I love to travel. No matter if it is near or far. It’s about knowing what is beyond the horizon; where a road leads to; what that place on the map with the peculiar name is like. Curiosity. It drives me, is instilled in me, in my genes. As a child, I recall urging grown-ups to test me on world capitals just for fun. I’d pore over an atlas for hours. I’d make up geography quizzes for an evening of family entertainment. I’d always want to take a different way home. The same route was far too boring. ‘Let’s take this direction for a change’ became a familiar mantra of mine.
I had a grandfather who never got to travel. He had to make do with armchair travelling due to circumstance. But he had the itch too, I could tell. I learnt from him. He introduced me to his tattered old copies of the Pears Cyclopaedia and explained the world and its wonders to me, the ever-inquisitive child. He learnt French and Greek without ever setting foot in those countries. I got to live in both. He had to travel vicariously, while I always vowed to make it out there one day from my small-town world in Wales.