As the sun rose above the ancient temple of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, its ornate towers silhouetted against the brightening dawn, I felt my heart soar. It was a moment of pure delight that most people would surely want to share with a loved one. But I was all alone, backpacking solo in south-east Asia – and I couldn’t be happier.
I breathed a deep sigh of contentment and watched the rosy sky turn golden.
This solo adventure two years ago wasn’t during a gap year after school or university. Neither was it a post-divorce journey of self-discovery a la Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. I was 52 and a happily married mother of four, yet here I was, in the middle of a month spent travelling by myself across Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand.
Since then I have visited Krakow, in Poland, and toured Auschwitz alone, and most recently spent a month solo in Guatemala, Mexico and Colombia.
When it comes to holidays, I firmly believe that hell is other people. With the summer in full swing, you may shortly be heading off to sandy beaches, azure pools and bottomless cocktails – and I hope you have a wonderful time, but the truth is, you may well not. The reality rarely lives up to the fantasy – not if you have children anyway.
