The brothel – I didn’t know this was what it was until too late – was attached to a karaoke bar overlooking the Mekong river, and it was the only accommodation for miles.

I was carrying the tent I had cycled with from London, but the Cambodian countryside is riddled with 4-6 million landmines, many of them unmarked, legacies of the brutal reign of the Khmer Rouge and subsequent civil war. I was struggling to find a safe spot in the early dusk, and when I pulled up alongside the dilapidated bar I thought I was in luck. So I was surprised by the slow despair that crept over me as I passed hours in the shabby room, sitting cross-legged on the bed eating leftovers, skimming through a novel, chasing rats. I was over halfway through my trip, and had slept in much worse places. I had been less comfortable, less safe; but as I lay awake in that windowless room I realised that it wasn’t the brothel that was the problem. It was the solitude.