As the mist dispersed and the snaking, seemingly endless form of the wall appeared I could almost see the Mongol hordes charging over the hills. And it wasn’t just the eerie weather that was making for such an atmospheric Great Wall experience – it was the crumbling rocks beneath my cheap hiking boots and the fact that we were alone in a silent spot far from Beijing’s hustle and bustle.

This was worlds apart from my first Great Wall encounter. As a fresh-faced backpacker straight out of university I’d soon tired of China’s constant challenges – where simple acts like ordering lunch always found me on the losing side of a 20-minute game of charades. On reaching the capital I cringed at the idea of taking the numerous buses, taxis and rickshaws required to get to my preferred part of the wall, settling instead for a tour bus to the much-visited and easy-to-reach Badaling section. Two silk shops and a pearl factory later I finally arrived at Badaling – bustling, immaculately restored and heartbreakingly disappointing. In fact I was so disappointed with my long-awaited trip to see one of the world’s top sights, I actually cried – as much for my laziness in not aiming for a wilder slice of wall as for the pristine paving stones packed with tourists, touts and souvenir stands.

Failing to fulfil my dreams of walking the wall became my top travel regret over the years and as soon as the chance to head back to China arose I was Beijing-bound and determined not to make the same mistake again. And so a decade later I found myself sheltering in a dilapidated watchtower clad in the kind of cheap mac you buy for a buck in theme parks, sheltering from a summer downpour.

It’s Sunday in Pyongyang – the day of 10,000 steps, when each citizen shuns wheels and takes to the streets on foot. The official line is that this is an eco-friendly initiative designed to help save petrol. The pessimistic (or perhaps realistic) view is that there simply isn’t enough fuel to go around – not even for the few who actually own a car.

Truthfully, there’s little to distinguish Sunday from any other day. I’ve never seen a city as quiet as North Korea’s capital. It’s so quiet that the rickety Soviet-inspired buses and occasional cars provide a curiosity worthy of our photographs and since traffic accidents don’t seem to be an issue, we opt for the top vantage point – the middle of the road. When two cars do actually cross paths, the occasion is marked by one of the city’s most elegant and photogenic sights. Clearly hired for their exquisite features and decked out in porcelain doll make up, Pyongyang’s all-female traffic police lend a little theatre to a city with a non-existent arts scene. Their perfectly orchestrated gestures are like some kind of high street ballet, inevitably drawing the largest crowd a city with so few tourists can muster. Never faltering, they spin on the spot, keeping perfect time with rapid jerks of the head and flowing hand signals and as I stand mesmerised by their movements I wonder whether they might cause more accidents than they avert.