On the top of a mountain somewhere northeast of Rangoon stands a huge rock. Balancing precariously at the edge of the rock on top of the hill sits a huge boulder painted gold and looking for all the world as if a hefty shove would send it topping down the hillside. But no. Apparently it's been there for thousands of years and it's tenacity has paid off, it is now an important pilgrimage site visited by hundreds of Burmese every day who slog a couple of kilometres up a very steep road to go and look at it. And for some reason we have been urged to do the same. Considering the lengths we have to travel to get there and the fact that, weirdly, women are not permitted into the inner sanctum of rock-dom, I'm not sure it's absolutely worth it. And what is this, the 18th century? Should I start wearing a crinoline? Might we get make up on it?

So first we had to take a four hour bus trip from Rangoon, with Brian lying on the back seat stricken, yet again, by illness. This time its his delicate little stomach that is causing his problems. And of course, The Splinter. We must not forget The Splinter. He is now starting to worry about tetanus. Along with trench foot. Whatever that might be. Luckily for him the concerned emails from home (thanks John and Diz) are rallying him. He mumbles a weak thanks.

Luckily he rallied at the bottom of the hill long enough for us to embark on the next part of the journey, a bottom numbing 45 minute journey on the back of a truck to our hotel halfway up the mountain. The 'seats' were imaginatively constructed out of 2inch planks of wood. Sufficient to balance one buttock on, but luckily for us the truck was so crowded that the sheer weight of the other passengers leaning against us (and us leaning against them) conspired to keep us all wedged in like beans in a tin. Which made the whole stop, start, squash, squeeze, diesel belching uphill drive an utter pleasure and a joy. Oh and did I mention that the heat was nudging 35 degrees?

At last we reached our hotel, basic but clean - luxury monastic cell is probably the best description and, to complete the utter perfection of the day so far, outside our window, amplified through the speakers cunningly concealed in the trees, more monkish chanting, just like in Bagan. But LOUDER. Oh joy.

Back to reception I trotted while Bri took to his trickle bed, hand on forehead and lightly moaning. 'how many days is this going on for?' I asked, through gritted teeth. They laughed (they always bloody laugh) and assured me it ended at 9 p.m. Hooray.

What they forget to mention however was that it restarted at 4 a.m., but we found that out for ourselves because, funnily enough, we too were awake shortly thereafter.

On the way back Rangoon we stopped to visit a beautifully maintained World War 2 cemetery dedicated to the 27,000 soldiers and prisoners of war who died in Burma between 1939 and 1945. Most of them were not afforded the decency of a proper burial at the time and this impressive monument goes some small way to rectifying that fact. Puts our annoyance with the early morning chanting monks into perspective. Even Brian's foot stops throbbing for a moment.

And then he sneezed.