I may be 76, but slowing down, or retirement, couldn’t be further from my mind. True, I don’t have a hefty pension or a partner to while away the rest of my days with, but my love of travelling is as passionate as it has always been.
I love scaring myself stupid trying new experiences, and if a friend or daughter is unavailable I’ll go alone. Solo travel is far better than sitting at home looking back instead of forward.
So, when I was offered the chance to try a naturist holiday in southern Crete in July, rather than, “OMG, naked in front of strangers!”, my first thought was, “No hold luggage!” The idea of baring all at a resort full of people I didn’t know seemed exciting rather than terrifying.
I hitched a lift to Vritomartis naturist resort from my accommodation in the village nearby. It was only when I bumped into a smiling, naked, rather portly male guest in flip-flops and a baseball hat outside reception that I realised exactly what I had signed up for. I was the only woman on her own among 180 couples. It felt surprisingly liberating, and I left feeling proud of every part of my ageing body for the first time in years.
Travel has always been in my blood. As a child, growing up in Basingstoke, Hampshire, with a garden overlooking the A30, I was enchanted by the huge, thundering Scania lorries with beds curtained off in the back, and dreamed of life as a long-distance driver. An escape to Cornwall on a boyfriend’s Vespa at 17 lit a flame inside me that burns to this day. After my husband died 25 years ago, and a relationship breakup years later, I still kept my passion for travel – and I refuse to let it diminish as I get older.
At a friend’s invitation, when I was 62 I went on my first trip to India, zooming around Delhi in a tuk-tuk. Then it was on to Nepal to stay in a monastery in Kathmandu and Pokhara to watch the sun rise over Annapurna.
In 2020, at 70, tired of London after 10 years – and with no partner, pet or grandchild at that time, and in the midst of Covid – I needed a new challenge. So I sold my flat and moved to Seville. For three years I lived alone in a rented, furnished flat, learning to live like a local and navigate a city I had fallen in love with.
During that time I devoured Spain: I went on a yoga holiday in Galicia, a detox vegan retreat in Formentera, discovered Málaga was more arts and museums than gold chains and bare chests, and wept at the beauty of the paintings of Sorolla at his house in Madrid. I took regular day trips by train to Cádiz to laze on a lounger at a beach bar, eat fried fish for lunch and drink small beers at €1.50 a pop.
Now I’m back in the UK, in Brighton, but I worry more about standing still, of missed opportunities and of not evolving – and the travel bug remains strong.
One thing I have noticed, looking back through my diaries and notebooks, is how packing lists have changed as I’ve got older. Holidays with my husband and three kids by car to the West Country in our seven-seater Volvo listed travel cot, beach toys, beach tent and indispensable kitchen paraphernalia. For fashion sales trips to Paris I drew stick figures on Post-it notes of successful outfits (successful in those days meaning pulling-power). Trekking in the Jebel Sahro in Morocco was head torch, Shewee – and did I really only use Factor 15? These days it’s five different heart drugs, Pepto-Bismol, big earrings, Bluetooth headphones, hearing aid batteries and compression socks.
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I never take my age into consideration when planning a trip. In fact, if anything the awareness of my mortality has only served to heighten my desire to get out and push myself further out of my comfort zone (though with a history of a heart attack and breast cancer, travel insurance at my age is costly).
It’s only in the way that others respond that I realise they see an old lady. When a guy of 50-plus offers to help me put my case into the overhead locker, “because my own mum used to struggle”. When I stand on the aircraft steps waiting for the bus to take me to the terminal and the cabin staff ask if I requested assistance. I fancied a horse riding holiday with my 40-year-old son, but the company I approached reminded me that, yes, I could have a very nasty fall indeed “at my age”. So many friends say I’m so brave to continue to travel, to try new experiences, but meeting new people in new places is what keeps me alive, what keeps my brain engaged far better than crosswords or Wordle.
I’ve had wonderful solo holidays recently, too, doing stuff I’ve never done before. In December, I went on my first cruise. The packing list for this luxury extravaganza in the Caribbean was also a first, including advice on dressing for supper: “ladies should wear cocktail or dinner attire”. Neither of which I owned, both of which I borrowed. Being one of the few solo female travellers on board, I got the usual comments when sitting down to eat: “Just for one?”, “Are you waiting for someone?”, “Will someone be joining you?”. And, yes, I would have perhaps relaxed more and had more fun if I’d been with my daughter or a friend. Perhaps I would have stayed up later and gone to the bars or clubs and even danced and I would have had more than one glass of whatever, because I don’t think a tipsy woman on her own is a good look at any age.
One thing I never feel as an older female traveller, though, is invisible or anonymous. A friend said recently that it’s a relief not to be approached by guys, not to be chatted-up any more. Admittedly, I no longer get on a plane or train hoping I will be seated next to a future partner – I just hope they don’t snore or smell weird – but the idea of a romantic encounter is not completely edited out of my future plans either.
My travel considerations as an older woman have many similarities with women of any age. Many women I know feel more awkward eating alone in a restaurant or bar in the evening than at lunchtime. I find a notebook and pen help me settle far easier than constantly scrolling on a phone.
Having lived in big cities means I am rarely frightened walking around after dark and it has taught me survival rules, such as putting my phone away in the street. Google apps make travel much easier as well these days. Translate is a godsend when you’re at Crete airport at midnight and trying to explain to the taxi driver that you want to go right across the island, please. And Google Maps was a tremendous help when I was navigating a transfer in mainland Greece from Volos bus station in Pelion to Thessaloniki airport – and feeling very much like a solo Race Across the World contestant.
So, the clock is ticking and the grey autumn skies have arrived in Brighton – where shall I go next? This winter maybe I should spend a month at that Bone and Body Clinic in Goa that a friend suggested may sort out the osteoarthritis in my knees and hips? Or what about Taiwan? Never been to south-east Asia, heard it’s delicious. But one thing you will never get me doing is wild swimming in cold water: I’ll leave that to folk far braver than me.
Elaine Kingett is a writer and journalist who runs writing retreats in Spain
