The Story of how I ended up at the 2021 F1 finale.

There’s nothing more dangerous than an idiot with an idea. I don’t know where this phrase originates from but it’s quite apt when it comes to me. Countless times I’ve had terrible ideas and suffered terribly as I’ve fought to achieve them. But my latest ‘bright idea’ could well be my most wildly optimistic. Can an unprepared pseudo-journalist get from England to Abu Dhabi for the Formula One GP in a week without totally blowing the bank?

The whole shoe-string element of this whole debacle is key to the adventure being what it is. I’m not a journalist or sports correspondent as much as I pretend to be one. So no one was going to shill out for an air-fare on my behalf, as a result, I’ve had to plunder my savings account to pull this all together at the last minute; tests, tickets and all.

My adventure started not at the behemoth of international air travel that is Heathrow. Nor Gatwick. Instead, on my cheap-as-chips combination of trans-continental hops, I started at Luton Airport. Yes, Luton to Abu Dhabi. It could only get better. In a bid to keep my adventure as low-cost as possible I hadn’t opted to take any luggage with me beyond a small rucksack. So I crammed into my old camera bag just about enough pants, socks of thicknesses to keep my toes warm at the myriad of countries on my itinerary, my camera, a second lens, that month's issue of Classic and Sports Car, my laptop, and the other addendum that the modern tourist has to carry with them; first aid kit, masks, fit to fly test, printed Covid passports, and a small ziplock bag with a bottle of hand gel in it. So densely packed was the small knapsack that I had to unpack much of it to get through security when the x-ray scanner couldn’t tell what was my underpants and what was my laptop. So I faced the ignominy of watching a security officer leaf through my boxers, bobble hat and ballpoints.

Still, that issue over I was now through security and on my way, standing on the precipice of beginning my big adventure. So, as is customary with British tourists, I went to the pub. To pass the time I got on with some work and watched the sun setting over Bedfordshire with an overpriced pint to boot. A quick pop into WH Smiths to get the customary bottle of water and the impulse purchase of a brace of Lee Child books. I needed something to get me through the 15- hour layover in Vienna. That was yet to come.

A straightforward flight to Austria passed promptly and we soon touched down in a snow-coated Vienna. Ploughs bustled about clearing taxiways, snow was blasted away in the wash from the jet engines as liners ambled about. Security wasn’t much of an issue, a cute dog was passing through and after an encounter with a rather surly border officer, I was in, and then promptly out of Austria. Given the state of Austria’s lockdown, the rigmarole of getting into Vienna and finding a room for the night seemed unlikely. So I headed straight through to the boarding gates. Which was a mistake. As I crossed over to the gates I could see below me the open part of check-in sprawled out with food stores brightly lit. I rounded a corner and was greeted with an array of closed outlets apart from one mixed convenience store. I grabbed a tube of Pringles, paprika flavour, a cheese baguette and a Radler and settled down for the long night.

I’m a terrible sleeper at the best of times and typically have to be in something that closely resembles a bed to stand a chance of drifting off. The hard, awkwardly canted benches at the departure gates didn’t quite cut the mustard and I slept fitfully from midnight onwards. I roused a final time at around 7:30 as the sun teamed through the giant window. A little more snow had fallen overnight and an army of ploughs sought to clear the apron about the airport, bustling to and fro in pairs, scraping the snow from the tarmac in a coordinated ballet of efficiency. A mist hung over the further reaches of the airfield, with distant planes passing through it with just their tailfins rising through the damp. Slowly around me the terminal began to hum into life, the cleaning trolleys were packed away and the cafes opened up. The chatter of people and the splutter of coffee machines filled the terminal. I gathered my things and set off to stretch my legs as well as to track down breakfast. A walk along the full length of the terminal exposed a glaring mistake I’d made the night before. Had I not just stopped at the first set of benches I’d found and walked on, I would have found a myriad of soft seating options. Plush leather chaise longues and benches scattered the furthest reaches of the terminal. They looked damned comfortable.

Cursing my stupidity I turned back to one of the coffee shops I’d passed and bought a cappuccino and a pretzel before taking a seat to watch the rest of the airport come to life. The warm glow of the sun’s early rays now turned harsh and bright as the day progressed.

The flight to Albania turned out to be busier than the one to Vienna, there weren’t plenty of empty seats for the short of choppy hop to Tirana. The climb out of the now foggy Vienna was steep and fast, culminating in a cloud top cruise before a long descent into Tirana. Drizzle and humidity greeted me as I stepped out of the plane. 10°C was substantially warmer than Vienna and the gentle rain felt homely in only the way it can for an Englishman. The airport was littered with old aircraft, MIGs of varying models, all set against the backdrop of beautiful mountains. My only real knowledge of this country stems from when Top Gear came here many moons ago.

The terminal building here is small and compact. No great sprawling complex, around six gates, was all it had room for. They weren’t ready to accept passengers transiting through so I had to shuffle through the passport checking desks with everyone else. This deposited me at the front of the airport a mere 20 meters from where the cluster of check-in desks lay. Next to which was someone welding, the blue flashes lighting up the roof periodically. Outside a team hung Christmas lights from the frontage. I ambled around the condensed airport and found the queue for the check-in desk. It didn’t open for a while and most of the benches were taken so I stood and finished the first of the paperbacks I’d picked up in Luton, which now felt a whole world away.

And then it all became a bit sit-com terrible. The check-in desks were opened, a little over two hours before the plane was due to depart. To make matters worse, it was looking like a packed flight, and there appeared to have been a breakdown in communications. Not everyone had paid as diligent attention to the booking details as I had. Nor had they seemingly spent as long pouring over the UAE travel details. The queue I was in was held up by a large party who seemed to be lacking some critical paperwork. I turned to a fellow traveller and struck up a conversation as they opened the third desk to ease the queues. We passed the time with idle chat before finally claiming our tickets and shuffling through to security. The typical rigmarole of removing anything with a trace of metal on me, waddling through the scanner as my trousers made a beeline for my ankles since they have become sans-belt. My American friend and I traipsed through the passport desk once more and being sensible adults made a beeline for the bar at the far end of the building. This is for two reasons, one to satiate my need for hops and malt, and also because we’d sighted a plug socket by a table and both our phones were running a little thin on battery.

We sipped suds and chatted for the remaining 50 minutes until the gate opened. A garbled message in a host of languages came through on the tannoy, one of which was understandable enough to suggest we should probably look at getting on a plane. So we set off fifty meters back down towards gate one. It was here I made yet another friend. He was also heading to Abu Dhabi for the F1, easily distinguished with his Mercedes cap on. He’d been on a similar trip to me at this point, although originating in Stansted, he’d bound down via Italy. We all shuffled onto the bus to the plane and clambered up the stairs to my second flight of the day.

I was fortunate enough to have an empty seat next to my window spot giving me the chance to stretch my legs out, have another beer, and get on with some work. It was all going well until the steward put out a call for a doctor on board. We’d been late taking off as it was, four dawdling passengers had taken their sweet time making it to the plane and we were approaching an hour behind schedule. Now with a medical emergency on board, there was a threat that we might need to make an unscheduled landing. This is a bit of a problem when your flight path goes over huge expanses of not very much. Off the top of my head, the route from Albania to Abu Dhabi cuts across Turkey and then into Iran before making it onto the Arabian Peninsula. The dark terrain below looked unwelcoming with no airstrips having slid by in the past hour or so. A steward pulled out a breathing tank while two medically trained passengers attended to the patient. Crossing language barriers seemed to be as much of an issue as the medical one at hand. The once joyous atmosphere in the cabin had quelled to a cold and eerie silence, the background hum of the engines and air conditioner punctuated only by the odd mewl from a child. The passenger seemed to be through the worst of it and was conscious and communicating with the medics and the crew. We still had about another hour left in the air. Mercifully for those concerned, the funny turn seemed to pass as quickly as it’d come on, remedied by smelling salts it seemed. When I’d set out on an adventure this surely wasn’t what I’d anticipated and hopefully, it wouldn’t set a concerning precedent. I still had a long way to get back home through two countries I’ve never been to and certainly didn’t know the language. It was at this point I suddenly became aware of just how alone I was. Despite my newfound friends sitting several rows back, once I turned to leave the Emirates on Tuesday I’d again be flying solo.

The landing in Abu Dhabi eventually came. A few people applauded, I didn’t because I’m British and innately awkward. I quickly gathered my things and didn't dawdle as I passed through the airport. My last-minute covid test was inspected, my passport stamped and a swab rammed up my nose. I emerged in yet another country in a part of the world I had never been in. And being British I still had a vest on despite it being 29°C at 2 am in the desert. One Uber and many dirhams later I was in downtown Abu Dhabi, having spent the whole ride from the airport agog at the sights sliding by the window of the Lexus. The imposing Grand Mosque lit up blue against the inky black night sky, the never-ending stream of lights and decorations celebrating the UAE's 50th birthday. Perhaps through the combination of a lack of decent sleep and excitement, it was almost overwhelming. Had it not been for my facemask the taxi driver would have caught a glimpse of me grinning like the Cheshire cat in the back. We swung into the street where the hotel was and like clockwork my friend appeared. To cut costs he'd kindly offered to smuggle me into his hotel room. We sauntered in past the night manager and into the lift, quietly celebrating our ruse once the lift doors had firmly closed.

A cold shower to freshen up and wash away 25 hours of travelling grime and I hopped between the sheets and was fast asleep.

Nothing yet seemed real, even in the harsh Emirati sunlight, the whole plan still didn’t seem to be true. It hadn’t yet clicked in my head that I was going to the F1 Finale. My friend and I packed our rucksacks for the day and snuck out of the hotel in search of breakfast and coffee. A small coffee shop provided us with sweet hot coffee and fried bananas. The smell was beautiful, sweet and syrupy, almost masking the beautiful spices of the coffee, cloves and cinnamon. We sat at one of the tables out front, marvelling at our madcap plan and how it all seemed to be coming together. Once we’d finished we hailed a cab and set off in the direction of the Yas Marina circuit.

The Toyota Camry seems to be the car of choice in Abu Dhabi for the cabbie and they all treat them like rentals, tearing away from the lights, the muted growl of the V6 resonating through the base spec interior, a plastic sheet hung between the driver and the back seats for COVID reasons. Dan and I sat there, grinning madly as we crossed the islands of the bay. Dan hadn’t long been in the country, working as an ecologist, so it was all as much of an adventure to him as it was to me. A level up from our late nights as students spent in the classroom working on coursework, our desks a mess of takeaway cartons, coffee mugs and SD cards. This was a world away from Nottingham. And this phase of the adventure was only just beginning. Our taxi driver dropped us at the main entrance to the circuit, and we walked down to our allocated gate. Tickets scanned, Alhosn checked (the UAE’s version of the NHS covid pass, a lot less clunky and quite admirable really) we were in. It finally seemed our random spit-ball idea was coming good. We ambled around the outside of the stands at T5, soaking it all in before heading through to our seats to catch the F2 and FP3. The sun-baked down on the stands and we sat back in its warmth to enjoy the spectacle of the world’s greatest motorsport circus.

We went for lunch after the sessions had finished, now parched we fancied a beer, so headed into the array of stalls in search of something hoppy and fresh. And then we saw the prices. 55 dirhams for a pint. Despite the heat and desire for the cold refreshment of lager, we passed up paying around £12 for a beer, opting instead to save our money until we really wanted one. We feasted on burgers, fries and lemonade and set off to explore the rest of the track before qualifying. We took the hopper bus around the outside of the circuit to the far end, by the reprofiled T9, a banked turn reminiscent of Zandvoort or Saudi’s T13. We walked along the back of the stands, weaving through the bustle of the crowds before happening upon an orange paddock. Which was exactly as you’d expect. A party area filled to the brim with Dutch fans. Bedecked in orange outfits, Max flags, and Red Bull caps. A DJ stand blasted house and EDM into the crowd, MC’d entirely in Dutch. The party atmosphere was exceptional. The support for car number 33 was mind-boggling. Then to cap it off they played Super Max. In the skies above, stunt jets soared, weaving coloured trails of red white and green, the UAE flag. We watched as one jet soared up, spinning like a top before seemingly tumbling from the sky. We walked, back towards the midsection of the track and cut through to the infield to fill our bottles with cold water before starting the long traipse back down to our seats at T5.

The stands were far fuller for qualifying than they had been early on, the Sun had now moved round to face us and was beginning to dip towards the desert floor, the sky now a gentle pink hue. There was a tense chatter amongst the fans that became cheering as the cars began to lap the circuit. The glossy bodywork glinting under the stadium spotlights, everything bathed in a warm light from the setting sun. The desert duel was lining up to be something incredible.

I shan’t interrupt this storytime with my racing opinions, if you want that you can check my Winners and Spinners column that’s floating around on the internet.

Once Q3 wrapped and the grid was set Dan and I snuck out to finally get that beer we’d been pining for since the early afternoon. We stood in the queue and bit our tongues as we tapped our cards on the reader. Regardless, the Heineken hit the spot, possibly more so because we’d waited so long for them. We chatted a while with some Dutch fans, a family who’d come dressed in orange suit jackets and shorts. When they lined up, the backs of their jackets spelt out Max #1. Their passion was infectious and they kindly posed for photos and we left them to their overpriced beers and slunk off to enjoy ours. We sat with a group of English fans and recanted our adventures and madcap plans as well as the usual discussions about the season, the sport and how we wanted it to end. We could have never predicted it would end how it did.

By the time we’d finished the first pints we were in the mood for a second and by this point weren’t afraid to go for it, again we bit the bullet and spent another £12 or so on lager. We enjoyed them as twilight fell around us, talking away and catching up on lost time. Eventually, we headed through to the concert venue, a football pitch sized patch of grass tucked between two of the spars of the Ferrari World building to catch Lewis Capaldi live in concert. As you do. A cab ride back to the hotel, another sneak past the front desk and sleep beckoned.

Sunday, oddly enough, isn't a weekend day in the UAE, instead, the weekend there is Friday and Saturday, so Dan slunk off to work in the early morning to count trees in the desert. I made a coffee in the apartment and worked away on my laptop, editing photos and catching up on any outstanding work. At around 11, I packed up and grabbed a taxi back over to Yas Island and was dropped off around the back of Yas Mall. A giant shopping complex that could make the entirety of Milton Keynes feel insecure. The mall was in fact so enormous that I ended up lost in it. Bewildered by its many turns, centres, floors and entrances, I ended up resorting to the circuit map that I had mercifully tucked in the side of my camera bag. On it was marked a variety of car parks nearby, as well as the stops for the hopper bus, I aligned my paper map with the giant ones at the help points I stumbled across and I drew a crude route of escape on Snapchat and worked my way from there. I will say I was bemused to find a Marks and Spencers in the middle of the UAE, and again when I found a Rainforest Cafe and a Debenhams. Still, it didn't take me long to find my way out with my new barrage of maps, and I was soon on a hopper bus to the circuit to retake my seat for the day's action.

Although it wouldn't be the same seat as the day before. Dan and I had only bought tickets for Saturday as it was the only day with tickets still for sale. Then on the Tuesday before I left, I received a call from my man on the ground in the desert saying he'd acquired some Sunday tickets; they had been given to him by an exceptionally kind Tinder date. And it wasn't until we checked the tickets on Saturday that we saw that while they were for the same grandstand, they were suite tickets. Not really knowing what this entailed and with all the tickets having sold out, we couldn't check online. So I rocked up, blind to what I was about to enjoy.

I was ushered into the stands and into a lift to take me up to the lounge. Dan was still slaving away in the desert measuring trees, I was now in an aggressively air-conditioned room with a food service counter laid out, soft seating, dining tables and an expansive view of Turn 5. By now it was about lunchtime and I hadn't eaten since my burger the day before so pottered over to the food counter and ordered some paella and grabbed a Pepsi. Then as I reach for my wallet, expecting a battering, I was informed that there was no charge. Our tickets included unlimited soft drinks and food all day long! I excitedly text Dan and sit down to my mountain of seafood paella and finished off another set of photos.

The race rolls by as it did, again, you can find my thoughts on that all over on my Winners and Spinners column.

Post-race, Dan and I opted to not hang around for the concert. The Foo Fighters had had to pull out due to illness and we didn't really fancy Martin Garrix so headed off to get a taxi. We cut through the mall again, marvelling at its bewildering expanse and caught a ride back to downtown Abu Dhabi. A nip up to his hotel room to freshen up and charge our devices gave us chance to formulate a plan. We decided to head across the way to the hotel pub that the English group we'd met the day before mentioned. So charged up and ready for a small adventure with some cheap drinks, we wandered over and after the usual covid app checks, we were in the hotel and spotted the pub, the Captain's Arms. An English style pub decked out with dark wood and recognisable brews with sports on a telly in the corner. It felt unerringly familiar, even if the 10 pm heat didn't. We ordered a brace of reasonably priced lagers and retreated to a table outside on the patio to watch the highlights reel of football on the screen and people watch. It was while doing the latter that we noticed some activity across the patio, people bustling in and out of a side door, past a bouncer. Many of them were young women in western-style clothing. None of the typically modest clothing favoured by many Emirati women, instead, the women entering this mysterious side door were in high heels, impractically short skirts, and audaciously revealing tops. This was the piece of the puzzle that had only been half filled in by our English informants at the race track.

Prostitution isn't something I bet you'd expect to find discussed in a story piece about an idiot abroad, but buckle yourself up, because this is where it gets interesting. The race fans we'd met the night before had told us about a mysterious bar at this hotel where we could acquire 'company for the evening'. At a price. Intrigued by the whole thing, Dan and I finished our drinks and wandered over, like two excited schoolboys, we handed over our IDs to confirm our ages and were led into the small club by a bouncer. And this is where it all became a little surreal and we immediately realised we were out of our depth. Dan and I are both around the six-foot mark but were easily dwarfed by this bouncer as he ushered us through the door. We went to sit at a table but were pushed further in and round to the bar and to a high table next to it, sat at which were two women. It was all of a sudden apparent what was going on. A drinks order was taken for the two of us and one of the ladies piped up, asking if we were 'going to buy drinks for them'. I made my excuses and disappeared to the bathroom, valiantly leaving Dan to fend for himself. We swapped on my return and I was promptly quizzed by the women as to what it was we do. I said we were a journalist and an ecologist (one of those is technically right) to which they scoffed and asked no further questions. I'd been snubbed by a prostitute on account of being dull. I filled Dan in on the situation when he returned, we picked up our beers and left the table. That wasn't the company we'd sought for the evening. We joined a group of Dutch fans, given away by their Max Verstappen t-shirts and height, and chatted and drank with them. And then the shots started and my memory goes a bit hazy. Judging by the camera roll on my phone we convinced the DJ to play Super Max! and proceeded to party with the trio until around 4 am; unwise given Dan had work at 7.

The next day was appalling until about 7 pm when my head stopped aching and my stomach had run dry of contents to show and tell. I recorded a podcast sat in the dark, sipping sweet tea and then the two of us sheepishly shuffled off to the nearby Pizza Hut for a feast of terrible yet cheese slathered food. Not the way I'd envisaged my last day in Abu Dhabi, but hey, if it ain't the consequences of my own actions.

A walk down by the waterfront and the fresh air it brought helped clear us through once more and we retreated to the room for one last go at smuggling my past the lobby staff.

Tuesday was the day my return marathon began and it started well, I did my lateral flow test and filled out the fit-to-fly form that'd get me back into the UK, eventually, packed my bag, donned my vest so I wouldn't freeze as soon as I landed in Kyiv and we headed out for a breakfast of coffee and bananas one last time. We recanted our tales and remarked on the bonkers nature of the fact that my adventure was barely two thirds complete at this point and that I still had another 26 hours of travelling to do.

Eventually, I hailed a taxi and set off in the direction of the airport, the mind-boggling city in the desert receding behind me. I was dropped off at the terminal and strolled up to the check-in desk to collect my ticket; having laid out all the appropriate pieces of paperwork on the counter, I felt smug about my preparedness. An emotion that lasted all of a second until the check-in operator asked if I had my PCR test to hand. I showed her my UAE covid app but the test I'd done on my arrival had expired. She shook her head. Now panicking somewhat, I asked if my lateral flow and double vaccination were sufficient. They weren't. I panicked more. Mercifully she wrote on a scrap of paper the address for a testing centre and told me that they did 2-hour turnaround tests. Annoyingly there was only 1 hour and 45 minutes until check-in closed and not much more until take off. I dashed out of the departures hall and hailed a taxi, hurriedly I pointed to the scrap of paper in my hand and asked if he knew it, he nodded and we shot off.

We swung into the car park of the testing centre, on the outskirts of a city that was under construction with a screech of complaint from the Camry's tyres. I asked him to wait and left my bag in the car as I dashed in. Thankfully there wasn't a queue, the guard at the door offered me a menu of the tests, 2, 5, or 24 hour wait times. "Two" I panted and he pointed to a far desk. Not wanting to look completely incompetent and panicked I strolled up to the desk where my details were taken and I handed over 350 dirhams, about £78. I was then pointed to a testing booth where a doctor shoved a swab up my nose, smiled at me and said I'd have the results shortly. Again fighting to stay composed, wandered out to my taxi, and asked him to take me back to the airport. He dropped me off and I tipped him kindly because he could have just saved my bacon. Now all I had to do was hope that my results would come in early.

I sat on a bench in overlooking the check-in desks as a somewhat irate group of passengers formed around each one. No doubt all of them just now found out that they needed yet another test to leave the country. The hands on my watch swept around the dial and the large screen on the wall adjusted to show check-in closing at 1 pm. It was now 4 minutes to 1pm and I hadn't yet received my results. I waited a while longer, the crowds now expanding beyond each desk to form one long cluster of anger. By ten minutes past, I was again a nervous wreck but mustered up the courage to try and sort things out. Mercifully a manager type spotted me coming and came over asking if I had my results. Still not, but he took my receipt and clear lateral flow as a good sign and printed my boarding pass and then hurried me over to security and border control, pushing me through and waving at his colleagues to alert them to my plight. A true hero of our times and one I certainly didn't deserve at that moment.

Once I'd rethreaded my belt around my waist, put my watch back on, reloaded my pockets, put my little liquids bag back in my rucksack I had to sprint through departures to get to the gate and the bus to the plane. Mercifully I didn't have to endure the ignominy of being the last person onto the plane. I took my seat and sighed an enormous sigh of relief.

The flight was nothing exceptional, I did some work, watched some more back episodes of Top Gear and read my book. Kyiv and Ukraine were the next stop on my adventure.

Normally with a transfer, you just sit around in the airport and look bored. But not with my journey. My route took me into Kyiv's Boryspil airport and out again the next morning from Zhuliany. On the other side of the city. I had a night in Kyiv. So once we touched down I pulled my coat on and braced for the bitter cold of the Ukrainian winter, rightly so. The agent at the passport desk wished me a pleasant stay in Ukraine and I set off into the evening in the hunt for the train station. £2.50 or about ₴99 got me a ticket from the airport to Kyiv's central station.

The train doors opened up to a yard of old soviet looking machinery, half-tracks, steam locomotives and rolling stock. Had I not been so pinched for time I would have gone in for an explore. In fact, much of Kyiv beckoned me and my love for museums of the old and unusual as much as it did with its fascinating history. I followed the bustle of people through the train station to emerge into a foyer that reminded me of Grand Central Station in New York. Grandly decorated walls, warmly lit with a constant ebb and flow of people rushing through it. The magic of the moment was ruined by a drunkard falling backwards down an escalator. Although it was the up escalator he fell down, like a child running the wrong way along a travelator, he initially made no progress, tumbling like a cartoon character but eventually began to roll at a speed faster than the ascending stairs and landed in a dazed pile at the feet of two officious looking police officers. No one said a word and moved on. I followed suit and began walking towards the city in search of my hotel for the night.

I'd failed to notice that Kyiv is built across a series of hills, at least the up and down nature of my route kept me warm, my hot breath soon soaking my facemask. The cars on the road were a stark contrast to the luxurious SUVs of the Emirates, instead, it was a mix of Yugos, Ladas, Dacias and ageing Audis, plus a relatively normal blend of cars of most ages, and then the odd G-Wagen rumbling past. While you shouldn't judge a place purely on the cars they drive, the array of old and strung along blended with the new and well to do was a stark reminder of the history of this country.

Ornate churches dotted my route, up-lit in the darkness of the evening, people swarmed in and out of them. The hotel I chose was reasonably priced and doubled as a hostel as well. I checked into my room, somewhere best described as industrial chic and "If IKEA did hotel rooms". But that's not a bad thing. I charged my phone up and then set off into the city on the hunt for dinner.

I happened upon a pub of sorts. Designed to emulate a British pub, it was more like a ski lodge than a rural local. The menu was simple but crucially Ukrainian. I tucked into a litre of unfiltered beer with a chicken Kyiv (I had to) with potatoes and pickled cabbage. Total cost? £8.00, not too shabby and a relief compared to the astronomical costs of the desert.

It was an early start the next day with another chilly trudge across the city to the train station to find a taxi to the airport, the other other airport for my next flight. Despite my hopes for a brilliantly curious airport packed with gems from the far side of Europe, Kyiv's Igor Sikorsky Kyiv International Airport proved to be disappointingly normal. Apart from the toilets, where it seemed to be OK to smoke and the seats had self-replacing covers for cheek-based cleanliness. Breakfast consisted of coffee and a chocolate croissant and then a wait for my mildly delayed flight.

Outside planes were being hosed down by the anti-icing equipment against a backdrop of a few interesting looking small passenger jets. A bus shuttled us around to the plane for the short hop up to Budapest.

Frankly, at this point the monotony of air travel was beginning to settle in, breaking up a journey means more time spent in airports, and crucially more time spent queueing, shuffling, shuttling and dawdling than flying direct entails. As much as the whole charade offers a sense of excitement and adventure, it balances with the drudgery of airport paperwork and watching departure boards tick away through the night.

I'll skip over much of the rest of the adventure as nothing of any note at all happened until I landed in Luton, where after what felt like a zillion airports and covid checks, I waltzed through the passport barriers and out into the world without so much as a glance at any of my myriad of tests and checks from an official. It was good to be home.

So what have I learned from this epic of Iliad proportions? Save harder and fly direct? No. Travelling through is far more interesting than travelling over. This madcap route to the race has left me with more countries I'm dying to visit and maybe 2022 will be the year where I can. How much did the whole thing cost me, from snacks on the planes to my tickets themselves? £846.66. Which isn’t too shabby, I think? I’m certainly looking at routes to drive to the Hungarian or Azerbaijani Grand Prix later this year!