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They came in waves — their arms outstretched — offering coins, candles and purple flowers as they surged towards the altar of Saint Lazarus. As the human swell broke at the holy rail, bulbous bags of silver coins — some untied from necks — were poured into charity coffers, >>

I always enjoy hanging about outdoors and today I’m doing that, literally, 1,500ft up a Welsh mountainside. Wearing a red jump suit, a helmet and goggles, I’m strapped into a harness similar to those worn by hang-gliders >>

Adventurous and intrepid doesn’t always extend to the palate. I realised this when I declined a handful of deep-fried silkworms, the garlicky aroma not quite persuasive enough. >>

As I get out of the 4WD I’m confronted by a succession of surprising scenes: a child perched on a broken television set; another toasting a lizard on a stick over flickering yellow flames; a huge elephant slumped forlornly on its chin; and, er, what appears to be a lion wearing football shorts, carrying a wooden shack on its back and emitting a striking beam of red light from its jaws. >>

I make my way through the thick cloud of dust, eyes barely open, mouth tightly closed to stop myself swallowing any of the brown grit. Around me, others are huddling under canvas or running for cover. It’s all a bit post-apocalyptic. >>

There are few things in life capable of distracting Ecuadorian kids from a game of football, but the sight of our train is one of them. Breaking off from their jumpers-for-goalposts matches in the suburbs of Quito, excited children wave, stray dogs bark and residents emerge from houses to watch the 8.15 to Machachi labour through their neighbourhood. >>

Mother Nature had been busy painting a picture for our arrival at the end of the Pacific Rim Highway on Vancouver Island. With a howl of wind and flick of water, she had transformed what could be a drab palette of woeful greys, rusty reds and muddy browns into an eerily beautiful composition. >>

At eye-level, Emerson Street looks like your average small city high street. A few cafes, a mix of chain stores and independent tat-sellers — nothing to get too excited about. But then you look up and it’s clear the street is a bit special. >>

Having been watching the snowmobiles of Spitsbergen all morning, I’m pretty sure I can handle them. So, in temperatures of -20 degrees, I squeeze into my snowsuit, don my balaclava and helmet and clamber on, ready for a serene glide across the frozen wilderness. >>

My head feels dizzy and it’s nothing to do with the altitude. I’m here to ski a resort where the Champagne flows faster than the river that runs through it. St Anton may be the Austrian destination where the most beer is drunk, but in Lech, it’s the bubbles that rule. >>