Chapter 1
Thirty years. Is this bothersome study all I have to show for it? Of all my years of travelling across the globe, journaling every trivial detail about my travels. From my travel route, things I take with me and whatever leisurely activities I encourage my readers to try out.
I look upon my desk. Chaos. Piles of old maps, flight times, scribbles of notes and whatnot. Not an hour or so ago, I was scrambling to find the appropriate route for my next trip; a little town called Belmonte, in Portugal. This was my latest assignment that, reluctantly, I had agreed to take on. Our company have recently created their own project by having several writers travel to old medieval towns across Western Europe and write up about their historical significance. I was given Belmonte, Portugal, as stated.
This town was renowned as it contained a closely-knit Jewish community, who practised their religion since the days of the Inquisition. It is also the birthplace of Pedro Alvares Cabral, a navigator and explorer who was the first man in Europe to set foot on Brazil. Oh yes, all that sounds thrilling, doesn’t it? Exploring a place so historically significant, you feel like you are time travelling. But that’s not the case when you must work out your flight times, routes you will take to the village, which, according to my research, is not reachable by car. I would have to walk on foot for a length of time. It may sound appealing to a traveller with more thirst for adventure and a spring in his step, but I had a deadline to meet and had no time for touring the towns surroundings, and let’s be honest, my fitter days are long behind me. Not to mention I have been asked to visit several sightings within the town, research its vast history, i.e., during the Renaissance, Inquisition etc. All of this, as well as interview locals, collect as many photographs as possible and remarkable keep sake items I could find, I had to achieve in just two weeks, not to mention spend another few dreary months writing all my findings.
Projects like this, I’m not new to. But after three decades, I just don’t think I have the energy, patience or even the passion for it anymore. I had reached this sad conclusion when I was manically planning my trip. I had just managed to work out my route from Porto Airport to the town of Belmonte, which, by the way, takes two and a half hours by car, and I was researching Belmonte and its popular attractions, from Belmonte Castle to the Jewish Museum. I vaguely researched its history, looked up photos of the village and its surroundings, and as I was doing this, it suddenly dawned on me how underwhelmed I was. I gazed at my surroundings. In that moment, I realised I had diminished my passion for the one I truly loved, travelling.
I have been passionate about travelling for almost my entire life. From the first holiday I remember going on with my family, backpacking through Spain during my university to my trips as a writer, visiting at least four continents across thirty years. I never cared where the destination was, I just wanted to immerse myself entirely in the environment, whether in a city or the country, whether on a plane or a ship. Oh, and the people. Watching and observing them, no matter what country I was in, carry out their day-to-day routines while I watched from a park bench or a coffee table, striking up engaging conversations with strangers from what there day plans were to telling me their life stories. Oh, what wonderful stories they were too.
“I was the youngest out of seven brothers and sisters, living in a two-bedroom apartment, while my mother was working as a carer in nursing home. You can imagine the mayhem and chaos I had to live with, what with all the rough play climbing over the sofas, jumping off the kitchen counters…”
“…and I was awarded this medal for civil service during the Falklands War 1982. It’s the South Atlantic Medal. Over 33,000 people received this medal…
“… and I just completely zoned out. The doctor just kept ranting on and on, yet all I heard was this high buzzing noise, like a microphone. I just sat there motionless, trying to process everything that was said. I mean, what are you really meant to do when you’re being told you have Stage 4 breast cancer?”
This is what I enjoy about travelling. Not just exploring new places, but the people and the incredible stories they tell. Back when I first started as a travel writer when I had more of spring in my step, one of my favourite past times was interviewing the locals of different towns, just listening to them describe the journeys they’ve been on in their lives. Whether talking to them in a quiet coffee shop or hiking up a nature trail up in the Scottish Highlands. Now, and particularly in recent years, it’s all about visiting isolated, historically significant towns, looking through 200-year-old census’, hours and hours of detailed research of different local heroes, annual events and even recommended travel routes and leisure activities for holidays in the Peak District or in Calais, or any caravan site with Southern France.
Well, I’m done. I’m done with all of it. Being told what to write, how to write, where to go, when to go. I’m fucking done with it. I look around my study and think to myself, “What can I do?” I have always loved travelling. But I’ve loved travelling the most when it’s been on my terms. Going where I want, speaking to whoever I want. I glance around at everything; my bookshelves filled with both my own published works and other travel writings I’ve used as resources, collections of maps and notebooks I’ve kept from countless trips, not to mention the accolades I’ve ‘won’ over the years. The fireplace I never use, my desk and all its chaos, my back window facing the back garden, which has seen better days, and… the globe. Standing in the left corner behind my desk, was a vintage terrestrial desktop globe I bought at an auction years before. I walk over and observe the map. I’ve travelled to five continents over the past thirty years, some places I’ve been to briefly more than once, or even passed through it.
As I have mentioned before, each of my trips throughout the years have been planned to a tee. Where I go, what I do, what routes I take, what essentials I take with me, who I see and talk to etc. But each of these trips had been decided for me according to whatever assignment I got. Well, I knew now that I had to decide my next trip myself. But what destination would I choose? And how? Choose two favourite countries and flip a coin? No, don’t be ridiculous, Maxwell, you’re not a juvenile.
I spun the globe out of impulse, my mind racing through the train of thought. Then it occurred to me. I could pick to travel to wherever I want, but the destination will be simultaneous. I will pick my next trip based on where on the globe I will stop. With my heart racing with fear and excitement, I spin the globe. I feel my blood heating up with anxious excitement, pondering where my finger will land. Greece? USA? Here in England? I feel my heart pumping more and more with anticipation. The globe keeps spinning. I close my eyes, slowly building my nerve for my surprise destination. Then, finally bracing my nerve, I lift my finger. I stop the globe. I open my eyes.
I see my next destination…
