My internal navigation usually serves me well. Getting from one place to another usually involves convincing myself that whatever distance I have to walk “isn’t too far”, then setting off with whatever I’m using as a map (usually not a map), trying - usually with unvarying success - to remain cheerful and take things in.
This works at home in dear old Blighty. It usually works when I’m ‘on the continent’ and, even despite the Milton Keynes-esque street and avenue layouts in America, it worked there too.
What I didn’t account for on this journey was, however, that, 1) somewhere on the way out, my internal compass was damaged by a combination of Terravision heat, E Clapton’s lame rock and Stansted rutting, and 2), that while Italy and Belgrade were okay, street and other directional signs were either in Cyrillic (Sofia) or just didn’t exist (Bar). Actually, they weren’t that great in Belgrade either.
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