soft touch I am.  (Oh, OK, he can really).

We spent another day climbing 777 steps up Mount Popa, a huge religious site that is home to a number of spirits, known as 'nats'.  Monkeys leapt around us as we toiled up the conveniently tiled and awning covered stairs, with frequent stops to catch our breath, which we disguised as admiring the view, and I think we got away with it too.  Men and women are constantly scrubbing the steps free of monkey poo, a very worthwhile occupation, particularly as we had to walk up bare-footed.

Meanwhile, Brian has made peace with Mr Grumpy, who has transformed himself over the last few days into Mr Congeniality, and they seem to spend all their time together now, drinking beer, discussing world politics and, I suspect, planning to visit each other when they get home.  Mr C is reassuringly working class, so neither of them have to worry about using the wrong knife at the dinner table.  Or ordering half a pint of mild and a carton of jellied eels and reminiscing about a wet weekend in Clacton.

So as neither of them would have been totally comfortable on a luxury river cruiser it was probably all for the best that we travelled steerage.