The road less travelled

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.