I don’t care how you found true self, toes on the edge of the cliffs of Moher!
I’ve recently developed a liking for travel writing. Makes sense though, I really want to travel (who knew?!).
How can travel be tied into my every waking minute? I talk about it, I do it when I can, heck why not read about it too!
My first piece of travel writing I read, the concept was pretty cool, an 80 year old South African woman decided to take a road trip from Cape Town to Cairo. Pretty inspired story I thought. The writing itself left something to be desired, for myself, personally. But that’s to no ones fault, it was written by an elderly woman who’s job it was not to write, I think she was more concerned with remembering the details than taking us on a whirlwind adventure. the story was successfully written – she got her point across.
The pictures of her are fantastic, her style is pretty cool and her old Toyota that drove her from opposite ends of Africa was pimped out exactly how I’d expect an eccentric old lady to do it. I was not disappointed and I was inspired. No time limit or age limit on travelling! Win!
My next travel reading is one of Lonely Planets collection of travel essays from excellent writers all over the world. Sharing snippets of their travels they felt had profound meaning to them. Excellent! I thought, 32 essays of around the world. Tasty little nuggets of inspiration, feeding my day dreams and my thirst for global exploration. It’s the best I’ve got in this pandemic ridden world.
Of course, the writing is fantastic. I’m right there with them man. The details, the descriptions. No page of the Thesaurus left unturned! It’s like I’m in Bolivia getting altitude sickness with them.
I’m about 10 essays deep by this point. And yesterday I found myself expressing my LACK of inspiration from reading these essays to my Mum.
“They’re all about the UK!” I sulked.
“Scotland, London, England, Ireland” I pleaded.
“Who cares about them! I want to read about exciting places” I said, sat on the floor of my Grandma’s living room, looking up at my Mum, as Beau the cat lounged in front of me, eyes of disdain in my direction.
I know the grass is greener on the other side. I am uninterested in my own country because I grew up here. The UK to me is boring. Sure, I appreciate the good bits and there is plenty of beautiful and adventure to be seen and had but when you’ve been here forever. Who cares to read about it.
I want wild tribes, never been seen before mountain tops, unique cultures, crazy customs, strange food, and all the life lessons that come with those experiences.
The stories I did like (any that weren’t in the UK) were perfect. But with them being essays, they were perfectly… short. I’m knee deep in curiosity, page turn, page turn, page turn… Oh man! It’s finished!
My Mum said it was just like my blog. Tiny pieces of writing. Planting the seed of an idea, not giving you the full plant to look after! Here is the beginnings of an idea, run with them and mull them over, then take them on board or disregard. Your choice.
Then I came to the realisation, I will continue to read travel writing. But I’ve been given a different inspiration I didn’t expect to have from it.
The inspiration to write my own.