The journey begins after the best part of a month of goodbyes and go-aways. Mostly the latter. All much appreciated, I love you all: it’s hard to know who to kill last.

First stop on the road to El Dorado (actually the name of the airport in Bogotá, in my defence) is Rekyjavik, capital of Iceland.

I’m intrigued by the place: the meltdown of 2008 left the Icelandic people facing a mountain of debt that their overheated banking system had racked up in the noughties due to lax regulation, greed, and a myopic familiarity with economic busts – of course, that’s not just an Icelandic affliction by any means.

Then a peculiar thing happened. Just as the vultures from the IMF were circling (ashcloud permitting), Mr Iceland took out a shotgun and blasted them into shrieking ribbons.

Popular protest overthrew the government, followed by default on debt they deemed odious, and right now the constitution is being re-written from scratch by a committee of lay citizens.

Not in the mainstream European media much, that. Being kept on the QT lest the Greeks get ideas above their station I could, and will, cynically surmise.

Regardless of their achievements in active democracy, Iceland has a lot (i.e. too much) to offer the casual, fly-by-night visitor.

Baked puffin under the Northern Lights for me tonight.

If I see Kerry Katona she’s getting a slap. It’s my civic duty.