“Difficult was being a vicar’s wife in Leamington Spa for the past 27 years.” There was clearly a story there, but she was off, swinging her purple backpack over her shoulder as she disappeared along the Abel Tasman trail.įor many, a holiday is a chance to rest and unwind and do very little. “Difficult?” She shook her head fiercely. “It must be difficult sometimes,” I said. Over breakfast, I commented on her bravery to travel on her own at her age. Later on, in New Zealand, I met a woman in her 60s who was backpacking solo around the South Island. I extended my trip by another six months and when I got a job on a boat, I not only discovered the joy of scuba diving, but also managed to fall back in love with my life again.ĭance off: Bev Thomas’s father on holiday in Greece. While the longevity of relationships can be a huge source of comfort, it can also be constraining when you want to write yourself a new and different story.Īs I continued my travels, and took jobs along the way, I found these new and transient relationships liberating, and I was surprised by my growing resilience and independence as well as the rediscovery of parts of myself that were long buried. My home narrative read like a well-thumbed book. In the months before I left home, I’d felt saddled by heartbreak and stuckness, and this experience had come to define me – and, in turn, my relationship with friends, family and colleagues. For all of us, the anonymity was liberating we had no shared past or future and, as a consequence, we could talk freely without judgment or repercussions. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember the magic of that connection. The birthday woman was leaving early in the morning. I felt profoundly moved by the honesty of these strangers, and by the ease with which I felt able to share thingsĪt the end of the evening, we parted company. I felt profoundly moved by the honesty of these strangers, and was surprised, too, by the ease with which I felt able to share things about myself. As the waves lapped on the beach, we sat together under a canopy of fairylights eating pad Thai and drinking Tiger beer, and for the next four hours we shared stories about our lives: hopes, dreams, sadness, loss and disappointment. At the meal she told us it was her 40th birthday and, as she was travelling alone, she’d decided to celebrate by gathering together a group of women she’d enjoyed meeting during the week. Would I like to join them? We were six women of different ages. She’d invited a few other women to meet for dinner. It was during a stay on Ko Phi Phi island in Thailand, when a woman I’d met earlier on the beach approached me and asked if I was free that evening. What was I thinking?īut as the weeks went on, something started to shift. Somehow, in the flurry of packing for the trip, I’d forgotten that the thing you don’t choose to bring, but can’t leave behind, is yourself. And, to my horror, despite visiting eye-wateringly beautiful places, I still felt miserable. Away from the routines of life, the identity of my job and the security of my network of friends and family, I felt lonely and untethered. It was nerve-racking to land in a strange place and know nobody. When I left my job as a psychologist and went on a round-the-world trip in search of adventures after a difficult time in my life, maybe I, too, was hoping to become a new person – or, like my father, a different version of myself. But as he got back to normal life and a busy hospital job, the unopened ouzo was soon pushed to the back of the cupboard to gather dust. Two weeks later, clutching a bottle of ouzo as we landed in Heathrow, perhaps he hoped this version of himself might travel home with him. There was a lightness about him as he chatted to strangers on the beach, inviting them to join us for dinner, where he’d entertain them with an endless repertoire of stories and jokes. Perhaps it was the sunny climate, the change of scene or simply the long-awaited break from work, but almost as soon as the plane landed on the runway, his ordinarily reserved personality was discarded like a winter coat. O n family holidays, my father transformed himself.
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