A mix of various ethnic peoples, Karen, Shan and Palaung, had gathered to form a vibrant market. At the epicentre, the pagoda itself, we discreetly sat and watched the colourful crowds.
Disturbed only occasionally by small plastic pellets fired from toy guns in the hands of novice monks.
Candacraig Hotel, with its manicured gardens and tennis courts, may look unmistakably English but is now fully government-owned. It's a striking reminder of Burma's wealthy colonial past when its valuable teak forests became one of the jewels of the British Empire.
In a city as exotic as Mandalay we were happy to simply absorb the bustle from a chapati stand sipping endless tsai before our evening entertainment, the vaudeville troupe, "The Moustache Brothers".
Their tiny front room was the venue for exuberant dancing, slapstick gags and extravagant costumes. We couldn't help but laugh along, if only for the remarkable spirit of the ageing performers. Three members of the family act have spent years in prison for making jokes at the expense of the junta. One is still behind bars.
Passports stamped, a flight from Bangkok and we were in Rangoon with its golden national icon of the Shwedagon Pagoda.
Daybreak at the main temple of Angkor Wat is a sight worth a thousand photographs; yet it was the enigmatic faces of Bagan temple which really beguiled us.
The innumerable temples hold a mix of imagery drawn from Hinduism, Buddhism, Animism and the reigning god-kings of the time. Built between the 9th and 14th centuries these are archaeological treasures as mysterious as they are stunning.
The site was lost for centuries, allowing the jungle to creep in and intertwine itself with the ancient stone ruins.
Exploring the huge area we couldn't help indulging our Indiana Jones and Lara Croft fantasies.
We were to pass through Bangkok several times over the next six weeks. On the final stay we witnessed, but didn't quite comprehend, the political demonstrations held by the anti-government 'reds'.
