The only place I’ve travelled in the world where a fruit stall doubles as a bus stop, is just outside the mountain town of Tanah Rata in Malaysia’s north.
On farmland near the small fishing town of Kampot, dusty paths ran poker straight around the edges of fields like grouting in between bright green bathroom tiles.
During a busy week of lockdown working, my permitted daily walk has kept me sane. Often just around the block or on calmer days, the one mile stretch up to Hilly Fields in Brockley.
As the footpath disappeared completely into boulders the size of compact Italian Fiats, only my gaze could continue to trace the tiny slither of land towards the peninsula’s vertiginous point.