I got my usual seat on the plane, between the fat women and the screaming baby and directly in front of the kicking toddler. On this flight I had the added bonus of being right up against the bulkhead wall which meant no legroom and no view of the movies except a headache inducing blur of pixels right in front of my nose. I'd read the in-flight magazine for the fifth time and discovered that the films I hadn't seen were being shown on every flight except this one, all before the plane had finished taxiing down the runway.

The plane roared into the skies above Tokyo and out over the Pacific. After four months of travel, using every conceivable form of transport except planes, I'd reached the great ocean that glittered to the horizon in front of me. As if to emphasise that this was the end of the trip the plane banked sharply away and headed west over the snow covered volcanoes of Japan, back towards Siberia, Europe and home.

The flight home followed almost exactly the route I'd taken since November, flying via Seoul, Beijing and Mongolia to Irkutsk and then across the frozen wastes to Moscow. I looked out of the window for any signs of something familiar; the Trans-Siberian railway line, Lake Baikal, the Fish Fabrique punk mosh pit in St Petersburg or Enkh the Mongolian madman heating his jeep engine with a blowtorch. From 9,000m (29,527ft) I could see nothing but a sea of frozen trees stretching north to the Arctic Sea.

A journey that had taken four months, several visas and a huge quantities of thermal underwear to complete now took little more than 12 hours, three lousy films and two airline meals to undo. As the plane came in to land over London in the late afternoon sunshine, the Japanese and Korean tourists peered out of the windows for their first view of Hounslow with the same enthusiasm I'd had for my first view of Kyoto or Ulan Baataar. After such a long time away, even I found the green fields and regimented streets a strange sight.

By the time I'd collected my luggage from the carousel it was beginning to sink in that I was home. I was no longer some strange exotic creature attracting the stares of the local people. Similarly everything around me was familiar; the signs, the conversations, the social convention of not appearing to enjoy spotting your suitcase on the conveyor belt and not smirking at the people whose luggage had seemingly been run over by a plane on the way to the terminal.

"Excuse me sir. Where have you come from today?" With my long hair and shaggy beard it was a certainty that I would be stopped at customs. "What was the purpose of your visit?" I was really beginning to enjoy the reaction to my answers, but the customs officer had had enough off my self-satisfied smirk and let me go. The doors to the arrivals hall sprung open and I was greeted by a sea of smiling, welcoming faces which quickly turned blank again when they realised I wasn't their relative. By the time I'd reached the tube I'd lost the "I'm back! Guess where I've been!" look on my face.

Little had changed in the past four months. Some years ago the UK could have been struck by a meteor and vaporised and you wouldn't know about it until the pilot started circling above looking for a place to land. These days email, the internet and 24-hour news mean that, despite your best efforts, it's impossible to completely lose touch with home; well except when you stay in a nomad tent in Mongolia for a week or so. I was greeted by cheerful headlines such as "We're next!" and "Run for your lives!" and considered that it might be safer to take my chances with the earthquakes in Tokyo.

As I stumbled into my sister's flat I was greeting with similar encouragement: "Oh you're back are you?", "What's that revolting beard doing on your chin?", "How could you eat horsemeat?" and "Can't you put those smelly hiking boots in a plastic bag or something?"

It was with a sense of sadness that I unpacked my things and put my trusty rucksack in the cupboard. Somehow it seemed wrong to see a piece of luggage that had spent its whole life travelling through the wilds of Arctic Europe and the wide open spaces of Asia, now folded up and confined to a shelf above the towels and bed linen. Somehow it just didn't seem right.

In the sitting room my sister was busy packing a rucksack of her own. "I'm off to Australia," she announced. "I'm not going to be left here in London if everyone's going off around the world." My sister's approach to backpacking is slightly different to mine, with a make-up bag weighing five kilograms and at least four pairs of high-heeled shoes (this is my sister we're talking about now, not me). As my travel guides were put away and the thermals retired to a draw, she was busy trying to work out how to get from Sydney to Cairns and discovering that Australia is slightly larger than the Isle of Wight.

I've been back a few days and it's been great to have a break from living out of a bag or eating seaweed for breakfast, at least for a short time. I'm still in a bit of a daze. Frankly, I really haven't got my head around the shock of the initial phone call from the Guardian telling me that if I was stupid enough to offer to go to Siberia in January, they'd be happy to send me.

I certainly had my request of "please me, freeze me" realised in full. I've loved every minute of it especially seeing the northern lights in Abisko. This was an amazing sight, even if I initially thought they were car headlights. The only thing more strange or mysterious is Sven Ivan's mushroom farm at the bottom of the Kiruna iron mine. Other highlights include the Trans-Siberian Railway: perhaps the greatest train journey in the world. It's an unforgettable experience to meet the fascinating and friendly people of Russia (and their endless supply of vodka) as the vast open spaces of Siberia drift past.

I will also remember camping in Mongolia. Staying with nomads in a tent, in -35C, about 150 miles from the nearest road may not sound like everyone's idea of fun but it was absolutely magical. I'd still be there if only Enkh hadn't been able to start the engine after heating it for 30 minutes with a blowtorch.

Visiting China at New Year was fantastic. The real highlight was the lantern festival in Xi'an where the streets were lit up with thousands of red paper lanterns and I joined the locals in trying to avoid being blown to smithereens by the deafening fireworks. Finally, after a few weeks in Japan I feel I've only scratched the surface. Capsule hotels, electric baths, geishas and bullet trains left me speechless (particularly the electric baths). I was left totally exhausted and exhilarated by the experience and can't wait to go back once my bank manager gives me permission.

I can't thank the Guardian and all the people who voted for me enough. Thank you also to all the people who emailed me with advice, suggestions, encouragement and the latest Arsenal football results. A special thank you to Betty in Vienna who sent me so many nice emails and a Christmas card while I was stranded in Tobolsk. Betty, there's a temple roof tile at the Beomeosa Temple in Korea with your name on it. It's supposed to bring good luck. I hope it's true. The monks are very grateful for something to keep the rain out at any rate.

I really hope you've enjoyed the articles. I've certainly enjoyed writing them even when they've been typed out on broken Cyrillic or Chinese keyboards in some smoke-filled, subterranean internet cafe. Hopefully I'll get the chance to write more in the future. I'm already planning my next journey and reckon that the perfect antidote to crossing Siberia in January is to cross the Sahara in August. What do you think?

Try Me. Fry Me.