I have never been an adventurous soul. As an infant in Belfast, I would lie motionless for hours on the kitchen table of our family home, devoid of any curiosity to wander. On one occasion an anxious neighbour, having spied my immobile pose through a window, knocked on the front door to express her concern. ‘Don’t worry. He’s often like that. He won’t be moving anywhere,’ replied my mother.
I have carried that inertia into adulthood, reflected in my profound dislike of travel. There is not a shred of wanderlust within me. I never fantasise about visiting distant lands, never leaf longingly through the travel supplements. Most people yearn to explore the world they inhabit, but I could not care less if I never see a new place again. I would prefer a wet weekend in Bridlington to a fortnight in Barcelona.
I recognise that my outlook is entirely against the spirit of our age. We live in a society obsessed with travel, where people now collect exotic experiences as enthusiastically as possessions. Millennials, in particular, seem to believe that relentless journeying is not only essential to personal wellbeing but also a badge of moral virtue. In an age of globalisation, tourism has become one of the biggest industries in the world, made all the more lucrative by cheap flights and the internet. It is estimated that one in 11 jobs is in this sector, while more than a billion foreign trips are thought to be made every year.
Well, count me out of this worship of globetrotting. If travel is the new religion, then I am a heretic. I have no bucket list, no must-see destination. My passport is almost pristine. The other evening at a dinner with some friends, one of them told me about the house she and her husband had built in Sri Lanka.
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