Choosing the first winner of our prestigious award has been no easy task…

When it comes to travel and holidays, there are those of us who consider ourselves tourists, and those who think of ourselves more as travellers. Whilst for some, the perfect holiday is returning to a favourite resort year after year, relaxing in the sunshine with everything around us immediately to hand and familiar, others are more intrepid in their taste for adventure and crave exploration a little more off the beaten track.

World Travel Blog has always been committed to discovering those roads less travelled, which can always be found even in the most popular of tourist spots, and our anecdotal advice and articles are aimed at providing some insight into how such endeavours are best undertaken. But sometimes, for some trips, a specialist is needed, and that’s what has led us to launch our Travel Company of the Year Award this year.

Choosing our first winner hasn’t been easy – there are many agents in the market today offering a wide range of trips to suit varying budgets. We’ve been rigorous in our selection, though, and scored each of our shortlisted operators on the areas which matter most, namely quality of the itineraries on offer, overall value of holidays, how well organised the trips are and, all importantly, how knowledgable the staff and representatives are about your chosen destination. Feedback has been gleaned from not only the World Travel Blog team, but also independent reports from individuals and groups who have used these companies first hand.

We are, therefore, very pleased to announce that after very careful consideration, the winner of the first World Travel Blog Travel Company of the Year Award is:

Regent Holidays have been chosen for their unquestionable product knowledge, their willingness to be of assistance both before and after booking, and during the holiday itself, the friendliness of their team of experts, the fantastic choice of locations available, the overall exceptional value and for having innovation in spades.

So, congratulations guys – this award is not given out easily, and you should be very proud. Long may you continue to provide the excellent service you do!

Regent Holidays
Colston Tower
Colston Street
Bristol
BS1 4XE

Visit www.regent-holidays.co.uk

Tel: +44 (0)20 7666 1244

Email: regent@regentholidays.co.uk

From a stunning horse ride in the wildly outlandish terrain to a genial dinner in stylish Ulaanbaatar, you’ll find breathtaking Mongolia stays with you forever

“He must be from Outer Mongolia!” Kevin Jackson would proclaim with stark regularity when he deemed some new boy at school didn’t quite fit in. Kevin, the sort of comrade you loved to fight with, was my ‘best friend’ throughout primary school and probably my earliest experience of ingrained judgmentalism on full display.

Juvenile xenophobic preoccupations aside, it’s probably true to say that Mongolia (the ‘Outer’ bit simply refers to that part of the territory independent of the Qing dynasty, and geographically external from China) is one of those places we just never expect to visit. A bit like Greenland, although I’m glad to say I have been to both. And when we never actually dream of ever going to a place, we seem to divorce ourselves from any notion of what it actually might be like. I know when I embarked upon my epic rail journey from Moscow to Beijing a couple of years ago, I had not even one preconceived idea in my head about what I would find in Mongolia – that recondite middle bit – despite having clear but drastically wrong views when turning similar thoughts to Siberia.

The reality was something I could never have prepared for; arriving at downtown Ulaanbaatar, or UB as the trendy locals call it, proved to be the gateway to a world of which I could previously only have dreamt. A thriving city, UB is home to some 800,000 citizens, almost 30% of the country’s entire population. Its suburbs are unlike those of most western cities, nomadic families from the countryside occupying not hi-rise urban tenements, but pockets of ger camps when Mongolia’s harsh climate decimates their livestock, rendering their centuries old wandering lifestyle unsustainable. At least these days they have somewhere to resettle.

Our guide for the duration of our stay was to be Khulan, a 24 year old resident of the capital with over five years’ experience in looking after tourists from all over the world. Proficient in Russian and English as well as her native Mongolian tongue, she was a wild child who could make herself understood in pretty much any situation. Hard working and humblingly dedicated, Khulan was passionate in her endeavours to not only make sure we had a good time, but to equip us with some grass roots knowledge of her country and her people; she was, in fact, the perfect ambassador, let alone guide.

Our 80 kilometre trek up to the Terelj National Park, courtesy of driver Michael, was as informative as it was stunning. As we passed two huge blue constructions on the main road out of the city, Khulan explained this was the black market. “It’s not how you would see the black market normally,” she reassured us, “but you can buy anything here, from a car to a ger. It’s very popular and interesting to look around.”

We also witnessed a funeral procession a few miles down the road, which to Mongolians is a sign of luck. “The person who has died leaves all the good things about his life to those of us still here,” explained Khulan. Weddings, on the other hand, are a different story: “The newly married couple are taking all the good things for themselves, so it’s not so good for everyone else!”

As the road meandered its way out of the hustle and bustle of the city, giving way to green fields and gently rising hills, the true drama of the landscape only became apparent as we entered Terelj Park itself. Huge, rocky mountains and rolling green plains conspired to create a spectacular vista that no picture or prose could ever hope to recreate in the mind of one who has not witnessed it for himself. Taking the best of the Scottish western highlands and the Middle Earth of New Zealand, this breathtaking countryside stretches over an incomprehensible land mass, reaching far into the distance, way beyond where the human eye could ever hope to see.

Once we’d settled into the camp, we were shown to our ger, which would be our home for the next couple of nights. My trusty black and red Antler suitcase looked ridiculously incongruous in this magnificently unspoilt world; it felt as if my belongings should be wrapped in a swathe of natural linen – blue, of course, to represent the sacred sky that Mongolians honour and cherish – and tied securely to my horse.

Ger living proved entirely agreeable, not least because we were fed and watered regularly in the camp’s superb restaurant. We spent our hazy, lazy days in the pleasant 25 degree sunshine riding horses, practicing archery and, embarrassingly, trying to put up our own ger, which leaned precariously to the left, threatening to last not even one night.

A highlight was a hike to the picturesque Buddhist Meditation Temple of Aryapala, nestling high on the hillside above the appropriately named Turtle Rock; from here, the view of the park is sensational.

When the time came to leave Terelj it was heartbreaking. This trip had been a series of goodbyes from the start, but always there had been the promise of the next new adventure. But here we were saying farewell not only to a place which felt inherently right, but also to great friendships which were not tethered by the bounds of language. Here were a people whose only desire was to please: they wanted to make us happy, welcome and safe. For that brief time, there was real love for one’s fellow human here, and leaving it behind was a massive wrench which left a lump in my throat.

Khulan and her 25 year old male colleague, Ganaa, continued to look after us as we spent another twenty-four hours in UB itself, visiting Sukhbaatar Square with its proud statue of Chinggis Khaan, the Mongolian Natural History Museum and the Gandan Monastery, before taking in a concert showing off the talents of the Mongolian State Dancers and Singers, collectively known as Moonstone. We then rested our heads in the Bayangol Hotel, one of UB’s finest and most western; it didn’t disappoint.

The next morning, as our 8.05 train rolled out of Ulaanbaatar station towards the Gobi, I felt a mixture of real sadness at leaving behind this beautiful country and its wonderful people, and a huge, giddy excitement at the prospect of discovering Beijing and beyond, tempered only by a little apprehension about the border crossing into that even vaster land known as China.

Visiting Asia had been one of the most rewarding experiences of my many years of traveling the globe, and a trip like this makes you hungry for more. But with a plethora of agents willing to take you on voyages of discovery throughout this vast continent, bear in mind that it’s not always wise to choose a budget operator. Wherever you select in Asia, make sure you do your research thoroughly and pick an organisation whose passion and commitment shine through; remember, it’s value and experience you want, not bargain basement.

Visit: www.tereljlodge.com

Tel: +976 11 344488

E-mail: info@tereljlodge.com

Irkutsk to Ulaanbaatar, leaving Siberia: high in the Mongolian mountains

All my imaginings of Siberia, from being a small child right through to adulthood, were of a bleak, frozen wasteland. It also seemed to be the impression most of my peers and contemporaries had too – a fact which became all too obvious as they foisted their opinions  on me and passed their remarks at my choice of trip. ‘Oh well,’ many would shrug, “they did Chernobyl last year, so what do you expect?”

I think for me, the biggest shock on the stretch between Yekaterinburg and Irkutsk is just how populated it is. I really didn’t expect all the little settlements along the route, which was intersected by roads and tracks, lined with quaintly pained wooden houses and people – just working in the fields or simply standing watching the trains go by. In this vast space the most mundane sight can seem remarkably odd, simply by its incongruity; a row of Ladas, populated by the odd Mitsubishi or Renault, waiting at a level crossing in the middle of nowhere for the Trans-Siberian train to go past, a small child playing with his faithful dog, or riding a shiny bicycle, as he kicks up the dust in his remote back yard. A real delight are the station stops, where locals line the track peddling their wares, from bottles of mineral water to bread, ice-creams to pot noodles. There’s plenty of chance to disembark at these junctures, even if just to stretch your legs and get a breath of fresh air.

As we neared Irkutsk, the weather took a turn for the worse. Gone were the clear blue skies and thirty degree heat of Yekaterinburg, giving way to a thick belt of rain cloud and temperatures plummeting by a good twenty degrees. This low pressure lasted for a good sixteen hour stretch of the journey and spanned hundreds of kilometres, so by the time we got to Irkutsk station, we realised our only actual stop in Siberia, some twenty-four hours by Lake Baikal in Listvyanka, was going to be a wet one. This was a bit of a disappointment, particularly as Alex, our transfer guide, was quick to point out he had been sunbathing only a couple of days earlier. Everyone at home had thought us mad when we embarked upon this adventure, advising us take plenty of warm clothing for the fifty-below Siberian temperatures, but we were the smart ones, explaining we’d done our research and that Siberian summers could be as warm as the winters were cold. And now this: Listvyanka at a grey six degrees, and Lake Baikal enshrouded in misty rain clouds. Clearly, we could not text of phone anyone at home until things improved.

Absolutely dog tired, as soon as we hit the homestay we collapsed into bed. The 48 hour train journey and early start had worn us out physically and emotionally, and then the hour and a half it took to transfer us by minibus in pouring rain to the lake resort had just about finished us off. A warm welcome at our wooden shack of a homestay did lift our spirits a little, as did the delicious breakfast of home cooked blinis served with cheese and jam, even if it did disturb our slumber temporarily. After breakfast, it was back to bed for a couple more hours to recharge our bodies and minds enough to make the best of the day.

Once we’d showered and thrown ourselves out onto the soggy shores of the lake, things didn’t seem nearly so bad. As my partner Jamie pointed out, this was no wet weekend in Whitby (something we had also experienced); this was Siberia and this was Lake Baikal, the largest fresh water lake in the world. Known as the pearl of Siberia, it is, at its deepest, 1,637 metres deep and contains more water than America’s five Great Lakes combined. It didn’t matter a jot what the clemency of the weather was, we were here, standing on its shores, and it was wonderful.

Train 3: The TransMongolian Railway

When I was a kid at school, I remember other kids joking about Outer Mongolia, none of us, of course, having a clue even where this far flung country lay. The reality was something I could never have prepared for; arriving at downtown Ulaanbaatar, or UB as the trendy locals call it, proved to be the gateway to a world I could previously only have dreamt of. A thriving city, UB is home to some 800,000 citizens, almost 30% of the country’s entire population. Its suburbs are unlike those of most western cities, nomadic families from the countryside occupying not hi-rise urban tenements, but pockets of ger camps when Mongolia’s harsh climate decimates their livestock, rendering their centuries old wandering lifestyle unsustainable. At least these days they have somewhere to resettle.

Our guide for the duration of our stay was to be Khulan, a 24 year old resident of the capital with over five years’ experience in looking after tourists from all over the world. Proficient in Russian and English as well as her native Mongolian tongue, she was a girl who could make herself understood in pretty much any situation. Hard working and humblingly dedicated, Khulan was passionate in her endeavours to not only make sure we had a good time, but to equip us with some grass roots knowledge of her country and her people; she was, in fact, the perfect guide.

Our 80 kilometre trek up to the Terelj National Park, courtesy of driver Michael, was as informative as it was stunning. As we passed two huge blue constructions on the main road out of the city, Khulan explained this was the black market. “It’s not how you would see the black market normally,” she reassured us, “but you can buy anything here, from a car to a ger. It’s very popular and interesting to look around.”

We also witnessed a funeral procession a few miles down the road, which to Mongolians is a sign of luck. “The person who has died leaves all the good things about his life to those of us still here,” explained Khulan. Weddings, on the other hand, are a different story: “The newly married couple are taking all the good things for themselves, so it’s not so good for everyone else!”

As the road meandered its way out of the hustle and bustle of the city, giving way to green fields and gently rising hills, the true drama of the landscape only became apparent as we entered the Terelj Park. Huge, rocky mountains and rolling green plains conspired to create a spectacular vista that no picture or prose could ever hope to recreate in the mind of one who has not witnessed it for himself. Taking the best of the western highlands of Scotland and the Middle Earth of New Zealand, this breathtaking countryside stretches over an incomprehensible land mass, reaching far into the distance, way beyond where the human eye could ever hope to see.

Once we’d settled into the camp, we were shown to our ger, which would be our home for the next couple of nights. My trusty black and red Antler suitcase looked ridiculously incongruous in this magnificently unspoilt world; it felt as if my belongings should be wrapped in a swathe of natural linen and tied securely to my horse.

Ger living proved entirely agreeable, not least because we were fed and watered regularly in the camp’s superb restaurant. We spent our hazy, lazy days in the pleasant 25 degree sunshine riding horses, practicing archery and, embarrassingly, trying to put up our own ger, which leaned precariously to the left, threatening to last not even one night.

A highlight was a hike to the picturesque Buddhist Meditation Temple of Aryapala, nestling high on the hillside above the appropriately named Turtle Rock; from here, the view of the park is sensational.

When the time came to leave Terelj it was heartbreaking. This trip has been a series of goodbyes from the start, but always there has been the promise of the next new adventure. But here we were saying farewell not only to a place which felt inherently right, but also to great friendships which were not tethered by the bounds of language. Here were a people whose only desire was to please: they wanted to make us happy, welcome and safe. For that brief time, there was real love for one’s fellow human here, and leaving it behind was a massive wrench which left a lump in my throat.

Khulan and her 25 year old male colleague Gana continued to look after us as we spent another twenty-four hours in UB itself, visiting Sukhbaatar Square with its proud statue of Chinggis Khaan, the Mongolian Natural History Museum and the Gandan Monastery, before taking in a concert showing off the talents of the Mongolian State Dancers and Singers, collectively known as Moonstone. We then rested our heads in the Bayangol Hotel, one of UB’s finest and most western; it didn’t disappoint.

The next morning, as our 8.05 train rolled out of Ulaanbaatar station towards the Gobi, I felt a mixture of real sadness at leaving behind this beautiful country and its wonderful people, and a huge, giddy excitement at the prospect of discovering Beijing. This was tempered only by a little understandable apprehension about the border crossing.