Travel Writing Library

It was the second car-ride to the airport that day; neither of my parents spoke. The air inside was thick with unspoken resentment. They had laughed at me the night before when asked if I needed a passport to fly to Scotland.

Picture this: a beautifully sunny day, spent indoors, with no physical human contact, surrounded by masses of books as you attempt to cram for your university exams.

“It’s not about what you can see, it’s what is missing that is the true genius” a man with large, black-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket exclaims.

Having stupidly chosen a window I evaluated my route to the toilet in the underside cabin. It seemed simple… just climb over…

I was doing well on my bike. I had my tent and other essentials rolled up and balanced carefully on the back - the chain was oiled, the wheels were fat, I was enjoying myself.

Day 1. - twenty-year old Mazda changes into steam engine 250k south of Calais and expires at petrol pumps, blocking access; re-watered and pushed aside.

Tears streamed down my face as I tightly hugged my knees in the stifling, comically narrow hallway of an overnight train from Hanoi to Hoi An.

We’ve always wanted to go to India. We’re euphoric! The snowy sinews overlaying the iron-grey Himalayas drift beneath our small plane as we fly from New Delhi to Srinagar, Kashmir.

I counted 20 hairpin bends, whooped with excitement and watched the vista change colour at every turn. At the 21st and the last of the Gata Loops, I had a closer look as I was sliding on the gravel.

A ship’s horn resonates through the Aqaba seaport causing a flock of seagulls to dramatically take flight. The crumbs from our measly bread offerings rain down upon us as they pass overhead.