Feeling nervous about where we were, we quickly turned back toward China. Midway across the ice, we heard yelling. We looked back and saw two North Korean soldiers with rifles running toward us. Instinctively, we ran.
An older generation remembers where they were when first hearing of the news of the JFK assassination. Ours mostly remember where they were when news first broke of the Parish car crash which killed Princess Diana. I remember where I was when BBC newsreader Jill Dando was killed in a leafy London street in April '99.
I'd just stepped off a flight to Heathrow and my then bulky mobile phone went in to hyperactive mode with messages from The Scotsman news desk. I was in London to root around on rumours we'd picked up about a prominent Scottish legal figure who had allegedly been involved in an incident while "walking" on Hampstead Heath.
Any notion of bagging a big name legal eagle immediately disappeared on the airport tarmac and it was straight to Fulham where Dando had been found dying in the street after being shot through the head with a single bullet. Awaiting me was one of the biggest hack packs I had ever seen - but still smaller than the massed media ranks Scott Douglas and me had fought off at Gatwick Airport in early 91' to secure the exclusive interview and pics of hostage pensioners, Jim and Mary Wright, after they had been freed by Saddam Hussein in the run up to the first Gulf War.
Arriving at the Dando scene there was mayhem all around. And I did what any reporter should do when on a strange patch with few contacts. As we crowded round a Met police press officer for an update I heard the Scottish accent and realised immediately he was a wide-o. He'll do for me, I thought, and I latched on to Daily Mirror legend Don Mackay, an old hand who knew the score. Despite his gruff exterior Don was a gent and introduced me to other London hacks including the Sun's crime man Mike Sullivan. It was an educating insight in to the beasts of Fleet Street and I've got to say, despite the extreme competitiveness, they were mostly welcoming and helpful to the stranger from Edinburgh.
As it turned out Don Mackay and me had been brought up only a street away in the same Edinburgh housing scheme, and he still returned 'home' to visit his elderly parents. The Scotsman had booked me in to a hotel the other side of London from the crime scene which was not ideal and one night, after being out late on the wrong side of town, Don put me up at his place. His lovely actress wife, Nichola McAuliffe, was obviously used to waifs and strays turning up as when I woke in the morning awaiting me were toiletries, a new pair of socks and a new white shirt still in the packaging. Now, that's what I call service.
By the end of the week I was recalled to Edinburgh and the theories of who killed Jill Dando, from eastern European hitmen to jilted lovers and weird loners, would rumble on for many months to come.
Barry George, the man convicted of her murder, is now to face a retrial after appeal court judges agreed the trial jury had been misled about forensic evidence. It wouldn't be the first time an innocent man has been put behind bars for a crime he didn't commit. The significance, or otherwise, of firearms residue found on George's coat will now be fully re-examined and a new jury can weigh up whether George really did have the wherewith all to carry out such a cold-blooded execution.
Never did bottom out the legal eagle story but I still pay attention when I see his name in the press.
