Travel now not tomorrow

  The town of Hydra rises steeply from the port like an amphitheatre. The higher homes sit precipitously as though they could roll down into the sea. Narrow lanes and cobbled staircases weave upwards occasionally providing staggering views of the sea and the Peloponnese. The steep geography of the island limits the use of motorised vehicles. A small ambulance can navigate the half-kilometre between the church hospital and the ferry port, and a rubbish truck sweeps through a small segment of the port area once a day. The lack of traffic contributes to a peacefulness. With no vehicle noise to interrupt thoughts or conversation, stress slips away. Every time I arrive, I feel my shoulders ease downward as I follow the donkey that carries my suitcase up through the ascending lanes. In summer, visitors flock to Hydra and fill the beaches, restaurants and cafes. In winter however, the beaches are silent and only a few cafes and restaurants are open. The daytime temperature wavers be...

  Probably the most prominent  friend I made while travelling is Melitta, an Austrian girl I shared a house with while in Zambia. She was, like me, young and idealistic, keen to improve healthcare in our little segment of Africa. We shared a house at the back of the mission hospital with an English woman. Helen was a difficult character, a woman who played There’ll Always Be An England every Sunday morning and corrected Melitta and me if we didn’t display perfect English manners. The work we did was challenging, and the nuns’ rules could feel petty. Melitta and I bonded over a daily beer and shared stories of our patients. Occasionally, a European teacher or an agriculturalist would turn up to take us to a party on a weekend and we would laugh and dance as though we had few cares. Melitta and I still drink beer, dance and laugh outrageously. Helen, however, took God’s wedding ring and joined the convent. Matrine was another Zambian friend. She was a law student when we me...

  “Good morning, Sister, how are you?” I didn’t have time for such greetings. I was a midwife at a mission hospital in the Zambian bush, running a ward with 24 beds and often had more than 30 patients plus their families. I had bush clinics to visit, and I was taking eight Zambian nurses through their midwifery theory. I had no time to exchange idle greetings. Or so I thought. It was when the pace began to wear me down, my chest felt permanently tight and I wasn’t sleeping well, that I started to slow down. And that was when I began to exchange greetings. “Good morning, Sister, how are you?” “Good morning, I am well, and how are you?” “Ahh, I am very well.” Smiles go with such greetings, and everyone goes on with their day. For me, happier than before. Greetings may appear superficial and a waste of time, but they provide a connection to those around us and make us feel part of something bigger. Where I grew up in Glasgow, we didn’t have specific greetings, but yo...

Poor environment, bad weather or dismal economic opportunities can all lead someone to pack their bags and push off to a new life.   When this happens, we leave with optimism for change, opportunity, sunshine, the good things of life. Sometimes, we believe that leaving home will somehow change us. This is not uncommon after a loss such as death, divorce or redundancy. In this situation, we often travel alone. There are no compromises to be made when you travel solo. This type of travel is about escaping, changing surroundings and our daily schedules and gaining freedom from whatever we feel chains us. However, we can be pulled towards the new, because that is where we want to be. Escaping in the name of adventure. Heading out to an airport, train station or long-range bus terminal can give some of us a thrill. Escaping to where no one knows your name.   Oftentimes, we are warned against this type of journey. However, as Paul Coelho points out: “If you think adventure is da...

  Bus stops are good places to watch people. I often stand, leaning against a wall, observing, not judging, but looking for clues to a story. One day in a wealthy part of London, the road wide and peaceful, I watched an older woman come out of a nearby grand house. When I write that she was wearing a PVC cape, fish net stockings and heels, the outfit might give the wrong impression for a woman of her elder years. However, she had a perfectly pitched bun at the back of her head, subtle makeup and great poise. As she stopped to wait for a bus, a young man said to her, “You look very nice today, ma’am.” She nodded to acknowledge his compliment and thanked him. I felt awe. She had grace, style – her own style – and calm composure. I wanted what she had and wondered where she was going in PVC and fish nets. To visit a lover is too obvious. My preferred story is that she was visiting a husband or former lover who was in a nursing home. The style was too precise. I believe she was d...

  It’s been a wet and windy summer in the UK. People here are famous for enjoying a good groan about the weather, but even most Brits are now weary of complaining. I’ve been back for three weeks and have seen only three days with no rainfall. But what to do about it? Suffer, say many. It gives us lush gardens, although those people don’t mention the slugs and weeds that flourish after such downpours. Escape, say others as they peruse last-minute travel websites. The Mediterranean countries, Spain, Italy and Greece, top the holiday search terms. But while some are tempted to escape to the sun, others fret. A neighbour shared her worries. “Is it worth going away? It’s August already. We’ll be getting ready for Christmas soon. Shouldn’t we just give this summer a miss?” Christmas! It’s still August. I know I will be criticised for saying this – but go and have fun, no more being hunched down under the wind and rain. Stand tall and straight, feel that sun’s warmth. There is an ec...

  Most of us don’t think of ourselves as foreigners, even when we’re overseas. We believe that we are one with the wider group. After all, foreigners are something else, they are the people who don’t belong. I remember the first time I realised I was be an outsider. My British Caledonian flight to Zambia had landed in Lusaka and, when I looked out onto the tarmac, none of the ground staff looked like me. It gave me a thrill but also a sense of vulnerability. These people were not my people and I wondered if I would be safe among them. That thought prompted another – this is how visitors to my own country must feel. They are outnumbered, and their dress, skin colour, hair, any number of things, mark them out and perhaps leave them open to hostility. I have to say that I met no hostility in Zambia. Instead, my social skills grew as I learned to reach out to the people I lived among. Perhaps I did it to fit in, to ensure that I was less of a foreigner. I didn’t anticipate feeling ...