IT was, to me, 'the Journey of a Lifetime.' Since I was a small boy, I have been fascinated by Tibet, an ancient, mystical land on the 'Roof of the World', almost medieval in culture and outlook, ruled over by monks, the God-Iike Supreme of whom was the Dalai Lama.

Politically, of course, all changed in the 1950s with its invasion by communist China — or 'liberation' as officially described — followed by the fleeing to India of the Dalai Lama and the dragooning of the people, often brutally, into the 20th century (in part, at least).

Never, though, did I expect to go there. Then Ann and my four sons — as birthday and Christmas presents for years to come (they never know what to buy me) — said they would make a most generous, and greatly appreciated, contribution towards me going there, plus to China, Nepal and the Himalayas, this autumn — though no mention was made of a return ticket!

Crucially, being someone who could get lost in a telephone box, my son David volunteered, nobly, to be my companion, guide and minder — ideal, as he has travelled widely and just last year spent two months in Nepal.

To go on holiday for the first time in our married lives without Ann was a major minus, but Dave was a splendid companion, seamlessly guiding an old man through an obstacle course of problems — possibly, calamities — apparently taking all in his stride.

We flew from Heathrow on a Saturday morning, via Abu Dhabi, arriving in Beijing 24 hours later (it is not possible to fly to Tibet from outside China). The airport appeared larger than some European states, but we managed to find our way out past a long wall emblazoned with paintings extolling the heroic exploits of Mao Tse Tung, he resembling a cross between Gary Cooper and Hugh Grant, then were met by our guide Kelly ­— her English name — who was to prove both efficient and a devoted disciple of Chairman Mao.

Beijing is immense, probably double the area of London with three times the population, yet, remarkably, is not the biggest city in China.

Our time in and around this bustling metropolis was well used. We visited the Forbidden City and Summer Palace, stood in a tankless Tianamen Square, avoided visiting the Tomb of Chairman Mao which adjoins it (closed that day), then visited the tombs of the Ming emperors; then, after passing through villages where clearly the people were poorer than most dwelling in the capital, we arrived at the Great Wall. Six hundred-plus steps have to be climbed to access it, but effort is rewarded when one stands on this unique barrier, it stretching hundreds of miles in both directions; probably the most lasting memory we will have of China.

Very early the following morning we went to the airport to fly to Lhasa, to spend ten days in Tibet, a country, one feels, the Chinese try hard to pretend does not exist.

Shuffled from queue to queue, subjected to a major search, we were treated with much suspicion, our British nationality, one feels, being part of the cause. Still, eventually we were permitted to proceed and some five hours later arrived at Lhasa airport, about 25 miles from the city.

Our guide, a lovely fellow named Tenzing (surely a common name in these parts) met us; he attracted our attention by wearing a T-shirt emblazoned upon which was a vibrant Union Jack. Fiercely pro-British (although the only Britons of whom he seemed aware were the Queen and David Beckham), and equally passionately anti-Chinese, he was to prove a most knowledgeable, thoughtful and interesting fellow to have around.

The following two days saw us explore the old part of Lhasa, our hotel, ideally, being situated in the midst of it.

To describe this unique city is not easy, but here goes: It is a maelstrom that is Tavistock Goose Fair, a giant car boot sale (without cars), Covent Garden market, legions of pilgrims and monks proceeding around the streets, Petticoat Lane, a meat, vegetable and butter market (which would have a British health and food inspector seeking counselling), a miscellany of craft shops and emporiums, a mammoth, exotic jumble sale, prostrate men and women making their devotions to the Buddha amidst the throng, beggers (often maimed), a melee of cyclists (motor and pedal, all helmetless), a sprinkling of tourists, the occasional vehicle, all thrown together, whisked into a churning, noisy, smelly, vibrant mass of humanity; this is the city from early morning until dusk.

There is also the history, long, complex and so different, much of it displayed vividly in the manifold range of temples, monasteries and nunneries. Principal among these is the Jokhang, a vast ancient shrine in the centre which, like most others, had its complement of monks, its treasures and much of its fabric decimated by the brain-washed thugs that were the Red Guard during the Chinese Cultural Revolution of the late 1960s; mind you, the monks and nuns who remain here, and in the numerous other temples and monasteries, appear to live comfortably, their lives much eased by the astonishing generosity of so many clearly poor Tibetan people, giving money, food and alms which, one suspects, they donate at a cost to their own quality of life.

Indeed, it was not uncommon to witness monks using mobile phones — something not often seen amongst the general population. Also, these shrines, dedicated to Buddah, contain treasures which could fill the screen time of an entire series of the 'Antiques Roadshow,' despite the ravages long ago of the Red Guard.

There is, then, the Potala Palace, home to the Dalai Lamas. This awesome building rises above the city like a Colossus; there are treasures here which, if sold, would go some way towards replenishing the coffers of the most indebted of nations. The tomb of the fifth Dalai Lama is covered in several tons of pure gold, plus 10,000 precious stones, whilst there are ancient manuscripts, tapestries, paintings and artefacts in abundance.

We left Lhasa the following day — truly a memorable city. There is, though, a downside to the place: the presence on most streets, and many rooftops, of armed Chinese troops — some 'liberation!'

Leaving the capital, over the following six days we travelled more than 600 miles overland, most of it on rough, weather-ravaged tracks which tested the skills of our excellent driver, Nema, shook the 4x4 to its roots, and did likewise to the passengers.

Ganden monastery (on top of a mountain) was visited, followed by Samye, a rather grim, poverty stricken village, the ancient town of Gyantse awash with history, Shiatse, Tibet's second largest city (where old and new seemed ill-at-ease together), then Shekar which bears resemblance to the type of unkempt town in 'Spaghetti' Westerns; and all the while traversing mountain terrain where Nomads, with herds of yaks and flocks of sheep, were to be seen (they go down to the villages for winter) or passing along wide, flat fertile valleys where the predominant crop is barley, men and women alike labouring to bring in the harvest, mainly by hand.

Then, the final chapter in our Tibetan story — the Himalayas. We arrived at the first Everest base camp, taking up residence in the Holy Land Hotel, one of a score of such in the compound. This might sound as if the place resembled Blackpool seafront, but the reality was that the 'hotels' were square tents, each large enough to house four or five guests in dormitory fashion. Food was cooked on a stove in the middle of the tent, which also provided vital warmth; toilet facilities were on the far side of the compound — and defy description — whilst of washing provision there was no sign. That afternoon we walked, slowly, up to the second base camp (17,000ft) where we had a clear view of Everest; memorable indeed!

The next day we travelled for hours over, generally, appalling roads traversing high, remote, spectacular country until we reached the border town of Zhangmu, a miserable place, clinging forlornly to the hillside, much afflicted by noise, lorries and poverty.

Next morning we went the few miles to the Nepalese border; around 200 of us queued for two hours waiting for it to open — very late — then suffered the whims of petty officials. Apart from the minute checking of passports, there were two luggage searches by the Chinese, the most prized confiscation, it appeared, being the most recent edition of the 'Lonely Planet' guide on Tibet, it being prefaced with an innocuous foreward by the Dalai Lama.

Fortunately, not for the first time, ineptitude amongst officials came to

the fore, and Dave who had placed his illicit guide at the bottom of his rucksack, passed the searches with ease.

As we entered into Nepal we relaxed; too soon, for the most fraught day of the holiday had scarcely begun. Heavy overnight rain had caused a landslip on the road to Kathmandu (80 miles hence), causing the way to be blocked. Chaos was paramount. The Nepalese appeared a most friendly people, very pro-British, but not premier league in efficiency. The guide due to meet us, did not (we never did hear from him) due to the landslip, but after protracted negotiations we got a lift in a smallish 4x4 to where the road was blocked. Including the driver, there were nine of us aboard.?A mountain of luggage was stacked on the roof rack, and clinging to this, valiantly, was a courier. The young fellow behind the driving wheel saw himself, clearly, as a cross between Jensen Button and Houdini; he was, however, brilliant, negotiating, at speed, the 30 miles to the landslip area along roads which in good times were just rough tracks but which now were virtually impassable. The word 'virtually' is relevant, for he did pass over them following a journey terrifying, bone-shaking but strangely exhilarating.

After an hour's wait at the landslip we were able to proceed in another vehicle to Kathmandu, the barrier having been partially cleared, the driver being this time a touch more cautious.

On arrival in the capital, we found that for some reason we were not booked into our hotel; this fortunately, was soon sorted out, so then we proceeded to spend a goodly part of the final 24 hours of our expedition exploring the city.

Dave had tried to prepare me for Kathmandu, but with limited success, for it overwhelms. The streets are awash with people — traders, citizenry, visitors, beggars — jostling with cars, lorries, motor bikes, their horns honking incessantly, plus rickshaws, cycles, carts and the odd sacred cow; pavements (if they exist) and streets are deluged with litter and filth, the overall ambience smelly and a touch unhealthy at times.

It is unwise to stand still as almost instantly a posse of hawkers will attempt to sell assorted junk — also there is the danger of being trodden underfoot. Having limited time, we saw but a fraction of the sights; yet what we did witness was memorable — the famed monkey temple plus other Hindu and Buddhist shrines and (macabre but riveting) the temple beside the river where open air cremations take placed viewed by large numbers of paying spectators; and within feet of the burning corpses — children swimming happily in the filthy river.

Late on Sunday afternoon we were taken to the airport; whilst there, with our flight still an hour away, the ground shook — an earthquake. Our worry that flights might be delayed, fortunately did not come to fruition, which, in a sense, was something of a miracle, for when we reached Abu Dhabi we learnt that Kathmandu and other parts of Nepal (plus the Himalayas) had suffered a significant 'quake' with loss of life.

On touching down at Heathrow the following morning (on time) we looked back at a somewhat dramatic climax to an unforgettable 17 days. This was a holiday, an experience, which even exceeded high expectation.?It will remain with me always whilst my gratitude to Ann and the boys for making it possible will never dim.

As for David, his masterly competence, fortitude, guidance and companionship, plus his inexhaustible patience with an obtuse old man, was beyond mere praise.

It is not possible to pinpoint a highlight — there were so many. There was though, one moment truly surreal . . .

We were on a mountainside (14,500 feet up) visiting a small, but ornate hermitage when we were confronted by a fellow coming up the steps towards us; espying David, he noted instantly the Argyle T-shirt he was wearing. 'Oh no,' cried he, 'An Argyle supporter.'

It transpired this gent came from Plymstock and was a regular at Home Park; within seconds there was a 'wailing and gnashing of teeth' concerning the Pilgrims' plight, and I realised there and then that despite having travelled some 10,000 miles one is never fully free from the unsettling aura exuded by the green-shirted goblins.

Things did end for me on a positive note however — clearly there was a return flight!