It’s because I was on my own in Los Angeles, smoking weed on Venice Beach, that I ended up at Coachella Festival with two girls I’d barely met and the DJs Belle and Sebastian. It was because I was on my own in Nashville that I woke up with a Texan soldier and never had to tell anyone. And it’s because I was on my own driving up the west coast of England that I could take a spontaneous detour to Anthony Gormley’s ‘Another Place’ – just for the wonder of seeing those mossy, iron sculptures lapped by the waves.
Hell is other people – especially on holiday. Group trips give me chills. Words like ‘minibus’, ‘group tour’ or ‘kitty’ make me nauseous. Once I ended up in hospital with acute pancreatitis when I was supposed to be on a group ski-trip in Switzerland. Frankly, I considered the smell of antiseptic and microwaved meals a relief.
The final blow came during one especially horrendous group holiday to Ibiza when we rowed over plans and bills every day. In the blazing Spanish sun of the strip, I vowed: never again!
If, like me, you are an intensely curious commitment-phobe, then there is no greater pleasure than solo travelling. This summer I stepped off the train on a burning hot day in Berlin and was reminded of a particular joy Julie Burchill has described as the thrill of being somewhere where no one knows you, perhaps not even yourself.
The problem with travelling with friends is that they keep reminding you who they think you are when, somewhere in Germany, a whole new side of yourself could be waiting to be found. Perhaps this is the weekend you’ll discover a love of sauerkraut, techno or try out bondage with two daddies from the KitKatClub. Who knows? You certainly never will unless you let yourself explore.
Little wonder, then, that solo travel is booming. The global solo travel market is expected to exceed $1 trillion by 2030 – driven by the rise of digital ‘nomadism’ and, of course, that pleasure of doing nothing. Tour operator Jules Verne said solo travellers accounted for 46 per cent of bookings for its trips this year – with the majority of those bookings from women.
Solo travel is becoming a feminine conceit. A survey by the Hostelworld travel platform last year found 60 per cent of its solo travellers were women. Of that number, many would have been younger women: two-thirds of all solo travellers are aged between 18 and 30.
If, like me, you are an intensely curious commitment-phobe, then there is no greater pleasure than solo travelling
Even as a woman above that range though, I’m not surprised. When travelling alone, I don’t feel unsafe but rather unobserved. I can wear comfortable shoes, no make-up and can happily vanish for days at a time. In my middle age, I have a firm idea of what I like on holiday: sleeping late, sea-swimming, a bit of culture, a lost afternoon. Maybe I’ll walk across a city at night and – in the right mood – go dancing. I don’t want to waste my limited time doing things I don’t like. On my own, I don’t have to.
I like to unravel when travelling, unlimited by other’s expectations. In California I was amazed to find myself chanting on a grief yoga retreat – only because no one I knew could see.
My kind of travelling means not making plans. I spent summer driving my dog around France, detouring to towns I recognised from drinking – from Cognac to Saint-Émilion – booking Airbnbs and staying for days without being nagged to move on. In Jerusalem, I felt so moved at Yad Vashem I went back the next day without worrying I was boring a friend.
I am a confident traveller and my worst nightmare is being with someone insistent on seeing tourist traps. I want to experience how somewhere feels. In New York, I ignored the Empire State Building, going vintage clothes shopping in the East Village. In Paris, I was a flaneuse: getting lost in pretty back streets, swimming in the Seine and gorging on cheese. In San Francisco, I indulged my nerd-ophilia by going on Tinder dates with coders.
I am a people-pleaser and so holidays give me one space to be selfish. Alone, I’m beholden to no-one. In Italy, I could decide off the cuff to take a train from Florence to Venice, stopping at Padua just because there was a 14-century fresco I was curious to see. In Thailand, I could ditch the beach for the jungle, swerve tourist night markets to eat at dodgy local shacks – without being responsible for someone getting food poisoning.
Perhaps I’ve just not ‘found’ the right travel companion, some might suggest. But, as a travel writer, even when I’m asked if I want to bring a ‘plus one’, I often decline – lying to boyfriends as I wheel my suitcase out the door. After all, when surrounded by the noise and social demands of every day life, it’s easy to get lost. How grounding to be freed from all that in a place where you have no ties.
It surprises me when people equate solo travelling with running away from yourself. If anything, it’s when travelling alone that I get the clearest sense of who I am.
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