A recent conversation with a work colleague prompted the question ‘but why don’t you want to travel?’ His response ‘but why do you want to?’
Those who travel can never understand why those who don’t wouldn’t want to, while those who don’t can never understand why those who do, do.
I had trouble formulating an answer for him. Why do I love to travel, why do I want to keep doing it and why am I constantly on the lookout for ways to escape my everyday life and travel the world?
I blame my father actually. While researching my family history I was discussing his teenage years with him and he was recounting his decision to join the army, it was 1945, he was 18 and WWII had ended but National Service had just been implemented. Dad was an apprentice boilermaker on the steelworks and, as it had been a reserved occupation during the war, he had the opportunity of deferring his National Service for three years. No way, he saw his chance to go overseas and, in his words, have a bit of an adventure.
Twenty years later and with a family in tow he then figured that there were better places to bring up a family than the industrial north of England with its smog and snow (I love England by the way and am one of those people who actually like the snow) and transported us to the sunny climes of Western Australia. We never looked back, although we’ve travelled back – innumerable times.
During my teenage years dad bought a tent, fishing gear and a small boat and he introduced us to the joys of travelling the state, camping and fishing. I could bait a hook with the best of them and I still love to visit those areas that we explored as a family.
When us kids were off their hands my parents travelled, well into their retirement, around Australia, the UK and Europe, Indonesia and Malaysia. Mum was not a ‘boat’ person and would get terribly seasick so the first trip dad took as a solo traveler after she passed away a few years ago was a cruise and, although he’s slowed down a bit now, at the age of 85 he travelled to Melbourne with me recently.
So, it’s in my genes.
What’s your excuse?