One of my favourite days in Georgia was our day trip to Kazbegi (ყაზბეგი), a small town high up in the Greater Caucasus mountains of Georgia. Our bus spent a few hours winding zigzagging the Georgian Military Highway, and we watched the cows grazing on steep slopes like dozens of tiny ants across undulations still dappled with snow.

When we reached the base of the mountain, our guide NeNe gave us a choice: we could hike up for two hours, or we could ride up in a Soviet-era jeep. I felt as the youngest members of the group we should trek up the mountain, but John and Adrian were fans of motorised transport. The rest of the group mocked us for our slothfulness. Even NeNe chastised us, telling us with a smile that we were very lazy and we should hike up, and we will miss out on many amazing sights. Adrian asked if there would be bears, and she told us with a straight face that there would be hundreds of them.

I was convinced to take the jeep, and we chose a little purple 4×4 AvtoVAZ Lada to take us to the top of the mountain. Our driver knew the rocky one-way path very well, expertly manoeuvring across the rocks and the mud, and even reversing down the hill to let another car pass us. Abundant wilderness and emerald foliage trees embraced the car as it tackled the precipitous incline.

After a bumpy but beautiful 40 minute trip, we reached the top and saw the Gergiti Church ahead of us. We strolled through a vast field of wildflowers, passing through a heard of cows munching on the flora. I wasn’t able to enter the church (no dress, no entry), but I was able to run through a massive meadow of millions of marigolds. We then perched on top of an old stone wall to enjoy our picnic lunch of potato salad and coleslaw.

An hour later, we saw the first members of the hikers emerge from over the crest, looking red, sweaty and exhausted. I greeted NeNe brightly, and asked her if she had seen any bears. “I hate you”, was her exhausted reply. Suddenly the weather changed, and the blue sky disappeared behind gloomy grey clouds. We decided to return back to the village in our Lada, and the hikers had to turn around too, in order to make it back by 3pm. As soon as we hopped in our car, it started to hail, and I am ashamed to admit that we might have waved to the hikers as they trudged through the mud on the way down.

As we drove through the village, our chauffeur stopped to talk to a farmer with six spotted piglets. I hoped for a second that we were going to give all the wiggly piglets a ride in the jeep, but sadly we kept on driving without taking on any porcine passengers. While the rest of the group limped back into town, we spent the afternoon in a very low-frills café and its shrill Georgian pop music. The end of the tape would bring short-lived relief, until our hostess would emerge from the other room to turn over the cassette to ensure the performance was repeated.

Like Mt Rainier in Washington State USA, Mt Ararat looms over the country of Armenia. It is a national symbol, and can be found on everything from water bottles to the national coat of arms. However Mt Ararat is actually in Turkey, who has lodged diplomatic protests about the use of its mountain by Armenia. The relationship between Armenia and Turkey is very hostile, mostly due to the genocide of Armenians by the Ottoman Empire from 1915, and the border between the two countries remains closed.

What is that boat on top of the mountain? It is Noah’s Ark from the Christian Bible.

But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and the livestock that were with him in the ark, and he sent a wind over the earth, and the waters receded. Now the springs of the deep and the floodgates of the heavens had been closed, and the rain had stopped falling from the sky. The water receded steadily from the earth. At the end of the hundred and fifty days the water had gone down, and on the seventeenth day of the seventh month the ark came to rest on the mountains of Ararat. ~ Genesis 8:1-4

All the animals and all the creatures that move along the ground and all the birds—everything that moves on the earth—came out of the ark, one kind after another. Then Noah built an altar to the LORD and, taking some of all the clean animals and clean birds, he sacrificed burnt offerings on it. The LORD smelled the pleasing aroma and said in his heart: “Never again will I curse the ground because of man, even though every inclination of his heart is evil from childhood. ~ Genesis 8:19-21

Noah, a man of the soil, proceeded to plant a vineyard. When he drank some of its wine, he became drunk and lay uncovered inside his tent. ~ Genesis 9:20-21

Our guide took us to Etchmiadzin Cathedral (Էջմիածնի եկեղեցի), the oldest Christian church in the world that was built by a state in 301 CE. In their treasury, they proudly displayed items that they claimed were the lance that pierced Jesus during his crucifixion, the right arms of St John the Baptist and Saint Gregory the Illuminator, as well as a piece of wood from Noah’s Arc itself. They had quite a collection.

Athens was very different to how I had imagined it. An ancient city, the home of democracy, dominated by imposing marble columns, wipe amphitheaters, and emotive sculptures. It was disappointing to see how the few points of historic beauty were so swamped by an immensely ugly concrete sprawl.

Recovering from food poisoning, we slowly climbed the Acropolis – a great height – passing though the great columned gates until we stood in the middle of a vast reconstruction site. Cranes and scaffolding appeared to devour many of the structures.

The remains of the carvings in the apex of the Parthenon were pulsing with life – the horses at the corner still struggling to emerge from the sea, thousands of years later. The columns of the Pantheon were mottled like patchwork, with the stark white new marble carved with laser precision to melt into every niche of the old stone, turned dark brown from centuries of smog.

The impurities in the air of Athens have led to a strage idea of conservation – all the grand sculptures and frescos must be removed for their own protection and stored inside a building nearby. Plaster casts now stand in their place, a replica being the only object that can be risked against the elements.

The Erechtheum was my favourite of the structures at the Acropolis – the tall maidens swathed in in cloth, each one uniquely inspired by a woman of the time. The final end point of the procession to present Athena with her new gown.

From the top of the Acropolis, the grey sprawl of the city spread out in all directions, a stark contrast to the golden columns of the few temples that remained. The classical foundations remaining in the city were scarce, hemmed in at all sides by chaotic traffic and tall unpainted concrete apartment buildings. The Temple of Olympic Zeus was visible, with one of the toppled columns looking like a child had just knocked over some building blocks, and they were waiting to be stacked up again for the next game.