Click on the image, then click on the image at flickr to appreciate some of the details

I've been meaning to take a shot like this for a while. The Riyadh camel souk is probably one of the largest, if not the largest of its kind in the world and covers an area of many square kilometers. Here you are looking across it at one of its narrower parts, on the side towards the city.

At one time it was way outside the perimeter of the city housing and the only things to pass this way were those looking after the well being of the animals and the Dammam highway. Slowly though, this is changing. The poles you see on the horizon are the first stages of housing going into the area. First come the roads, then the lighting poles and electricity, following soon behind will comes the houses.

Already, there are signs that the souk is being pushed further from where it currently sits and it is extending out towards the compound I live on which is around 7-8Km distant from this point. That sounds a reasonable distance, but with the wind in the right direction, its presence becomes all too apparent.

Wandering round and into the place is an experience that's worth the while of any visitor. There are so many things to learn about how other people live, their way of life wholly alien to any Westerner. Despite the lowly status of the people working their and their relative poverty, they are an endlessly hospitable bunch, curious to know where you're from, proud as punch to show off their best animals and be photographed with them, and all this done across a rather awkward language barrier in pidgeon English and Arabic.

The only real downside is that you come home smelling like you've been rolling around in camel poo. Small price...

Addendum: There are definitely echoes here of what's happening with the fishermen in Bahrain that I commented on the other day (see here at flickr). Here though it seems to be happening rather more slowly and the next bit of desert along the road is pretty much like the bit they're on now. They are also endlessly adaptable - you only have to look at what they construct a life out of to see that. Whilst most of the people working here are not native Saudi's, most are Yemeni I believe, the owners of the animals most definitely are. Most city dwelling Saudis will take the first available opportunity to get back to their roots and the ownership of camel stock is very much prized - they're just not going to have the time to look after it themselves. So this way of life isn't being lost I don't think, it's just moving a bit.

There are many things one can learn on a train, firstly how easy it is to doze off in the gently swaying carriages, secondly how much more difficult it is to write in a notebook. Sway as they might, they are considerably less stable than an Airbus A320 for example. Lastly, I have learned that canals do indeed have bottoms and that they're not as far down as you'd think.

AM and I are most of the way to London via Virgin. Kind of apt really, as we are on the guest list for the launch of the next book to be released under Zoe Margolis' pseudonym "Abby Lee". At least I think it's a launch; it's certainly a very select event where a small number of people will be able to listen to a reading by Ms. Margolis and also get the opportunity to buy a copy of the book ahead of its official release on 5th March.

Given my normal place of abode, it was something of a chance affair for us to attend. Not having been in the UK during February for over 10 years, I'm assuming that it must have been a piece of divine intervention that has seen a friends wedding coincide with an an event by a sex blogger. Admittedly, I have had Zoe listed on Twitter for months and so know of such things in advance. One email and I'm on the list, two emails and AM can join in too. Does that count as a ménage a trois? The raised eyebrow to my right says perhaps not.

Outside, it's grey and overcast, no bright sunny day this, and the train still sways. An empty line to our left glistens with moisture from the drizzle. We rattle through some tiny outpost so fast, its name cannot be read, followed quickly by a platform that identifies itself as Kings Langley. We can't be too far away now, 25 minutes at most.

Other than an 18:30 event, what to do in London? We have around 6 hours to kill and it's not much warmer down here than it was back in Thornton-Cleveleys, though granted, the Big Smoke can beat the place we call home for choice, even if it doesn't have a beach that I'm aware of.

Harrow & Wealdstone... we're definitely getting closer. The train stations say it, so do the increasing number of walls that have been tagged. From what I can see, the graffiti in London is of a slightly higher quality than back home. I'm hopeful the rest of the day will match.

Time to go, lunch is calling me clearly....

Rarely have I had the olfactory experience in an enclosed space, as I have been provided this evening - it's actually gone 04:00 in the morning, but some licence must be allowed at this point. I'm on a plane, I'm always on a plane when I write thus.

On the most rare of evenings, I'm travelling back to the UK with AM by my side, so rare in fact that in the 6+ years she's been with me in Saudi, this may very well be the first time we've journeyed back to the UK together. That much is immaterial to my story this night (see, it's later already)...

We find ourselves behind the subject of the story by a row, he being in 23A, and us in 24A and 24C, with me holding the aisle. To get to the point, there is a problem, a gastro-intestinal problem that is gaseous in nature, and it's not mine. No, this is for Reek-O-Man alone. I'd quote Nursie and use lines like "great and fruitsome flappy woof-woofs", but one's "tiny noseling" believes that Messrs Elton and Curtis were referring to something rather more akin to vanilla and rose petals than I try to describe here. Let's face it, this guy smells like you wouldn't wish to believe. I pity AM, I really do. She has a sense of smell that can out detect the average bloodhound, where I suspect I may have been abducted by aliens who chose me to return me minus all nasal sensory equipment. When I begin to detect there's an aroma in the air, it's already searing steaks on the range for all others in the near vicinity.

The iPod kicks in as it often does at such moments with Chris Rea's "You Must Be Evil" - never has a truer word been uttered. Whether he knows of the offence he causes is unknown, and I won't ask; and of course there is the unwritten rule that says "What goes on plane, stays on plane", but enough already. I can take it no longer... for fucks' sake, get yourself a butt plug or something! Have I spoke too soon? I think he's headed to the bathroom - I'm not following. Not that it matters much, he's left the damned stench behind him anyway. I'm going to sleep, more later...