Travel Writing Library

Months prior to Christmas 2010, booking flights back to the UK from Poland, I had done the highly reckless mental conversion of potential cash saving to units of beer and, as usual, it had been a no-brainer.

“Lift to Greece” read the now crumpled advertisement I held in my hand as we approached the gate. It opened with a tingling of delicate bells. My friend regarded the grey haired gnome-like man with suspicion.

I'm nauseous and, despite sitting, my body sways ever so slightly. My stomach threatens to revolt every second, my lungs whoosh whenever I exhale, and the steady drizzle of rain just makes the ache in my bones...

According to Google Maps it should take me seven hours and twenty-nine minutes to get from Sikasso, in Mali, to Bouake, in Cote d’Ivoire. That seemed pretty optimistic after a twenty-six hour bus ride.

I should have guessed that this year's annual pilgrimage to my parents house in the south of France would be a "my worst yet" winner. Consider the ingredients: four children under seven, an eight hour ferry crossing...

There stood the bus. Just as the agent had promised, a “luxury, air-conditioned video bus”! My son, who had been in India for some months, compared with my own few days, had been wary.

On that day, temperatures rose high at the Borneo’s Orang Utan Sanctuary...

The man fidgeted and fumbled as the bus pulled away into the night, a nod proffered in acknowledgement met with an icy cold stare.

I had never visited Cambodia in my whole twenty three year existence, in early April I had the opportunity to venture back to my ancestral home.

I’ve been sitting at the side of the road for three hours with a chicken pecking selectively at the ground. She takes no note of the sun slicing up the hard grass our side of the fence.