Travel Biography - Week 73.

Travel Success and Failure.

The 1995 backpacking trip across the USA was indeed a life-changing experience! Not only were new adventures sought, but it has proven to be therapeutic. Although Travel does have a lasting positive effect on someone like me who was in his forties and still single, after watching his friends and even schoolmates marry and raise a family, Travel itself has its downsides. As I see it, Travel is not a tanning factory at the Spanish Costa but a combined adventure consisting of a learning experience, a mind-opener, and a physical benefit. For example, some belly fat was dumped during the hike at the Grand Canyon National Park.

The trail approaches Swanage. Stock photo.

By checking the online dictionary, Travel is defined as going from one place to another, particularly over a long distance. But how the distance was covered determined success or failure, along with whether the journey was finished or not. Both the 1978 and the 1995 Grand Canyon hikes were deemed a success. True enough, during the ascent of the 1995 hike, I went down with hyponatremia - the diluting of the blood salt content by drinking excess water without the corresponding intake of salt or electrolytes. The result was severe leg cramps which literally immobilised me. Fortunately, two passing hikers offered to carry my rucksack a little way up to the mile-and-a-half rest station where I spent the rest of the night. Yet the whole hike was a success. All 23 miles of it.

The success was based on walking the entire distance from start to finish. Even over the short distance uphill where my luggage was carried by someone else, I still walked, pushing myself up the switchback despite the severe pain. There was no locomotive assistance, whether riding on a mule or motor vehicle.

However, if the reader gets the impression that everything I touch turns to gold where Travel is concerned, that's far from the case. If anything, I believe that failure plays a role in character-building as well as experience. I'm sure that nobody wants to admit to failure. And I confess my feeling of embarrassment if I had to admit failure. But in this Biography, admitting failure makes the narrative honest and complete. If I admit failure, then any success will look more genuine. It also shows that I, too, am fully human. 

After arriving home from San Francisco, the following Christmas season (that is, Christmas 1995), I felt empty and despondent. I was reflecting on Christmas 1994. Two days after Boxing Day of that year, I took a train into London to book a flight to New York for September 5th, 1995, exactly a year to the day after landing at London Gatwick Airport from the disastrous trip to Israel in the previous year. This time, during the Yule season of 1995, I spent a day in London, but my spirits were low as I stayed away from Kensington High Street where I made the initial booking.

But the idea of travelling to Australia stayed with me ever since meeting that Aussie in San Diego. And he wasn't even the first one. Back in the late eighties, I knew an Aussie who took up temporary membership of the triathlon club of which I too was a member. These two, one a sleek athlete, the other a bearded bricklayer, both had an impact. But it was the builder who shared my hostel bedroom in the subtropics of the southern Californian city who turned a dream into a possible reality.

Into 1996. Winter turned to Spring and once again I visited Trailfinders in Kensington. But that was to collect its magazine, free for the taking, after browsing through one of them. This particular issue had the main feature - various Round-the-World independent trips as a result of a deal signed between British Airways and Qantas, the Australian Airline. I was amazed! The timing of the publication couldn't have been more appropriate.

The magazine featured several RTW offers, including via South Africa, Oceania, New Zealand, and the simplest and least expensive - from London to Singapore, to Cairns in Queensland, from Sydney to Los Angeles, then back home from Los Angeles. The only surface travel resembling the USA was between Cairns and Sydney. And like America, Australia has its own Greyhound Bus that allows several forms of passes, each according to the area covered, its duration of validity, and expense. I could have bought the all-Australian pass for quite an expensive tariff. Or I could buy a restricted Indo-Pacific route pass for a cheaper price, but I would be restricted to the East Coast. Yet, that would be okay for me.

For one who was a freelance window cleaner with no trade qualifications or a university degree, I saw such RTW travel as a wonderful, even a daring privilege. But I also knew that I wasn't able to take off until well into 1997, the following year. Until then, I need to work hard and save up. I have always been the one to avoid credit card purchases. I made sure that the holiday was already paid for before take-off and not to return home to a stack of credit card bills lying on the floor. However, that leaves 1996 with nothing. This was when a short UK break would be ideal. 

The Dorset Coast near Lulworth Cove. Stock photo.

Fresh from hiking the Grand Canyon, I wanted to challenge myself to a Bournemouth-to-Exeter hike on the Southwest Coast Path, a trail that begins at Studland Bay in Dorset and ends at Minehead, Somerset. The section I had in mind was only a short stretch of the 630-mile trail, but altogether, the week-long hike would be well over a hundred miles along the Dorset and Devon coastline. With its proper start at Shell Bay Beach near the ferry port, this length of the trail is the only section that is unbroken until arriving at Exmouth, where a ferry operates across the River Exe Estuary from Exmouth to Starcross, on the way to Dawlish. After Dawlish, there are several other estuary and river mouth breaks, including the River Teign, River Dart, Salcombe Harbour, River Avon, and others. 

August 1996 arrived. One Saturday, I boarded a train to London and made my way to South Kensington. After ensuring that my passport carried a valid Australian visa, I paid the deposit for a British Airways flight to Singapore, Qantas Airlines to Australia and Los Angeles, and British Airways back to London, with take-off for Singapore from London Heathrow on Wednesday, May 21st, 1997.

As I sat on the train on my way home from London carrying a bag containing the deposit receipt and reservation documents, even then I couldn't believe what I had done! Am I really going to set foot Down Under?

The Southwest Coast Hike Begins.

A couple of days later, I vacated my apartment to board a train to Bournemouth via Reading. After I arrived at the Dorset seaside resort, I started the hike straightaway. My first overnight stop would be YHA Swanage, then YHA Lulworth Cove, a hotel in Weymouth, then YHA Litton Cheney, a hotel in Lyme Regis, YHA Beer, and YHA Topsham (now closed down). At Exeter, I stopped for a few hours in the city before boarding the train at Exeter St David Station for the journey home.

At first, all was well. I hiked to Swanage Hostel from Bournemouth Station for the first night. Then I trekked the strenuous hilly trail from Swanage to Lulworth Cove. Despite the draining of energy, at that point, I was feeling fine. On the third day, as I began the next leg to Weymouth, I began to feel unwell. I recognised the symptoms. It was the flu. I began to sweat as my temperature rose. I finally made it to the hotel. However, despite how feverish I felt, I spent the evening checking out the town and harbour.

And here lies the great advantage of the former "off-the-street" hotel and hostel walk-ins over advanced bookings. I could have spent a day in a hotel bed and paid for an extra night. Then, after recovering to a safe level, I continued with the hike and arrived at the next overnight stop a day, or maybe two days later than I originally planned. And all the following consecutive stops would have been one or two days later than planned. Yet, I would see the whole hike as a success. That would have been the way I travelled ten years earlier, with all accommodation approached at the front door without prior booking. An extra night or two spent ill in bed would have contributed to the adventure. But not any more.

By the mid-nineties, advanced hostel and hotel bookings were becoming a necessity for ensuring a bed was waiting at the other end, especially while I was on a long hike. Whether in the hostelling world, doing away with the morning duty actually brought a rise in client numbers, may be debatable, nevertheless, gone were the days when one approached the hostel that was closed during the day, filled in a card, and posted it through the front door. And a bed for the coming night was guaranteed. A similar system with bed-and-breakfast hotels. All I needed to do was look for the Vacancies displayed outside the door and avoid those with a No Vacancies sign. Whether it was after a delay brought on by searching around, or success first try, I always found a bed.

Feeling unwell, I made my way to my room and retired to bed. The next morning, I was still feeling unwell and with a temperature. I had it in mind to get up, have breakfast and carry on with the hike. But instead, I paid for another night at the hotel. That means a no-show at Litton Cheney despite having already booked.

For me to arrive at the next stop, Lyme Regis, I had no other option but to board a bus to arrive at the resort in time for the booked hotel. The bus ride had replaced the Weymouth-Litton-Lyme Regis legs of the hike. Hence, I saw the whole hike as a failure, a shame that hung over my head for years to come. Although some readers may think that I had made the right choice, if I could turn back the clock, I would have told myself to pull together, vacate the room and carry on with the hike. To this day, I still wish that I had made that decision.

End of the hike. Exeter, taken in 2023.

As a friend kept saying, You must be getting soft in your old age! Maybe there is some truth in that statement, even if spoken tongue-in-cheek. As I got older, the desire for some assurance of bed security was becoming more of a need. Around three years ago, when we found ourselves stuck in London late at night after Alex needed treatment for a mild back injury, we asked a hospital receptionist whether there was a hotel in the vicinity. He told me that no hotel would take us "off the street". A pre-booking was mandatory. Having no smartphone on me, it was left for the receptionist to make the booking for us at a Traveller's Lodge a short taxi ride away.

From Lyme Regis, I resumed the hike towards Exeter. Despite my efforts, it didn't feel the same. The hike was already a failure but I kept going anyway. The next stop was at Beer, then towards Exmouth, and then I swung north before arriving at the River Exe Estuary. At Topsham, I spent the last night at Exeter Youth Hostel before the final leg into the city the next day.

This could have been a fascinating hike if I hadn't fallen ill and made the wrong decision at Weymouth. As I boarded the Great Western train to return home, well, that's life.

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Next Week, I prepare for the biggie, the RTW backpacking trip.