“An elephant in ‘must’ is after only one thing – A woman.” Thabie, our game ranger pulls up under a Tamboti tree and jumps down from the landcruiser. “See here, these droplets – urine. When an ellie’s in ‘must’ he urinates constantly.” We peer down and cringe as he fingers the elephant tracks in the damp red earth.

“How old are they?” Someone asks and the air is drawn tight with expectation.

“Probably last night’s.” Thabie says as an eager, collective sigh expands into the 75,000 hectares of South Africa’s largest game reserve, Madikwe, in the North West Province on the border of Botswana, 360kms from Johannesburg.

“When an ellie moves quickly you can see the front pad here,” Thabie points, “closely followed by the other, behind here.” He looks up, brushes the dirt from his hands. “When he walks slowly, the back and front pads are on top of each other. This ellie,” Thabie’s aware of the suspense he’s creating, “He was moving fast.”

Nine of us pull khaki- coloured ponchos tighter around our shoulders and hug hot water bottles to our knees. Madikwe has South Africa’s second largest population of elephants, and having heard tales of the damage a rogue bull might inflict, we are bristling with anticipation on this chilly winter morning.

Madikwe might be conservation-minded and malaria-free, but it’s home to the Big 5, and we’re ticking them off rapidly. Leopard by spotlight last night, an angry herd of buffalo this morning, rhino, elephant, and ... there’s a sudden rustle along with a strong, rancid smell emanating from the Black Thorn. “Lion,” hisses Thabie as he gently eases the land cruiser into first gear, just in case. As if on cue a male lion saunters majestically into view, and then a female, to confirm my suspicion that Madikwe really is a modern day Noah’s Ark.

But it hasn’t always been like this. “Not long ago Madikwe was an economically depressed area with nothing but unproductive farmland and alien plants. Back in 1991 a government sponsored programme, called Operation Phoenix, was initiated to re-stock the area with wildlife species that had once occurred here,” Thabie tells us.

He goes on to say that by 1997 more than 8,000 animals had been introduced into Madikwe in, what was then, the largest game translocation exercise in the world . Today, approximately 12,000 animals live in the Reserve including 66 large mammal species, and over 300 recorded bird species.

After an afternoon game drive, it’s almost dark when we begin our return journey back to the lodge. Thabie swings the spotlight from side to side as the land cruiser jolts through the bush. We see an African kangaroo (a bush hare, which looks like a cross between a rodent and hare) and a jackal which slinks across the road. Sometimes the honey-sweet aroma of the Black Thorn wafts our way, while the gentle ‘coo-coo’ of a dove hangs in the night air like a lullaby. I am dangerously lulled.

Suddenly there’s a roar so loud it makes my ear-drums rattle. Thabie spins the spotlight faster from side to side and pulls up abruptly. “There,” he says in a stage whisper, and there’s a collective gasp as we see, not 50 metres away, a pride of 7 lions devouring what we think is a wildebeest that isn’t quite dead. The noises the lions make as they feed are spine chilling, deep rumbles and angry outbursts, as mesmerising as they are scary. The dominant male lion with his shaggy mane stands firm and proud above all the others, the cubs foraging where they can, and soon the wildebeest lies quiet with one spindly leg and a small black hoof raised in the air like a flag, the sign of ultimate submission.

We feel humbled by nature as we finally peel away into the night, all silent now and late for our own supper but not in the least bit hungry. The night is pitch black as coal, there is no light pollution except for a myriad of stars twinkling in a canopy that someone remarks is, “of celestial extravagance”.

Like a shining star, Madikwe has earned a reputation as one of South Africa’s premier safari destinations. It has a lot going for it and being malaria free is a big draw card, so too are the resident packs of endangered wild dogs, translocated to Madikwe in 1994. The reserve is considered to be one of the best places in the world to spot these impressive, carnivorous, hunting machines which are slightly larger than Australian dingos.

Being a top safari destination is possibly aided by the fact that self-drive visitors are not allowed in the park, which means that apart from traffic heading to and from the various lodges in the reserve, you will only see 4 x 4’s, driven by experienced rangers. In this respect it’s unusual, and unlike other large reserves such as The Kruger in South Africa or Etosha in Namibia.

It’s also of note because it’s one of the few game reserves in the world to be declared as such on the grounds of a feasibility study which showed that wildlife-based tourism was the most appropriate, land use for the area.

Madikwe is an area with a history that dates back to the Stone Age, although these days it’s main notoriety is as a modern-day conservation success story. Not only because farmland has been rehabilitated to a natural environment but also due to the innovative partnership status between the North West Parks Board (The State), the private sector and local communities. The management of Madikwe aims to benefit all three entities and has an underlying philosophy that if wildlife conservation is to succeed in South Africa then local communities must also benefit . In this respect it seems that Madikwe is not just a tourist draw card, it’s like an economic generator for the surrounding region.

Within the park there’s a wide choice of accommodation; various lodges ranging from 5 star eco-experiences some with wellness centres and spas, to family safari lodges with swimming pools, and basic bush cabins without electricity.

One of the luxury lodges, Madikwe River Lodge, in the heart of the Reserve is set amongst acacia bushveld and has 16 thatched chalets set in a riverine forest with private viewing decks overlooking the river. I’m overwhelmed by the welcome; our car is whisked away, baggage mysteriously disappears and reappears in our chalet overlooking the Marico River. As I’m wiping my face with a citronella scented, ice cold flannel a fresh lemonade is thrust into my hand. “Welcome to Madikwe River Lodge,” the receptionist says with a smile the size of Africa itself.

A hippo is wallowing and watching us as we walk to our room and along the way we spot a crimson breasted shrike, tiny blue waxbills and red and yellow hornbills.

Some time later there’s afternoon tea ( fit for a queen), an afternoon game drive, followed by dinner in the Boma where a huge central fire warms us. African song resonates as we tackle a varied buffet dinner including traditional African favourites such as mealie-pap with tomato sauce.

“To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world,” wrote Freya Starke, but I’d like to tweak that to, “To awaken to the sounds of the African bush in a strange thatched cabin is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” It’s 6am, the air seems to be singing. Riotous birdcalls – doves, babblers, louries, waxbills and hornbills – completely fill the airwaves. Again, I’m expectant. What will we see this morning?

With perfect timing a huge iguana scuttles past as I open the door, and a male bushbuck tentatively picks his way down the bank on the other side of the river to drink. The silvery, milky cream of the Black Thorn trees, from a distance, mimics frost, and accentuates the icy cold of this August morning. After coffee, we are again wrapped up warm, hugging hot water bottles, talking in stage whispers and chugging out with Thabie into the sunrise.

The plains of Madikwe and the faraway hills leading into Botswana stretch down before us as Thabie sets up a small trestle table and produces muffins and biltong. I’m eating dried mango and drinking honey-rooibos tea (the tea favoured by Precious Ramotswe in Alexander McCall Smith’s Ladies Detective Agency series) as the heaviest of all flying birds, a Kori Bustard swoops overhead.

At lunchtime we’re entertained by the antics of about 20 Banded Mongeese, doing acrobatic stunts to access our brunch on the table. We hear the “Gwao-Gwao” of the “Go-Away” birds (Grey Louries) who appear to be voicing their disapproval. Now I’m immersed in ‘Africa time’, and enjoying every moment, though the beat of the adrenalin charged, “What’s next?” is never far away.

But it’s dangerous to live with expectation, so I chose to embark on the final game drive of the trip with an air of content, and I wasn’t disappointed by the lack of sightings. Nonetheless, the quantum enjoyment of being driven around Madikwe Game Reserve in an open truck, by a knowledgeable game ranger as the sun sets on a dusty African horizon is hard to beat at the best of times.

Quick Facts

Madikwe is a malaria free reserve

Situated in South Africa’s north west province, Madikwe’s vegetation ranges from woodlands and grasslands to large open plains with steep cliffs on the Rant van Tweedepoort, to the riverine habitat of the perennial Marico River. It’s bordered in the south by the Dwarsberg Mountains while a short drive to the north west is Gaborone, the capital of Botswana.

No self-drive, no day visitors, only guests staying at the lodges can enter then park as there are no facilities for independent day trips. Game drives are conducted by qualified guides from the lodges.

One of South Africa’s largest game reserves - 75,000 hectares.

Game includes the Big 5, endangered wild dog, Aardvark and caracal.

Approx 66 large mammal species, 300 resident and migrant bird species

What to take

Walking shoes, camera, binoculars, sunblock, insect repellent, hat, warm clothes in winter, sunglasses.

Would you prefer a quieter reserve such as Madikwe, or the excitement of a larger and better-known safari park?

If you enjoyed travelling to Madikwe with me, please tap the heart below. It helps more readers discover my stories.

Until next time,

Jo x

I remember thinking, quite seriously, that the interesting part of my life was probably over. I’d had my adventures. Travelled the globe. Created about 20 different homes. Brought up two children. And worked for various magazines and newspapers around the world. Now it looked like it was all going to be cardigans and crosswords (which I’m not very good at.)

Then, somewhere around fifty, a little bit wrinkled, feeling a bit invisible, and not really looking for a new career, I started a blog. And the joke’s on me, because that accidental decision turned out to be the beginning, not the epilogue.

And I stepped through a new door.

Nobody tells you menopause comes with a side hustle

Let’s be honest about the timing. Perimenopause had already quietly dismantled my confidence before I’d even worked out what was happening to me. Night sweats, mild depresson, and an insidious brain fog that made me forget words I’d used my whole life, gave me a general sense that I was somehow fading from view. Society has a way of putting older women out to pasture right around the exact moment we could use a bit of reinvention.

So at the age of 52 blogging, something I knew exactly 0% about, became my reinvention. Here was a space where nobody cared about who I once was. They cared whether I could write a good sentence, find a decent hotel, map out a good itinerary, or style an outfit that didn’t scream “I have given up.” They cared if I wanted to discuss hot flushes and the best leak-free underwear. They cared enough to be part of a community all going through roughly the same stage of life.

Blogging gave me something I hadn’t expected: a reason to look forward instead of backward. Thirty-odd years stretched out ahead of me, and instead of that being terrifying, it started to feel like an open runway.

The golden years, and I do mean golden

If you blogged in Australia in the 2010s, you’ll know exactly what I mean when I say it was a genuinely golden era. There was money in it, sure, though many of us hadn’t yet found out how to monetise - but more more than that there was a community. A proper one, not the algorithm-fed simulation we get now.

Darren Rowse’s ProBlogger events on the Gold Coast were the highlight of the calendar; hundreds of us descending on the same resort once a year, finally meeting in real life the women we’d been reading and commenting on for months. I remember standing at those events thinking: these are my people. Nikki Parkinson was out there proving a fashion blog could be a proper business. Chantelle Ellem’s Fat Mum Slim had the whole country taking a photo a day. Nicole Avery had built an empire out of being brilliantly organised. Caz and Craig Makepeace were rocking travel blogging with YTravel Blog. It felt like anything was possible if you just kept showing up and hitting publish.

I went home from those conferences buzzing, notebook full, business cards spilling out of every pocket, convinced I’d cracked some kind of code. For a woman who thought her most useful years were behind her, that buzz was intoxicating.

The imposter in the room

And yet, somewhere underneath the notebook and the buzz, there was the voice. You know the one. Who do you think you are? I was fifty-something, self-taught, learning SEO and Photoshop and Instagram grids from scratch while women half my age breezed through it as though they’d been born holding a ring light. I’d sit in sessions on “growing your brand” and think, quite genuinely, that someone was going to tap me on the shoulder and ask me to leave.

The odd thing about imposter syndrome is that it doesn’t seem to care about actual results. I was creating a community, receiving great comments, getting bylines, collaborating with major brands, acquiring brand deals, being invited to model for campaigns I’d never have dreamed of at twenty-five, and I still spent an unreasonable amount of time convinced I was one bad blog post away from being found out. I suspect most of the women at those conferences felt exactly the same and were all far too polite to say so out loud over the canapés.

What it gave me

Here’s what nobody tells you about starting again in your fifties: It’s better the second time. I knew who I was by then. I wasn’t chasing anyone else’s idea of success, I was just delighted to have found some new success of my own, that also helped other women in a positive way.

Travel writing gave me an excuse to keep exploring the world instead of settling into the smaller life I’d assumed was coming. Modelling, at an age when I’d been told my currency had expired, felt like an act of defiance. And the writing - the writing gave me back my voice, at exactly the point I’d started to feel like I was losing it.

I still get the imposter feeling. I still occasionally feel like a fraud in an arena full of twenty-somethings who can edit a reel faster than I can find my glasses. But I no longer believe the best years are behind me. Turns out they were just waiting for me to stop assuming that, and start a blog instead.

Onwards in defiance!

Out Out Damn Age Spot!

Here’s to being a Granfluencer. (You can read more on my blog Lifestyle Fifty)

Over to you … have you started a second act?

Until next time,

Jo x

The brochure, metaphorically speaking (and not always correct) shows you sipping something cold perhaps on a veranda with a spectacular view, or somewhere balmy just living your best sun-drenched, passport-stamped, horizon-chasing life.

What it doesn’t show is life behind the scenes, nor does it mention towards the end of every visit ‘home’ visiting family and old friends (approximately 48 hours before your flight back to the other side of the world) you will transform into a weeping, pre-emptively grief-stricken mess who has already started mourning the goodbye before you’ve even packed your case.

It’s a special kind of madness. And it gets worse with age.

When I first left England at 19 with a backpack, guitar, and absolutely zero life plan, I was heading off to Belgium to muck out show jumping horses for a living and I didn’t intend to go ‘home’ to live again. Saying goodbye was borderline easy. Thrilling, even. I practically skipped onto the ferry at Dover leaving the suffocating intimacies of a troubled childhood behind.

I watched the White Cliffs of Dover recede.

The wide world was calling my name.

I had no idea what I was starting.

Fast forward through my life hitched to an itinerant geologist who’s career has flung us to live in some interesting places. When children appeared on the scene, there was a dawning realisation that “settling down” was simply not going to be our brand.

What began as youthful wanderlust quietly became just ... work and life. A nomadic, exhilarating, often tricky, occasionally terrifying life - but our life nonetheless.

The trouble is, somewhere along the way, selfishness loses its shine. You stop being the carefree 19-year-old waving cheerfully from the ferry and start being the person on the plane home thinking: What if this is the last time?

Dark? Yes. Dramatic? Absolutely. But any expat or immigrant reading this is nodding vigorously right now.

And once children enter the picture, everything shifts up a gear emotionally.

For us, both sets of grandparents were scattered across two continents, on literal opposite sides of the world, which made impromptu babysitting somewhat logistically challenging. There was no popping round to Grandma’s when you needed a night off, and no wise parental voice at the end of the phone when things got hard. Back then we often had no phone in the remote places we lived. So we figured most of it out ourselves, which was, depending on the trauma, either character-building, completely exhausting or downright desperate.

The saving grace then was the expat community itself. You find your people: fellow wanderers in the same boat, building makeshift villages out of shared circumstances and mutual survival instincts. Brilliant friendships form fast when everyone around you is also slightly lost. But as wonderful as those friends were, they weren’t family. And at the end of the day, when the front door closed and the house went quiet, you knew it.

And you wanted to go home. Really home. Roots home.

The Goodbye That Hits Different

Here’s the linguistic quirk nobody talks about: Farewell is a perfectly lovely word. It implies until we meet again, a gentle pause, a door left ajar. But Goodbye? Goodbye has the emotional weight of a closing chapter. It thuds.

And for expats (and immgrants) who often genuinely don’t know when they’ll be back - whether the budget will stretch, whether life will cooperate - it can feel almost impossibly heavy.

The practical reality is that your family back home might not be able to hop on a 24-hour flight to visit you, especially as everyone gets older and long-haul travel starts feeling less like an adventure and more like a mild form of punishment. Your parents want to see you desperately, but they also want access to a decent hospital and a bed they can get out of without assistance.

So the visits become precious. And the goodbyes become enormous.

The Guilt Spiral (And How to Escape It)

Here’s where we tend to get ourselves into trouble: the guilt. Oh, the guilt. The circular, 3am, am I a terrible person kind of guilt that goes something like this:-

I love my life here. But I miss my family. But I chose this. But I didn’t know it would feel like this. But they want me to be happy. But am I being selfish? But …

Stop. Breathe. Here’s the thing about guilt: It’s only useful if it leads to action. Otherwise it’s just suffering for sport.

Five things that actually help

Schedule the next visit before you’ve even left.

Nothing dissolves the black hole of goodbye quite like having a concrete date to point at. Don’t leave it as a vague “we’ll figure it out” - book something, even tentatively. It gives everyone something to hold onto.

Shift from “goodbye” to “see you in March.”

It sounds small but it genuinely rewires the moment. You’re not closing a door; you’re just going home via a very long route.

Invest in the in-between.

Video calls, voice messages, shared photo albums, the occasional handwritten letter with a photo or two (revolutionary, apparently). You cannot replace presence, but you can close the distance a little. Make contact a habit, not just a crisis response.

Let yourself feel it

But put a time limit on the spiral. Grieve the goodbye for a day or two, then consciously redirect. You have a life to be getting on with, and it’s a good one.

Reframe the narrative.

You’re not abandoning your people. You’re showing them, and any children watching, that it’s possible to build a big, brave, interesting life. That’s not selfish. That’s a gift.

The View From Both Ends

The thing nobody fully prepares you for is that the Goodbye Problem works in both directions. Eventually your own children grow up, spread their wings, and may head off to careers and adventures in far-flung places. Suddenly you understand, with absolute crystalline clarity, exactly how your parents felt every single time you left.

It’s the circle of life, and it is humbling.

But here’s what remains true, whether you’re the one on the plane or the one waving from the kerb: love doesn’t actually require proximity to survive. It just requires attention.

So toss out “goodbye.” It was never the right word anyway.

Farewell — and we’ll see each other soon.

What do you think?

Until next time,

Jo x

Leave a comment

Share

Share Lifestyle Fifty with Jo Castro

Not just misplaced it for five minutes, but really lost it. I searched my handbag three times, retraced my steps through the house, wondered whether I’d left it in the supermarket and mentally began cancelling my bank cards.

Eventually, I found it exactly where any sensible person would keep a wallet.

In the fridge.

Earlier that afternoon I’d shoved it into a shopping bag after paying for the groceries. Once I got home, I unpacked everything in a hurry because there were a dozen other things clamouring for my attention. The broccoli went into the vegetable drawer... and apparently my wallet did too.

I can almost hear my brain having a quiet chuckle every time I think about it.

Please tell me you’ve done something equally ridiculous. We can’t possibly be the only generation who have conversations with ourselves while wandering around the house asking, “Now what did I come in here for?”

“Who has time to get old?” a friend wrote on Facebook the other day.

I’ve been thinking about those six words ever since, because I rather suspect she’s right.

With a bit of luck, I don’t intend to drift quietly into old age wearing sensible shoes and talking endlessly about my ailments. I’d much rather come skidding sideways to meet the Grim Reaper after one last adventure, passport well thumbed, laughing about the ridiculousness of life and wondering where the years disappeared to.

The trouble is, while I may not have time to get old, my body seems to have made other plans.

The senior moments have definitely arrived.

I’ve decided they’re much easier to live with if I can find the funny side of them, because if you don’t laugh, you’ll probably cry. Bette Davis understood that perfectly when she said, “Getting old ain’t for cissies.” She certainly wasn’t wrong.

My lovely mum had her own unforgettable moment years ago. She dashed into the post office, came back out and climbed straight into the red car parked in front of mine instead of my red car.

She only realised when she reached for the seatbelt and noticed another woman staring at her in complete disbelief.

Mum simply smiled sweetly, climbed back out and said, “Sorry... I should have gone to Specsavers.”

It’s one of those family stories that still makes us laugh.

Perhaps that’s one of the unexpected gifts of getting older. We stop taking ourselves quite so seriously. We become much better at laughing when life catches us out.

Mind you, there are still moments I’d rather avoid.

If you ever meet me at a party where the music is booming and I appear to be smiling enthusiastically at everything you’re saying, please don’t assume I’ve enjoyed one glass of wine too many. The truth is rather less glamorous.

I probably can’t hear a bloody word!

So if we’re chatting over loud music, humour me and open-your-mouth-when-you-speak. I’ll be doing my very best at amateur lip reading while desperately hoping I’m saying yes or no in all the right places.

Talking of surprises, has anyone else noticed that adults seem to be getting younger?

Or is it simply that we’re getting older?

I genuinely believe somebody has started allowing children to qualify as doctors and dentists. Every time I walk into a consulting room I’m greeted by someone who looks as though they should still be studying for their Year 12 exams. They probably have children and mortgages of their own, but somehow I still want to ask them if they’ve remembered to do their homework.

Groucho Marx had the right idea when he said, “Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough.”

The strange contradiction is that inside, I don’t actually feel old at all.

That thought struck me recently when my children came over for Sunday dinner. I looked around the table and suddenly realised that they are now older than I feel. Even more extraordinary, my son is now much older than my husband was when I first met him.

How can that possibly be?

Back then we could dance half the night, sleep for a few hours and be ready to do it all again the next day. These days I can achieve exactly the same light-headed sensation simply by getting out of bed too quickly.

Lucille Ball once said, “The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age.”

I rather like that, although I no longer feel any urge to pretend I’m younger than I am. Age really is just a number. I prefer to think that if you’re sixty, you’re actually thirty... with another thirty years of invaluable experience.

What surprises me most is the confidence that seems to arrive with those extra years.

When I was younger I blushed at almost everything. I worried about saying the wrong thing and rarely spoke up. Were you like that too? Or were you one of those wonderfully confident women who always seemed completely comfortable in your own skin?

These days my cheeks only flush after climbing a hill or after a generous glass of red wine, so I have to think that confidence has finally arrived. It’s just taken rather longer than I’d expected.

Of course, confidence doesn’t stop our bodies quietly rewriting the rules.

And to be honest nobody ever warned me about chin hairs.

I think I’m growing a beard.

It seems the less hair Dave has on his head, the more decides to appear on my chin. The Deities must be having a wonderful laugh. I’ve been known to stand in the shower plucking the occasional determined whisker or, if I’m in a hurry, quietly running a razor over my chin. My daughter finds this deeply alarming, though I find it rebelliously practical.

Then there are those little leaks that no one talks about until they’ve happened to them. A sneeze, a cough, a hearty laugh or a desperate dash to the loo after two coffees can suddenly become an adventure. If you’ve had babies, you’ll probably know exactly what I mean.

The good news is that we don’t have to suffer in silence. Pelvic floor exercises really do make a difference, and if things become more flood than drizzle, doctors have treatments that can genuinely help.

And while we’re discussing the subjects our mothers somehow forgot to mention, can we please talk about sex and menopause? Women’s magazines screech, atrophic vaginitis is common after menopause, which sounds horrifying, and more like something Victorian missionaries might have caught while exploring Africa. There are remedies to help on the love front, of course, but my witty friend once remarked : “Sex? On the comfort scale, I’d rather have a bikini wax!”

Hormones, of course, don’t stop there. One minute we’re battling teenage spots, then we enjoy a few years of relatively cooperative skin before suddenly discovering that our faces have become drier than the Serengeti. Moisturiser becomes less of a luxury and more of a daily mission.

Oh my gosh, mirrors and shop windows don’t help either.

Every now and then I inadvertantly look into a shop window, see a reflection, and genuinely wonder who that older woman is looking back at me. Then I realise she’s me.

Our faces change shape, our lips become thinner, and all the fullness we once tried so hard to disguise beneath clever contouring seems to have quietly migrated to our second chin instead.

Then, just to keep life interesting, we begin shrinking. I’ve come to wonder if I’m one of the world’s shrinkiest women, that is in height - not width.

I watched it happen to my mum over the years, and now I’m beginning to suspect it’s happening to me. My children seem taller every time I see them, and I think that’s simply because I’m becoming slightly shorter.

Skin tags appear where we least expect them and sometimes I wonder if that crusty thing is just an age wart - or am I turning into a witch?

Age warts arrive uninvited. And our boobs - well, they gradually abandon any ambition of pointing confidently towards the horizon. Mine have become more like pendulums than plums and I think of my grandmother who used to tell me I’d appreciate a good bra one day. She was absolutely right.

The funny thing is that none of these little indignities bothers me nearly as much as I imagined they would when I was younger.

What growing older has given me is perspective.

I care far less about looking perfect than I once did. I can get ready to go out in 10 minutes or so. I laugh more readily, worry less about what other people think, and I’m much kinder to myself than the young woman who spent years blushing and apologising for taking up space.

Would I swap my wrinkles for my twenty-five-year-old knees?

Probably.

Would I swap the confidence I’ve learned along the way?

Not for all the collagen in the world.

Growing older isn’t always graceful. Sometimes it’s inconvenient, occasionally it’s downright embarrassing, and often it’s outrageously ridiculous. But if we can laugh together about the chin hairs, the forgotten wallets, the support bras and the conversations we only half hear, then perhaps we’re doing this ageing business rather well after all.

So tell me...

What’s been your funniest “getting older” moment lately?

Please reassure me I’m not the only one storing valuables in the vegetable drawer.

Until next time,

Jo x

P.S. You might also like my blog posts about looking at ways to keep healthy, or these surprising things about ageing, and these cringeworthy things your mother never told you. Check out more posts on the blog about How to Fit a Bra Correctly and The Ultimate Guide to Buying a Bra and The Most Comfy Bra for Women our age.

Decades, dozens of countries and one very memorable “why did I check-in that huge case” incident later, I’ve finally landed on a kit that works. Not aspirational-Pinterest-board works. Actually-gets-me-through-immigration-without-a-meltdown works.

Here’s the thing about packing lists: most of them are written by people who’ve taken one trip and are riding the high. This one is written by someone who has lived as an expat most of her life, taken too many trips, lugged unwilling young children from country to country, made most of the mistakes, and is now allergic to anything that doesn’t earn its place in the bag. If an item hasn’t proven itself useful, practical, or flat-out necessary, it doesn’t make the cut. Ruthless? Yes. Regret-free? Also yes.

Let’s start with the bags, because bags are where good intentions go to die. I am, by my own admission, a bag hag. I’ve tried the oversized tote that ate my passport whole, the tiny crossbody that couldn’t fit a lip balm, and the “does everything” backpack that did nothing well.

However, two, recently gifted, have earned permanent residency in my travel life.

The Hedgren Orva crossbody is the one I’m going to be slinging across my body from the moment I leave the house to the moment I collapse into a hotel bed. It’s got that clever waterfall of zip pockets on the front; one for your phone, one for your cards, one for the inevitable receipts and boiled sweets, plus an RFID-blocking pocket inside so nobody’s skimming your cards on the Paris metro. It’s light, it’s water-repellent, and because everything has its own designated slot, I’m not upending the whole bag on a café table looking for my boarding pass while a queue forms behind me.

You can read my review of the Orva here : My Go-To Crossbody Travel Bag

For the bigger job - the actual “what am I taking as hand-carry” bag - I’ve switched to the BAGSMART Blast extendable travel backpack. It opens flat like a little suitcase, which means no more archaeological digging to find my kindle and it’s charger, or the airplane socks I’ve packed, or my moisturiser. There’s a proper laptop compartment that lies flat for security checks (genuinely useful when you’re the one holding up the line). For the trips you want to use the backpack for a hike, or carry on only, you can expand the whole thing from 28 to 38 litres. I’ve managed to wean myself off checked luggage for short holidays, and can pack all I need into the Blast for 3-5 days without going over the 7kg carry-on limit, oh and there’s a separate shoe pocket so your smelly trainers don’t fraternise with your clothes.

Read my full review here : Super Expandable Travel Backpack

Everything else on my list exists to solve a problem I’ve actually had.

Packing cubes, because loose clothes in a suitcase are basically an argument waiting to happen. A universal adapter with USB ports, because fighting your partner for the one working socket in a Balinese guesthouse is no way to start a holiday. A portable charger, for the itinerary that runs longer than your phone battery. Noise-cancelling headphones, because a long-haul flight without them is just enforced eavesdropping on other people’s family dramas. An eye mask because dignity is optional but sleep is not.

Then there’s the boring-but-essential tier: sunscreen you actually like wearing, a hang-able toiletry bag for hotel bathrooms with approximately four inches of counter space, a lightweight rain jacket that packs down to nothing, and photocopies (paper and digital) of your passport, because losing the original is a stress you don’t need on holiday.

None of this is about packing light for the sake of a smug Instagram caption. It’s about not spending day one of a trip you’ve saved for and dreamed about hunting for a plug adapter in a foreign pharmacy. Pack well, and the only thing you’ll actually be thinking about once you land is where to get the first proper coffee.

My Top 21 Travel Essentials

1. Hedgren Orva crossbody bag – RFID-blocking pockets, a waterfall of zip compartments, and it stays put across your body through crowds, queues and questionable taxi drivers.

2. BAGSMART Blast extendable travel backpack – Opens flat, expands from 28L to 38L, separate shoe pocket, and a laptop compartment that lies flat for airport security.

3. Packing cubes – The difference between an organised suitcase and a losing game of laundry Tetris.

4. Universal travel adapter with USB ports - One adapter, multiple devices, zero socket-sharing arguments.

5. Portable power bank - For the days your itinerary outlasts your phone battery.

6. Noise-cancelling headphones - Turns a crying-baby flight into a peaceful one.

7. TRAVEL & LIVING COLLECTION scarf or pashmina - An artist designed scarf or a warm pashmina can add a luxurious (and stylish) extra layer of warmth on any occasion.

8. Eye mask and earplugs - Sleep on your schedule, not the cabin lights’ schedule.

9. Lightweight, crushable rain jacket or poncho - Packs down to nothing, saves you when the forecast lies.

10. Comfortable, broken-in walking shoes - No holiday memory is improved by blisters.

11. Hang-able toiletry bag - Solves the four-inches-of-hotel-counter problem instantly.

12. Sunscreen you’ll actually reapply - The best sunscreen is the one you don’t avoid using.

13. Reusable, collapsible water bottle - Fill up after security, save money, skip the plastic.

14. TSA-approved luggage lock - Peace of mind for the price of a coffee.

15. Bright luggage tag or ribbon - So you’re not squinting at ten identical black suitcases on the carousel.

16. Photocopies (paper and digital) of your passport - The single best insurance against a very bad day.

17. A small, well-organised first-aid and medication pouch - Labelled, accessible, and not buried at the bottom of your bag.

18. A lightweight, packable tote or foldable shopping bag - For markets, groceries, and the souvenirs you swore you wouldn’t buy.

19. A laptop or IPad - Can’t live without something to write on.

20. A good book or loaded e-reader - Because delays happen, and doom-scrolling isn’t a personality.

21. Travel insurance, sorted before you leave - The item you hope you’ll never need, and the one you’ll be gladdest to have.

Tell me. What are your travel essentials?

Until next time,

Jo x

I’ve recently discovered one.

In a novel called Flesh.

I was sitting in an auditoriaum at the Margaret River Readers and Writers Festival listening to David Szalay in conversation with Claire Nicols from the ABC Book Show. He was talking about Flesh, his 2025 Booker Prize-winning novel, a meditation on class, power, intimacy, migration and masculinity that follows one man from a housing estate in Hungary to the mansions of London’s super-rich.

The Booker judges called the novel spare, disciplined, urgent, honest and heartbreaking - and said they had never read anything quite like it.

Meanwhile sitting there, contemplatively, I realised that, in the novel, he was describing some of the men I’ve come across in my life.

István, his protagonist, is taciturn, and magnetic in a way that’s almost impossible to explain, and yet I recognised him immediately. So did most of the woman in that audience, if the hush of attention was anything to go by.

Szalay has written a novel that is, on the surface, about one man’s life. But what I couldn’t stop turning over, long after I left the festival and drove home, was the uncomfortable question it plants in you: what do we actually know about the men closest to us? And have we ever really asked?

By the time I walked out of the Margaret River Heart venue, I had already bought a copy of Flesh for book club.

Here are the notes I made, because this is a novel that rewards a little preparation.

So what’s David Szalay like in real life?

Well, on stage, David was delightfully unassuming and modest. He didn’t expect to win the Booker Prize, he said. He looked a little grave, nervous, ill at ease, was a bit fidgety, and admitted to feeling really uncomfortable at the Booker Awards event. He said with a wry smile that he had avoided fellow nominees as well as the judges, with focussed intent, during the awards evening!

He seemed quite serious, and yet, there was a latent sense of humour hiding within his interview too.

It seems to me that he’s possibly a man more at home socialising with the big ideas and crazy imaginings of his own fertile mind; writing novels and living, what he said is, a quiet life in Vienna.

Yet what a bold, hypnotic, melodramatic, novel he’s written in Flesh.

It’s not quiet at all.

“What’s it about in one sentence,” he was recently asked.

“It’s the story of a man’s life from adolescence to middle age,” he replied.

Okay.

And probably with that description you’re not likely to go and buy the book.

But there’s a lot more to it than just that.

And a helluva lot more “okays” too.

What is Flesh about?

It’s a raw and unapologetic story that explores male adolescent desires. It lays bare in unflinching prose the relationship young men have with their bodies, and the way their identities are affected by their desires.

It explores masculinity, but David said the book was never meant to be about male masculinity, and by the way - he took out every ‘masculinity’ word except for one which he left in as reported speech that related to Istvan ‘as an exemplar of primitive masculinity.’

What’s the storytelling like?

There are 10 chapters, and each chapter covers only a week or a few months of Istvan’s life, and the gaps in-between cover years. Does David know what happened during the gaps in Istvan’s life. No. We are all allowed to make our own assumptions.

The storytellling is hypnotic, page turning, and it’s intimate from a man’s perspective.

The scenes are starkly populated, the descriptions are unadorned yet feel vivid.

The narrative explores male thinking about strength, ageing, and vulnerability. It explores how traditional physical and violent occupations might have an impact on a man, and then redefines what it means to be a man today.

Key points I’ll be throwing into the ring for book club.

One of the key ideas asks, does physicality of experience come before anything else? Most of the main plot elements in Flesh are to do with physical experiences, and many of the turning points in Istvan’s life are related to physicality. Very much so.

But what else?

Is the book judgemental?

Not at all, the book withholds moral judgement. The first chapter charts and characterises what could be termed an abusive and manipulative relationship, even grooming to an extent, but it doesn’t judge or moralise.

What it does do is show through a series of extreme emotional reactions from shock, desire, shame, the feeling he should not want this but he does, moves on to feel engaged in the situation, and becomes involved in the relationship where the woman never intended to become involved. Istvan totally misunderstands the situation and it’s quite shocking because of the ethical considerations.

How does sex, repulsion and shame relate to Istvan’s relationships?

It becomes a pattern - the power dynamic is different as the novel goes on, but the wife he marries offers a very concrete money/status/power option. Even in this relationship Istvan is not powerfully attracted in the first moment, but he doesn’t feel shame, and over time the attraction grows.

What about the psychological effects of Istvan’s time in the Army?

“He’s been ordered and institutionalised most of his life, in the army and the detention centre, but this book isn’t meant to analyse the psychology,” explained David. However, we’re given time to think about this, and led to unpack our own conclusions about how this may have affected his character.

Do you understand Istvan’s character by the end of the book, even though his dialogue is limited and he says Okay a lot?

Istvan’s character hasn’t been spelt out - yet we do get access to his feelings. “We experience him through other characters and we do get to feel sympathy for him. We see him as a child and a parent and we get to see him just as a fellow human being. But I just wanted to write a book about fundamental human experiences and so we do get to feel for him and know him.” David Szalay.

Does the Book make wealth seem to make people more important? Is istvan accepted in wealth circles?

The book creates enormous contrast between wealthy and a very average level of living. But Istvan’s upwardly mobile pathway to wealth is by physicality and sex and relationships.

“The people who have the wealth are not any more deserving than Istvan. It’s all slightly absurd - a crazy lottery to being rich. But there’s no kind of moral intended. He enounters soft prejudice that he’s not meant to be wealthy, and ultimately he does mess it up.” David Szalay.

What about the style of the book?

The book is written with short sentences and very direct style of writing, almost simple - although it’s not simple at all. The 1st chapter was originally intended to be a short story, and the style was detached, pared back to create a stronger emotional impact. The restrained style David thought would maximise the impact of the story.

“Writing the book was fairly instinctive. I started each chapter writing about what interested me. I wanted the book to be full of incident. The way of achieving this was not to write about the melodramatic incidents, but to write about the aftermath they had on Istvan and the characters.”

The man who said “Okay” a lot

There’s at least one ‘okay’ in the dialogue on each page, in fact David reckons there are about 500 ‘okays’ altogether. The dialogue is interesting because it’s based very much on how people speak to each other in real life. This he pulls off, miraculously. Does he think it gives the book realism, does it give it emotional impact? David thinks “YES!”

The Booker Prize

So how did a novel that has limited dialogue, that’s made up of a lot of ‘okays’, that’s about an adolescent boy’s sexual awakenings, and his journey of lucky chance from near poverty in Prague to living amongst billionaires in London, riding the waves of big world events - how did it ever become a Booker winner?

“It felt risky to write the book,” David said. “Because the book doesn’t give the reader much guidance about how to respond to the lead character Istvan.” Indeed, there are only subtle pointers to what he’s really like.

“But risk and the thing about being interesting are closely related when writing a book. Risk tends to mean you’re in a zone where things do get interesting.”

How does David’s background influence the novel?

David was born in Hungary. He’s lived in London, Canada and Hungary, and now lives in Vienna. His Mum is Canadian, his Dad is Hungarian, and when he was growing up in London David visited Hungary almost every year from the 1980’s. In 2010 he moved to Hungary for around 10 years but he felt he didn’t fit into Hungary anymore, nor did he speak the language very well.

Not fitting is was one of the first things he thought about when he began writing the book. “I wanted to write about feeling stretched or marooned between 2 countries. This was an important emotional ingredient. Istvan is deliberately divided between two places.”

His novel, Flesh, begins in Hungary, and European history at the time is significant. For instance, Hungary joining the EU affected people’s lives, especially young people. It gives Istvan the opportunity to move to London and change his life. “The big world events happening around the timeline of the novel are a big part of the book, especially how they change people’s lives,” David said.

Why did he use Flesh as the title?

David explained that Flesh was the first working title but he assumed it would have a different title in the en because Flesh seemed a bit tawdry, embarrassing even, and the publisher was of the same opinion. He tried to find an elevated literary title, but couldn’t, and he had feelings of unease thinking that the title would reflect the book, or give it vulgar connotations. On the other hand the word Flesh also has its own parallel existence with a big history of its own in the English language.

In the end he stayed with the title of flesh because “It’s actually a warning about the nature of the book.” The beginning chapter is all about a teenage boy going through huge hormonal changes. In a way it offers insight into the intense, confused, detached and yet completely engrossed way an adolescent can be so so driven by his body.

And you’ll soon realise there’s no evidence in the title that Istvan’s life will be ‘okay’ at all.

• Have you read Flesh by David Szalay? What did you think?

• What other Booker Prize Winning Novels have you read and enjoyed.

You might also like my post : Why Attend A Readers & Writers Festival?

Until next time,

Jo x

Honestly, I’m not entirely sure the label fits. The notion crept up on me slowly, quietly, and without any grand plan. One day I just looked around and realised - oh. I live here now. But does that still make me an expat? Or something else entirely?

Because here’s the thing: “Expat” is a label that sounds tidy but refuses to behave. It’s not Prada - too elevated. It’s not Marks & Spencer - too reliably middle-ground. It’s certainly not Primark - nothing throwaway about it. It’s something altogether more slippery.

As the writer Taiye Selasi once put it: “Don’t ask where I’m from, ask where I’m local.” That resonated with me in a way I hadn’t expected, because the expat experience, whatever we decide to call it, is fundamentally about negotiating that question.

It’s not émigré. Not immigrant. Not refugee. It’s a category that sits slightly outside all the others, and the nuances are genuinely hard to articulate. What I can tell you is this: the feeling of being an outsider looking in is completely real. I’ve felt it more times than I can count - that strange, hovering sensation, like pressing your nose against a misted window, gazing into somewhere warm and familiar that you’re not quite sure you belong in. Is that then the feeling of being an expat?

For a long time, I told myself it was temporary. A brief ailment. Easily cured by a flight home to Devon for a long English summer that reminded me who I was. I genuinely believed that going back for good meant returning to a considered Utopia and finally, gratefully, shedding the expat label forever.

Hmm. It’s not quite that simple.

I’ve grown to accept that being an expat is not something that you shed like a too warm overcoat on a hot day.

I also now realise that ”going home” after a life of expatdom isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m home, but not ‘birth roots’ home, thoroughly enjoying the wide open spaces of Western Australia.

Incredibly, after a life on the move internationally, we’ve unpacked for the last time, and I love everything about it from being able to wake each up day and know that we are living in safety, free from political instability or the threat of bombs. It’s wonderful to speak the same language as everyone else and to enjoy the conveniences of a modern, egalitarian, society. Plus it’s remote, and oh so beautiful.

But although I’m settled, and now a citizen, I still feel like an expat. A blow-in if you ask my Aussie mates.

On the bright side expatdom in WA is different to some of the other places we’ve lived; we have a dog that’s unlikely to contract rabies, we can safely drink the water and we’re unlikely to get Delhi belly or any other nasty food or water born diseases. That thump on the roof in the dead of night? Burglar wielding a panga? Nah, just a possum leaping across from a nearby tree branch.

Leaving the Philippines in April 2000, bound for expat retirement in England after a life living and working abroad, should have felt fulfilling and comforting. This was the last time we were going to move. I was 41 years old. We had moved internationally 7 times, now we were going home to our roots. Yes, we were going to settle down - long past the prescribed age for settling down but not yet senile. It was time to stay put, buy a house and be near our kith and kin.

Yet I was filled with unease. And after several months I knew I didn’t fit in to England anymore.

I thought I was returning to an England I knew, my country of birth, and a people with whom I had much in common. There was a culture of which I should be proud, and a social system which I would understand. I was returning to the land of roses and cream teas, where my friends would be keen to hear tales of my life abroad and a little bit interested to glimpse some of the snapshots. A place where people would be happy to include me in their friendship groups because of my diverse history, where I would be welcomed to dinner with offers of ‘spag bol’ and a couple of beers.

In fact I was sure that in England I would immediately relate to people, and feel at ease.

Not a bit of it. I didn’t fit in anymore, and the people I made friends with had long settled roots in England. They were looking after homes and families, and connecting to wider, geographically more settled communities. They didn’t really want someone new around, someone with a whole different set of values and expectations, to unsettle things.

My tales and photos of Eastern adventure were greeted by dazed looks. I could tell that my new friends looked at me with some pity wondering why the hell we’s been living in such uncomfortable foreign outposts - though they were already distracted and thinking about their next day’s complex home and work juggling.

Gee, on the face of it I was so full of my own importance, and yet on the other hand, I just wanted to share my life as I knew it.

After a year in Devon in our own house for the first time as a family, my sense of belonging should have been rooted and complete. But it wasn’t, and it was clear that something in me was disconnected; something big was missing.

I found out what it was whilst visiting Dave in Taiwan, who was working on what he said would be his final international project.

The trip to visit him was both exciting and rewarding in the strangest of ways. Not merely because it was great to see him as we’d been apart for a few months, but also because after only a short time in Taiwan I found that I was ‘home’ again.

This overwhelming emotion took place at the International Women’s Group’s monthly fundraising luncheon on a hot spring day.

At the Taiwan luncheon that day, I met women who didn’t open their eyes wide in horror when I told them our children had been to 5 schools before the age of 12; who didn’t think it was strange to live in a different country every few years; who listened eagerly for tales of the countries we’d lived in and who had common stories of trials, tribulations and joys of living away from extended family, and bringing up children abroad. They could relate, and it felt great.

I spoke of Third Culture Kids and instead of asking if it was a new pop group, people nodded in agreement and discussed the merits of international acceptance, and the challenges of children without roots. They knew where Mugling was in connection to Kathmandu, for instance, and commiserated about breastfeeding a baby, while being three hours from the nearest doctor.

I didn’t have any tales about my extended family or living in the same place for 3 generations, or living amongst friends I’d been to school with since I was 5. I had no stories like that to share and neither did they.

I also met some women whom I’d known briefly at other times in other places overseas. We spoke about our lives lived away from our birth countries. I listened avidly to other people’s successes, achievements and worries. I rabbited on to women who made me feel as if I’d known them all my life.

Back ‘home’ in England I was a new face with a diverse history and different experiences which didn’t tally with those of my friends. Being the new old girl I was an enigma, and not a particularly welcome one - possibly, I suppose because I was someone who might just up sticks and jet off again. And like my teenage son kept on telling me at the time, “You’ve got to be the same as everyone else Mum. Try not to stand out!”

In Australia as an expat, emigre, or from anywhere other than here, wherever here might be, you may be known as a ‘blow-in,’ and on many occasions I’ve been referred to as a ‘Pom,’ meant in jest (as I’ve always taken it) yet underneath I know it’s a slightly disparaging label.

And yet I’m not a true Pom anymore? So what am I?

Am I a good mate? This egalitarian country is kind and accepting as long as you’re a ‘good mate’ and willing to ‘have-a-go’ and get involved. Then you’re likely to be welcomed into the fold with open arms and community sausage sizzles.

But to really belong in a country I think you need common values, shared beliefs, and sometimes a memory which goes back three generations in the same region. All this, I have lost in the days of our traveling.

After 16 years in Australia, the longest we’ve lived anywhere in our lives, I’ve been lucky to make good friends who don’t think I’m too weird, or too aloof, or not a good enough mate, and I’ve very much enjoyed learning how to fit in with Aussie culture; the beach life, the barbies, the sausage sizzles, and outdoor living. I’ve loved learning that being a good mate is not dependent on the size of your house, your job or your income. It’s been fun learning Aussie slang, drinking beer straight out of the bottle, laughing like a drain, and considering Bali to be our own backyard (from Western Australia it’s our nearest overseas destination.)

I’ve tried to localise, and can talk about the weather from severe heatwaves, the threat of bush fires, and how bad the flies or mosquitoes are this year, even vocalizing doubts as to whether there will be enough rain for the Wheatbelt farmers. I’ve learnt not to be a tall poppy. Aussies dislike them more than anything. And I’ve got used to being called a “Pom.”

However, I don’t have the deeply connected roots or friendship groups that are so important for most of my friends, nor can I join in the conversations they’ve shared time and time again over many years.

Yes, I have been disconnected by geography, and in some way spoiled I suppose. Because there is, or perhaps there was I believe, a common throng of women who travel the world with their spouses, offering support and encouragement, bringing up children, helping their adopted communities, finding their own way through the newness of each location, and coming out of the melting pot with values in common and stories about territories with similar veins.

It’s a tribe of women I thought I could leave behind.

But now I know, it’s the tribe of women to which I belong.

So overall I suppose I’m still an expat, yet without my tribe, at home in a beautiful country where I now belong.

What do you think? Please add your own insights about what ‘home’ means to you in the comments :)

Until next time,

Jo x

Over my lifetime I’ve lived in around 30 different houses. Thirty. I know. And as shallow as this might sound, for most of my adult life I’ve been persistently searching for my dream home.

To be honest, I’ve fallen in love with a few castles, but they’ve just been Cinderella dreams!

In reality my dream home has never been huge, not like a mansion, and my idea of the leafy driveway and impressive Georgian frontage is very outdated now I’m retired - but the idea of dream home still exists, and it’s the kind of place that would tick all the boxes and make my heart do a little skip when I walk through the front door.

I’ve been privileged to have lived in some houses that I’ve absolutely loved. The trouble is, now that I’m 68, the rather uninvited concept of downsizing has crept into the conversation. And with it comes the uncomfortable realisation that what constitutes a dream home - the very definition of it - probably needs to change.

This feels a little bit scary, and unfathomable to me!

Our children have launched, with families and lives of their own. My husband and I are, as the old saying goes, like Darby and Joan. One day we may not be able to negotiate stairs or reach the ceiling cobwebs without falling off a ladder. The rambling home with a generous garden and all those spare bedrooms doesn’t quite make the same sense it once did. And if I’m honest neither does the effort required to maintain it.

So why did any of us get lured into buying bigger homes in the first place?

For us, it came down to a few very human reasons: the kids needed space, we wanted a garden for them to run around in, we liked different TV programmes (this remains a non-negotiable), we loved having friends to stay, and frankly - because we could. There was also, if I’m being really honest, a certain social signalling at play. We are, products of the 1980s, when bigger was categorically better. Shoulder pads. Hair. Houses. Nobody told us otherwise — certainly not the banks, and definitely not the advertising industry.

“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” — Confucius

In the last few years, something has shifted. There’s been a genuine cultural wave of minimalism - slow-living philosophies, smaller footprints, intentional spaces - and downsizing has quietly become not just acceptable, but aspirational. And it’s got me thinking quite seriously, for the first time, about whether smaller might actually be better.

The Huffington Post put it plainly:

“The prevailing advice for retirees and their first cousins -- pre-retirees -- is to downsize their homes. The logic goes like this: With your kids launched, you no longer need so much space. Plus living in a smaller home will reduce your utility and maintenance bills as well as your taxes. Less expense and less time cutting the grass or fixing things equals more time and pocket change left to enjoy your retirement, or so the conventional wisdom goes.”

So let’s actually lay it out.

The Case for Downsizing

The most obvious win is that it’s simply easier to maintain a smaller home. You can ditch the lawnmower, pare down the DIY toolkit, and reclaim whole weekends. As someone who considers cleaning to be a form of mild punishment (I’d far rather be out walking), the idea of less square footage to vacuum is genuinely appealing.

It’ll cost less to run, too - smaller homes mean lower power bills, cheaper insurance, less water. Over a year, those savings add up to something meaningful.

Then there’s the beautiful, terrifying process of decluttering. Moving forces you to confront everything you own and ask - honestly - whether you actually need it or just haven’t got around to throwing it out. There’s something quite cathartic about that. Possessions, as anyone who’s ever moved house knows, have a sneaky way of accumulating weight - not just physical, but mental. A house stuffed with things we no longer use is a house stuffed with decisions we keep deferring.

“The first step in crafting the life you want is to get rid of everything you don’t.” — Joshua Becker

Downsizing also opens up an interesting possibility: you might be able to afford a home in a more interesting location. Closer to the coast, or a café strip, or your grandchildren, or a good library. Trading square footage for lifestyle amenities - cinemas, restaurants, public transport, a swimming pool around the corner - is a trade that starts to make a lot of sense when you’re no longer commuting and have actual free time to enjoy those things.

And there’s the environmental argument, which I think most of us are taking more seriously these days. A smaller home simply requires less energy to run. Fewer rooms to heat and cool. A smaller footprint in every sense of the word.

But Hold On - It’s Not That Simple

Here’s where it gets complicated, because downsizing is one of those things that sounds marvellous in theory and then gets rather sticky in practice.

For a start, where exactly are you downsizing to? A lovely apartment with a beautiful outlook will likely cost you more than the family home you’re leaving. A retirement village might solve some problems while creating others - and could well eat up a significant chunk of your asset base. A small, affordable unit somewhere sensible sounds great until you’re actually living in one and wondering where the grandchildren are supposed to sleep when they visit.

And speaking of grandchildren - one of the genuine drawbacks of a smaller home is the loss of space for family gatherings. The long table at Christmas. The pull-out sofa for the grandkids. The garden where small people can run around being magnificently feral. These things matter, and you’d be silly to dismiss them.

Then there are the hard costs of actually moving: agent’s fees on the sale, stamp duty on the purchase, the movers, the new curtains (because of course the old ones won’t fit), and whatever you buy to fill the gaps because somehow, even when you downsize, there are gaps. Smart About Money suggests that if downsizing doesn’t reduce your household expenses by at least 25%, it probably isn’t worth the upheaval. That’s a handy benchmark to keep in mind.

And don’t discount the psychological cost, either. Leaving the family home is an emotional reckoning, not just a logistical one.

“The magic of downsizing is that it increases the value of everything you keep.” Marie Kondo

Kondo’s right, of course. But you have to actually want to do it. If the idea of leaving your home fills you with dread rather than liberation, it’s worth pausing before you list it.

A Middle Path?

There are alternatives worth considering before you commit to anything dramatic. Could you rent out a room, or set up an Airbnb arrangement to generate income while staying put? Could you convert the garage into a studio and let it out? Could you renovate rather than relocate, and make the existing home work better for this new, quieter chapter of life?

The bottom line is this: downsizing makes excellent financial and lifestyle sense for many people. But it isn’t a universal solution, and the decision deserves more than a spreadsheet. It deserves a genuine, honest conversation about what you actually want your days to look like - and whether a smaller home will give you more of that, or less.

I don’t have a good answer yet. I’m still still looking at houses and waiting for one of them to speak to me.

Perhaps that one, when it finally speaks, will just be a little smaller than I once imagined.

I’d love to know - have you downsized, or are you thinking about it? What’s been the best (or worst) part? Leave a comment below.

You might also like this post : How To Make Extra Cash Selling Your Old Clothes

Until next time,

Jo x

Queensland is really popular. A holiday spot genuinely worth drooling over, especially for anyone in the midst of a northern European winter.

And yet Australia offers so much more if you go looking for it.

For instance, Tasmania, Australia’s second oldest and smallest state, packs an enormous punchful of nature, and adventure, for it’s size.

Forget sedate harbour cruises where the biggest thrill is choosing between chardonnay and sauvignon blanc (although that’s nice!) Get out on Tasmania’s wild waters and you’ll be sure of an adrenaline rush.

You’ll possibly encounter fur seals, Southern Ocean swells that’ll test your sea legs, and possibly a rendezvous with a Drunken Admiral.

I learned this on a single unforgettable day that took me from Hobart’s civilized waterfront to the raw, untamed coast off Bruny Island. One moment I was sipping wine aboard a luxury catamaran, contemplating Tasmania’s fascinating convict past.

The next, I was clinging to the sides of a coastal exploration vessel, spray in my face, as we powered into a remote fur seal colony where hundreds of these magnificent creatures barked, lounged, and completely ignored our awestruck faces.

This traveller’s tale isn’t the advertorial of Tasmania’s glossy brochures. This is the island as it actually is: wild, historic, delicious, and exhilarating. It was first published in the Travel Magazine of the West Australian Newspaper, and now I’ve updated it for my Substack readers.

(Please re-stack or share if you enjoy it.)

Want to experience Tasmania yourself? I’ve included practical links you’ll need to plan your own Tasmanian watery pursuits or boat adventures. And yes, I’ll explain who (or what) the Drunken Admiral is and why you absolutely should encounter him.

Subscribe to get more honest travel stories that go beyond the tourist trail—and tell me in the comments: what’s the wildest boat trip you’ve ever taken?

Now, let me take you back to where it all began...

Hobart, Tasmania.

The air is brisk and Salamanca Market is in full swing, its 250 or so stalls sandwiched between historic sandstone warehouses and an avenue of oak trees that are now, in some places, turning a mellow yellow as autumn approaches.

But I am not interested in this iconic market today despite its arty appeal, the smell of coffee and croissants, and the sounds of buskers singing the blues. Because today is a very special day and an adventure boat trip leaving from the waterfront, just a short walk away, is where I’m heading.

The thrill and anticipation of the sea is palpable on this fresh morning. Today there’s an antarctic research ship docked in the harbor along with sleek yachts (think Sydney to Hobart yacht race), a couple of early morning kayakers prowling Sullivan’s Cove, plus ferries, and fishermen unloading deep sea catches which will later today be dished up at restaurants along Hobarts’ café chic and increasingly epicurean trail. There’s also the Sea Shepherd anti-whaling ship, the jet black Bob Barker, moored at the jetty with its Jolly Roger flying at full mast, but that’s another story.

Due to its island status, Tasmania’s personality is … maritime, so it makes sense to make the most of its boats and waters and today we’ve booked on the Bruny Wildlife Adventure.

All aboard the Peppermint Bay

The Peppermint Bay 11, a luxury 24 metre catamaran with floor to ceiling windows and three viewing decks lulls us into the first leg of the full day excursion; a luxury cruise.

I’m sitting starboard, drinking coffee and eating blueberry muffins, and as we head out around Battery Point the scenery on the Derwent Estuary and the D’Entrecasteaux Channel is beguiling, two dimensional under the auspices of Mount Wellington.

I have under my arm my full-length, navy blue expedition jacket which I’ve tried on, and which is decidedly unflattering, although later on I shall be glad of this Antarctic apparel.

After 45 minutes we dock on Bruny Island at Roberts Point and board a minibus for a 20 minutes scenic drive to Adventure Bay that takes us over ‘ the isthmus’ a narrow neck which joins the two distinct landforms of North and South Bruny. The island has about the same land mass as Singapore, but Singapore’s population is 4.5 million and Bruny’s is around 800. It’s practically empty and it feels really remote.

A sea once red with blood

“There used to be a whaling point here at Adventure Bay”, explains Ben, our guide for the day. “The sea would be red with blood and the air thick with smoke from burning blubber,” he continues as we survey a very different scene today; clear, blue water and fresh, clean sea air all the way from Antarctica.

Humpbacks and Southern Right whales can be sighted these days in Tasmania in May and June, September and October, but the whale population was decimated in the early 19^th century by whalers hunting them for their oil which was exported to England for street lamp fuel, candles and industrial use.

Complimentary ginger tablets and Yamaha outboards

“From here we will be setting off on an environmental expedition in a 14 metre, fast, purpose built NAIAD expedition vessel powered by four 350 Yamaha outboards,” Ben tells us. Someone is heard to ask why we need so much horsepower. “Later on you’ll understand,” says Ben. “And it’s not just for speed.”

We are given ‘nutritionally designed expedition snacks’ and bottled water, and as I look at the small boat motoring towards us I wonder if we’re going to need them because I’m already full with muffins and surely we don’t need more sustenance … unless there’s an emergency.

Hell and high water

The three hour trip turns out to be a 50 kilometre hell and high water expedition. Today there are unusually big swells and lashing waves, a few people are sea sick almost instantly, but I’m more fortunate and bypass queasiness, invigorated by the rush of adrenalin. I’m also glad I accepted the complimentary ginger tablets dished out on the Peppermint II for potentially queasy passengers. Nonetheless, I can’t help thinking if we capsized in these waters we would have no need of the life jackets stored under our seats.

Bruny’s oldest rock is Permian mudstone and Triassic sandstone which dates back 265 million years. Right now we’re under some towering sea cliffs in the Bay of Islands, “Jurassic Dolerite,” Ben says, “Slightly younger rock that dates back to around 165 million years ago.”

There are spectacular columns, (notably The Totem Pole), ancient sea caves and dramatic rock formations, while some of the cliffs are topped with eucalyptus forests.

We bob on the swell of the Tasman Sea, and inch closer to the sheer cliff face, very close to the rocks, before heading out to the great Southern Ocean where the waves crash over the boat. I begin to feel vulnerable, at the mercy of the sea as we are pummelled by waves and now understand the need for expedition jackets, powerful engines and a skillfull captain who knows how to read the sea.

An incredible sight for salty eyes

But my lily-livered unease is tempered with great excitement. As we ride the crest of huge waves and thump, bone shatteringly to their base we spot sea eagles, an albatross and seals with which we come up close and personal at The Friars where a colony of hundreds of Australian and New Zealand fur seals preen and cavort theatrically on rocky crags that jut into the sea.

After three hours we’re captained back to Adventure Bay, with a couple of fast water turns in the bay to pump the adrenalin back to fever pitch before we board the bus again and stop off for a gourmet lunch that includes fresh shucked oysters, wine tasting and, just in case any of us are still hungry, fudge and cheeses.

Heading home to meet a Drunken Admiral

Then it’s aboard the Peppermint II for the sail back to Hobart and along the way we spot the arresting, 33 metre brigantine, Windeward Bound, Tasmania’s largest tall ship, which provides disadvantaged young people with an opportunity to enjoy sailing and learn skills that might otherwise be out of their reach.

Further on we pass under the Tasman Bridge a five lane bridge crossing, which was the scene of a maritime disaster one overcast drizzly evening in January 1975 when the bulk ore carrier, Lake Illawara, fully laden with 10,000 tonnes of zinc concentrate crashed into one of the pylons. The boat sank within 7 minutes killing seven crew members, the lights on the bridge went out and 4 cars driving across it, failed to see the chasm, killing 5 motorists. There’s a hush as we comprehend the fatality and the wreck that’s lying in a watery grave right beneath us, and the trip ends on a somber note.

I’m not unhappy to hand back my incredible hulk jacket, although it’s served its purpose, but I am sad to be stepping ashore. Though would you believe it, later on, we’re hungry again, and with the spirit of the sea in our veins we head to the waterfront once more, to the Drunken Admiral, an aptly named restaurant in a heritage building which is filled with maritime memorabilia, and among other delights offers a tasty fish stew.

9 watery pursuits in Hobart

I have not been paid, nor undertaken complimentary trips to promote any of the following companies, but I hope these links might be helpful if you’d like to plan your own adventure trip, or discover more about Tasmania.

Discover Tasmania

Drunken Admiral

Bruny Island Cruises

Maritime Museum of Tasmania

The Hobart Paddle

Hobart Harbour Jetboat

The Peppermint Bay Cruise

Huon Jet

Until next time,

Jo x

Welcome to a Readers and Writers Festival. And trust me, once you’ve been to one, you’ll wonder what took you so long.

More Than Just Books

There’s a wonderful Virginia Woolf quote that goes: “You cannot find peace by avoiding life.” Readers and writers festivals are, at their heart, an invitation to lean into life in all its messy, sad, happy, wonderful complications - through the extraordinary power of storytelling.

These festivals have been popping up across cities and towns for decades, and with good reason.

They bring together novelists, poets, journalists, memoirists, illustrators and big thinkers for a few glorious days of panels, readings, workshops, and conversations that crackle with ideas. They are equal parts literary salon, community gathering, and celebration of the written word, and they are genuinely for everyone.

What’s Actually In It For You?

If you’ve never been, you might be picturing something terribly serious and a little intimidating. Academic types in turtlenecks debating postmodern theory. But honestly? It couldn’t be further from that.

Festivals are warm, welcoming, and wonderfully varied. You might spend a morning in a session where a debut novelist nervously reads her first chapter to an audience who gives her a standing ovation. Then wander into a lively panel on grief, love, or motherhood that has the whole room laughing and then suddenly, unexpectedly, in tears.

In the afternoon, perhaps a workshop where you sit around a table with twelve strangers and discover that you too have a story worth telling.

For readers, the rewards are immediate and lasting. You get to meet the authors behind the books on your bedside table, the ones you’ve stayed up until 2am finishing. You hear them explain their intentions, their research, their doubts. It changes the way you read, deepening your relationship with books in a way that no review or podcast quite manages.

You also discover writers you’d never have found otherwise, which for a book lover is basically striking gold.

You’ll leave with a bag full of signed books, a head full of ideas, and a reading list that’ll keep you busy for the rest of the year. What’s not to love?

For Writers, It’s a Lifeline

If you write, or dream of writing then a festival is nothing short of transformative. There’s something reassuring about being in a room with someone who has done what you want to do, and hearing them admit that it was hard. That the first draft was terrible. That they doubted themselves constantly. That they even scrapped 80,000 words and started all over again!

As Maya Angelou once said: “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Festivals give writers, at every stage, permission to take their untold stories seriously. They offer craft workshops, mentorship opportunities, and industry panels where agents, publishers and editors speak frankly about what they’re looking for. For emerging writers, especially, the connections made at a festival can be career-changing.

But it’s not just the practical stuff. It’s the solidarity. Writing is a solitary pursuit, and meeting your community, people who understand the strange compulsion to put words on a page, is a powerful reminder that you are not alone in this.

The Bigger Picture: What Festivals Do for All of Us

Here’s the thing that often gets overlooked in conversations about literary festivals: their impact ripples far beyond the sessions themselves.

These events are cultural anchors for communities. They bring foot traffic to local businesses, celebrate local voices alongside international ones, and create a shared civic experience that a town or city can feel genuinely proud of. In an era when public discourse feels increasingly polarised and shallow, sitting in a room and listening to another human being articulate about something complex and true is a quietly radical act.

Festivals also do important work for literacy and education. Many run school programs, bringing authors into classrooms and sparking a love of reading in children who might never have been handed the right book at the right moment. Libraries, bookshops, and community organisations often partner with festivals to ensure access is as broad as possible, with free or low-cost sessions available.

They keep writers writing because we buy their books, and in the age of AI it keeps the art of writing alive.

And perhaps most importantly, festivals hold space for stories that matter, stories about identity, culture, history, and the future. They platform voices that mainstream publishing has historically overlooked, and they invite audiences to expand their empathy, one story at a time.

So, Should You Go?

Absolutely, unequivocally, yes.

Go on your own and make friends in the queue. Go with your book club and argue happily over dinner afterwards. Drag along a friend who “doesn’t really read” and watch them get hooked in the very first session. Bring a notebook. Buy the book you can’t quite afford. Stay for the evening event.

Because at a Readers and Writers Festival, something rare happens. For a few days, in a world that often feels noisy and unkind, words - careful, considered, human words - are treated as if they matter.

And of course, they do.

Writing festivals near me that I love attending are the Margaret River Readers & Writers Festival and the Festival of Fiction in Joondalup.

Don’t forget to check your local arts council or library website to find a Readers and Writers Festival near you — many offer concession tickets, and some sessions are completely free.

Have you been to a Readers and Writers Festival? Do you have any to recommend?

The writer Flaherty once described arriving in Alexandria as being “hurled while still asleep into the midst of a Beethoven symphony,” and Delhi felt exactly like that. Brasses blaring, basses rumbling, every sensory note clamouring for attention at once. You try to focus on one thing - a bicycle rickshaw wobbling through traffic, a woman in a marigold sari balancing parcels on her head, the mournful cry of a distant muezzin - but the whole city keeps sweeping over you in waves.

We landed on a chilly morning in a smog-laden haze after a sleepless overnight flight from Singapore. Delhi’s winter air traps pollution beneath a blanket of stillness, and the city wore the smog like a veil. Through the arrivals hall drifted our first warm welcome: a beaming “Namaste!” from Rishi, who would become not just our driver but our companion for the next three weeks.

As the city slowly woke, we drove north to Civil Lines, once the leafy colonial refuge of British administrators who fled the crowded Mughal city after the uprising of 1857. Even today, Civil Lines feels like another world within Delhi with its broad avenues, old bungalows hidden behind walls, and trees alive with birdsong.

Our home there was the glorious Maidens Hotel, established in 1903 for dignitaries attending the Delhi Durbar celebrating the coronation of King Edward VII. The place feels suspended in time: white colonnades, polished floors, slow ceiling fans, and gardens that seem untouched by the frenzy beyond the gates.

Amit, the doorman with the magnificent moustache and permanently joyful smile, welcomed us as though we were old family friends returning home.

Jetlag demanded surrender. After a breakfast fit for Mughal royalty, including my first dosa of the trip, crisp and hot served with a fragrant coconut chutney, we collapsed into sleep until noon.

Then came the gentle discoveries.

The hotel gardens themselves were alive. Indian palm squirrels darted along high branches with twitching tails and comic urgency. Rose-ringed parakeets flashed emerald green against the pale sky. Above us, black kites circled endlessly, thriving in Delhi’s urban ecosystem, feeding on scraps, offerings, and the ceaseless life of the city below. On a nearby manicured lawn, a glamorous fashion shoot unfolded beneath the palms, a beautiful model posing elegantly in a glittering sari while squirrels skittered around the grass. It felt wonderfully, absurdly Indian.

Beyond the gates, Delhi’s soundtrack hit us immediately: auto-rickshaws sputtering, horns shrilling in a dozen different pitches, traffic surging like a living organism. Yet hidden only a short walk away was an oasis of serenity - Qudsia Bagh.

Built in 1748 by Qudsia Begum, once a dancing girl who married Mughal emperor Muhammad Shah Rangeela, the garden was originally laid out in the Persian char bagh style, with flowing water channels, pavilions, and palace buildings. Most of it was destroyed during the revolt of 1857, but remnants survive like echoes from another age.

Walking there felt almost dreamlike. The ruined Hathi Gate or Elephant Gate, still stands with quiet dignity, its thick sandstone walls weathered but majestic. Nearby sits a small three-domed mosque, still used for prayer despite its crumbling state. Birds nested in crevices where royalty once passed. Time seemed layered upon itself.

And then came one of those moments that quietly lodges in your heart.

Near a Mother Teresa orphanage sat a small cradle built into a window alcove. A Palna. Blankets lined the tiny bed where unwanted newborns can be left anonymously, safely, instead of abandoned in dangerous places. The babies are taken in, cared for, and eventually placed for adoption. We stood there silently for a moment, humbled by the stark contrasts India presents so unapologetically: beauty and sorrow, compassion and hardship, grandeur and ruin, all existing side by side.

That evening we sought comfort in another Delhi institution - the restaurant credited with inventing Butter Chicken back in 1947. Rich, smoky, velvety and utterly decadent, it tasted of history itself.

Delhi by now had already begun to work its strange magic on me.

The following morning plunged us headlong into Old Delhi.

If Civil Lines whispered, Old Delhi roared.

We began at Raj Ghat, the serene memorial marking Mahatma Gandhi’s cremation site after his assassination in 1948. Eternal flames flickered softly amid flowers and quiet pathways. Haunting devotional music drifted through the gardens, and the place carried a profound stillness.

But tranquillity vanished the moment we entered Chandni Chowk. On a bicycle rickshaw.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — prepares you for Chandni Chowk. The old Mughal marketplace is less a market than a living organism. It pulses. It swarms. It overwhelms every sense simultaneously.

And with the chaos comes colour which is everywhere.

Rickshaws rattled past within inches of us. Cows hauled carts through impossible gaps. Motorbikes honked furiously while somehow avoiding collision. Street vendors pushed us to buy boiling hot chai in unglazed clay cups, others fried samosas in vats of bubbling oil, perfuming the air with spice and smoke. Merchants sold silks, jewellery, machine parts, saris, books, sweets, kitchen sinks - probably actual kitchen sinks somewhere too. Monkeys bounded across railings overhead while tightrope walkers balanced impossibly above the chaos below. Children tugged at sleeves asking for rupees. Every lane opened into another lane, another smell, another riot of colour.

It wasn’t simply sightseeing. It was immersion.

Towering above this frenzy stood the Jama Masjid, one of India’s largest mosques, built by Shah Jahan between 1644 and 1656. Ascending its vast steps felt like climbing out of the noise and into the sky itself.

The entrance was hectic. We paid our camera fee, and we paid to have our shoes stored, then we paid for me to rent a long dress and scarf (even though I was wearing trousers and had my shoulders covered). From the courtyard, Delhi stretched endlessly into the haze - domes, wires, pigeons, smoke and humanity all woven together.

Later we visited Shah Jahan’s magnificent Red Fort, once the palace of the Mughal emperors. Even in partial ruin, the fort radiates imperial grandeur. Marble halls, ornate arches and sprawling courtyards hint at unimaginable opulence and power. We spent a couple of hours taking it all in, realising we could only grasp a tiny handful of the history.

Our final stop was Akshardham, a modern Hindu temple complex that somehow feels both ancient and futuristic. Intricately carved sandstone glowed golden in the fading afternoon light. It was dazzling, theatrical, spiritual and deeply Indian all at once.

By the end of only two days, Delhi had exhausted and enchanted us in equal measure.

India doesn’t ask politely for your attention. It seizes it completely, with noise, colour, humanity, history and contradiction. It can break your heart one moment and fill it the next. And perhaps that’s why it feels strangely familiar to so many travellers; because beneath the chaos lies something profoundly human, raw and real, impossible to sanitise or forget.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this instalment of our India trip. Please re-stack it if you have.

Until next time,

Jo x

Of course it’s the day we’ve been preparing them for since they popped into the world, but the day of reckoning brings with it immense change.

When our second child pulled her overstuffed suitcase out of the door and into the car to head off for Uni, I was tearful for days.

So I’m now officially an empty nester I told myself. This is the empty nest syndrome that’s talked about.

It will soon be over I reassured myself, before giving in to another flood of tears.

I wrote heart-wrenching articles (see below) about our nest being empty and how awful it felt - as if I was missing a vital part. I went to the supermarket and forgot I was only buying groceries for just two. I missed the thrum of ear-splittingly loud music blaring out from behind closed doors down along the bedroom corridor.

I’d wander in and out of the empty bedrooms which echoed with the ghostly sounds of ghastly music, and pathetically I’d longingly touch and smell any garments still hanging in the wardrobes. Once I even found a Vuvuzela (scroll to the end of this story if you don’t know what it is!)

Little did we know that soon, in the general scheme of existence, our new homely equilibrium would change again.

But for a time life went on, just me and he, and it even expanded. We re-found ourselves as individuals and as partners, and we re-discovered our place in the world without kids.

We worked, we travelled, we retired, and then we became stuck in our ways, ensconced in a comfort zone looking down the barrel of our autumn years. Little did we know!

Dare I say it? We even became a little, well - dull and selfish. And we felt as if we were still in charge within the general hierarchy of our family.

Time goes faster as you get older. It’s true. Because almost as soon as we’d become used to the echoing silence of our four bedroomed house with just us in it, Old Man Time marched towards us, clutching his hourglass, reminding us of the relentless forward motion of life.

Much sooner than we anticipated he put an end to our cosy, hand-in-hand, Darby and Joan ways, travelling the world at will.

It started off with a little teaser period. Back came our young adults every now and then, shaking things up at home, giving us a little inkling of the new order to come. The family dynamics had changed.

Individually they each boomeranged back for a while, and we were left in no doubt that they already belonged to a new world, one which we were only just beginning to get the gist of.

This L-plate period was swiftly followed with the introduction of new partners, spouses, and a widening of the family net, a softening of opinions, and a different call on our time. Not long after along came a bevy of raucous grand-children.

Then things really changed.

With the grand parenting role comes a duty to be in the here and now, helpful but not offering unsolicited advice. We began to learn it’s better to leave out any ‘When we …” or “we used to … “ starter conversations, at least as far as we were able - because, things were so very different when we were bringing up children.

As one who enjoys my grown-up children as much as the feisty five year olds they once were, it’s wonderful having them back in the fold, complete with their own families. And these days our house is sometimes more packed to the rafters than it ever was when they were growing up.

When the overstuffed suitcases find their way back into the house, along with prams, travel cots, and a magnitude of baby paraphernalia, my heart feels full and the house feels small.

A beautiful chaos ensues, during which we all lay down any mighty expectations of calm of clean or of quiet, and enjoy time together as a happy, messy family. Opinions vary, moods come and go, energy levels differ, and dietary requirements vary. The house breathes out, and embraces the fledgelings who have flown back to the nest for high days, holidays and some in-between days.

After the initial readjustment, and if you’re watchful, you learn to relax and welcome a new order. One in which you’re not the principal anymore. You’re more often the deputy, positioned there to follow new rules and fit in with a whole new family routine. Don’t dictate, hold back on advice, watch, learn, and support.

You learn to adapt and enjoy new things, it’s as if the elastic which was once taught is stretched, altering the calcifying brain cells of old age.

How lucky are we? How very lucky.

So if you’re currently at the stage of living in an empty nest, devoid of your grown-up children, don’t downsize just yet or sell the family home, unless you have to.

Fill your time with amateur dramatics, write a book, join a walking group, travel or learn French in preparation for holidays (à deux) in France.

Don’t be too quick to turn the spare room (completely) into a study, because those children who have flown from parental clucking - and who have their own postcode - may well, in the not too distant future, be flying back to your house with extended families of their own in tow.

And when the prodigals return try not to smile with too much glee but do enjoy the energy, and the new perspectives they bring back into your life. It’s full of silver linings, and life changing at an age when you probably need it.

There’s a kind of alchemy that happens as they introduce new partners, diverse music, fresh opinions, opposing political views, younger fashion sense, and new friends - and let’s not even begin to talk about the grand babies!

Vuvuzela : A vuvuzela is a long, plastic horn commonly used by South African soccer fans to create loud, monotone, elephant-like noise (around 127 decibels) at sporting events. Popularized globally during the 2010 World Cup.

If you’ve enjoyed this article please restack or share it.

You might also like the blog posts I’ve written previously on Lifestyle Fifty and my WA Blog, ZigaZag :

Empty Nest Syndrome Survival Tips

Why an Empty Nest Isn’t Always Best

I’m an Empty Nester

Until next time,

Jo x

The other day I was termed a ‘mature lady’, and I felt it was used as a euphemism for ‘old’.

Now while I’d rather be classed as mature than immature, I’m not so sure that I like it when mature is perhaps meant to establish old or elderly.

But now I’m 68, am I really elderly? Is elderly the same as old? I know I don’t really feel it. And I’m certainly not going to give any indication of ‘acting’ old in a stereotypical way.

What Age is Elderly?

My mojo started questioning and wondering about getting older and the age old question surfaced; Why should age define us, especially what we can do, or can’t do?

It’s quite true that Murphy’s law of ageing states that just as we retire and have more time on our hands, so our health declines by increments, small at first, and then the big bits. Couple this with reaching milestone birthdays, and facing ageism in society, it’s no wonder that we can start to lose a certain amount of our ‘mojo’ as we get older.

When we first arrived in Australia and our children left home and became independent, I went through feelings of utmost loss and despair. The empty nest syndrome kicked in with a vengeance.

I missed them, and I missed my mothering role. I perceived I’d aged massively, and thought I had nothing to offer the world. I didn’t have a full-time job and I felt a bit useless after many years of mostly being a stay-at-home mum.

I looked in the mirror and wondered who that wrinkly lady looking back at me was and my self confidence detonated. I suddenly felt outdated, and irrelevant, and the world echoed that back to me.

Does your age define you?

I don’t know about you, but I did go through a stage when I let my age define me. When things didn’t go as I hoped, I started thinking things like, “Oh well, it’s the age I am.”

Now I’m well over the age of 60 I’m absolutely certain that mature or elderly doesn’t necessarily have to have a number attached to it. I think we are as old as we feel and act.

When I realised that being over 50 was not going to be like being over 20 or 30, and when our children left home, I felt I needed to reinvent myself.

I sat myself down and gave myself a stern talking to.

I wanted to evolve, not expire.

For a start I knew that I had to focus on eating healthy food and exercising properly in order to help myself age as best I could. I needed to keep a positive outlook and find joy in everyday.

Then I asked myself what it was I really loved doing, and what had most appealed to me when I was growing up. What were my dreams back then?

Well, apart from wanting to be a world famous show jumper when I was younger, my dreams were always to write and be a writer.

So in 2013 I started a travel and lifestyle blog.

And blogging changed my life, at a time when I was being referred to as a bit, well … past it.

Many people of my age asked why I would want to start a blog. There was a lot of technical stuff to learn after all. But I had a bee in my bonnet and nothing would stop my passion for writing.

Over time, blogging opened up the most amazing adventures for me, and my 50s and 60s have been some of the best years of my life so far. Blogging’s given me the confidence to try new things, and from being a wilting violet I’ve learned to take life by the horns and jump into having new adventures, and exploring new opportunities.

In my role as a blogger I’ve travelled widely, written travel articles for major publications, been published on Mamamia (in my late 60s). I’ve been fortunate to collaborate with fabulous fashion brands, and I’ve been interviewed on various travel podcasts.

I never would have thought that I’d be on national radio either. Not me. To tell you the truth before my 50s, I used to be apprehensive about giving an opinion at a dinner party (serious).

Blimey, who knew, this once terribly shy girl from Devonshire could be anything except, well, horsey?

Yet through the blogosphere I’ve met the most wonderfully giving and generous spirited community of people you can imagine, and I’m lucky to be part of a fabulous online community of feisty women.

The best bit though is that through blogging I’ve helped and encouraged other women who’ve lost their ‘Mojo’ in later life to try new things. To hear that I’ve inspired some of you to reach for and try something new whether it be in work, life, play or style is the best feeling ever.

Then at the age of 67 I started to ... Imagine ... just like John Lennon said. And my blogging and online peers inspired me to try new things too.

That’s why I’m writing on Substack!

So whether I’m termed mature, elderly or even senior, doesn’t really matter anymore! I have one life to live, and I’m living it the best I can.

Don’t let age define you

I really hope that you’re not letting age define you. I really hope that you are trying new things, or going out there and up-skilling, learning, adventuring. I’d love to hear about what you’re up to - please do tell me in the comments section.

Whether society wants to class us as ‘mature’ or ‘elderly’ or ‘senior’ or whatever word it chooses, that’s up to society. Don’t listen! We have a duty to ourselves to stay young at heart, and just keep on keeping on - especially loving life - always making the best of the cards life’s dealt you.

Most of all, make sure you’re evolving, always evolving.

Maturity vs. Elderliness: 5 Key Differentiators

So having thought about it, I think that the concepts of mature and elderly go hand in hand, like a nice tall glass of gin and tonic. They’re not incompatible, though there are some key differences that set them apart.

1. Age vs. Mindset

Maturity has absolutely nothing to do with how many candles are on your birthday cake. It’s really about how you think, how you handle life’s curveballs, and how you treat the people around you. Elderliness, on the other hand, is simply about the clock - it’s the stage of life you arrive at after enough decades have rolled by. One is about your head and heart; the other is about the calendar.

2. Growth vs. Stage

Think of maturity as a journey you’re always on - you’re constantly learning, refining, and becoming a wiser version of yourself. Elderliness isn’t really a journey so much as a destination, a chapter of life marked by things like retirement, a slower pace, and a body that’s starting to have its own opinions! One keeps moving; the other simply arrives.

3. Everyone Can Get There vs. You Have to Wait for It

This is the fun one. A fifteen-year-old can genuinely blow you away with their maturity, while a person in their nineties can still throw a tantrum worthy of a toddler! Maturity is open to absolutely everyone, at any age. Elderliness, though? You simply can’t fast-track it. You just have to live long enough - and there’s no shortcut for that.

4. It’s What’s Inside vs. What You See on the Outside

Maturity is almost entirely an inside job - it’s the quiet confidence, the empathy, the ability to sit with discomfort without falling apart. Elderliness, by contrast, is what you can see, the silver hair, the slower step, the stories that begin with “back in my day...” One lives in the soul; the other shows up in the mirror.

5. Respect You Earn vs. Respect That Comes with the Territory

Here’s a distinction worth chewing on: Maturity earns respect through how you show up in the world: your integrity, your kindness, your hard-won wisdom. With elderliness, a certain degree of respect tends to come automatically, simply because of the years lived. Though honestly, the most truly respected people are those who’ve managed to be both; elderly in years and magnificent in maturity.

Footnote: Age is a slippery concept to define - The Huffington Post adds some other terms such as New Agers, Respected Elders and Generation Botox. Wikipedia has this to say: “Most developed world countries have accepted the chronological age of 65 years as a definition of ‘elderly’ or older person. The United Nations has agreed that 60+ years may be usually denoted as old age,” and in Africa, The World Health Organisation set 50 as the beginning of old age.

What you think? Please share your thoughts in the comments.

Until next time,

Jo x

A land of a thousand temples, where daily life danced between the divine and the domestic - Bali was, by many accounts, heaven on earth.

But times have changed.

No longer sheltered from the outside world, this breathtakingly beautiful island now grapples with the crushing weight of mass tourism and all that comes with it.

So is Bali still Heaven - or has it quietly become something else entirely?

Read on to find out...

Not so long ago Bali was an island of a thousand temples where people lived in harmony with the divine, the demonic and the domestic. It was a place were daily life was celebrated in architecture, music, art and festivals honouring the spirits. A place far away from the invasion of the Western World, some called it Heaven.

Geographically, Bali is just over three and a half hours flying time from Perth in Western Australia. Due to this proximity it’s a draw card for us remote-living WA Aussies who find nowhere else that close. And because Bali’s culture is so different to everything Australian it feels a veritable world away - and we flock there, in droves.

For sure, today Bali is still steeped in magic and mystery and it’s still situated faraway at the end of the Malay Archipelago, less than ten degrees south of the equator and sandwiched between Java, to the west, and Lombok to the east.

Arguably, it’s still one of the most beautiful islands in the world. Its fertile volcanic soils give rise to what might be described as a tropical tsunami of flora. And though it might in comparison be poor when judged by materialistic Western terms, Bali is rich in culture and art, and steeped in complex spirituality and mythology.

But times have changed and no more is it far enough away to be safe from the corruptions, the advances, and the mass tourism of the 21st Century.

Heaven and Hell

I always find it surreal to be flung in such a short time, from the wide open, clean spaces of WA into the hectic, bustling, crazy, incense filled, tropical, often dirty, visually extraordinary Island.

And it’s lovely.

Or horrible.

As you wish.

Over the years I’ve become more of a Five Star Hotel Bali fan rather than Ketut’s-Kitchen-Stall-by-the- roadside-type-of- girl, which I was, when backpacking in Bali in 1983, and how different it was then.

I think to way back then and I thought I’d found paradise.

The quiet shack lined streets (yes even Kuta), the exotic smells ranging from frangipani to lemon grass, the unspoilt villages, the colours like a tropical aviary or an artist’s palette of sea blues and rice terrace greens, and the smiling friendly Balinese people, they all completely stole my heart.

Now though in many places it’s so busy, busy, busy with a melange of cars and scooters crowding the streets like swarms of locusts.

There are multitudes of massage parlours, nail salons, shops, and artisanal stalls all hawking something to tempt tourists. And beaches can be kaleidoscopically crowded.

And yet, sometimes, just when you’re least expecting it, the magical mystical Bali appears up a narrow alleyway or behind an old stone wall.

A quiet temple, a rice field, a river valley vast and deep, a colourful offering to the gods right at your feet, or perhaps a sylvan scene behind an ornate split gate.

Is Bali the split gate to heaven or hell?

Many many people still love Bali but others have fallen forever out of love. Like many other holiday destinations around the world Bali has inextricably altered, and any trip should come with a few warnings.

On the ethereal side of things, everyday life in Bali is woven with gods, demons and spirituality. You’ll find temples and antiquity wherever you look.

Physically the land can be wracked by volcanic eruptions, violent seas and monsoon rains making the paradise often seem more like hell.

Geographically away from the maddening crowds of the south the island is still lush, rice terraced and exquisitely beautiful, but there is an underbelly of darkness in Bali that wasn’t there when I first visited over thirty years ago and perhaps it’s associated with the march of the western world.

Do I still want to visit?

Of course.

Should my expectations of paradise be curbed. Absolutely.

So what do you get?

First and foremost, a completely different culture.

A tropical tsunami of colour.

An abundance of exotica.

Loads of interesting things to do.

Blue seas with gentle waves or if you prefer, good surf.

Incredible sights – imagine acres of neon green rice terraces and palm trees that stretch towards the heavens. The sort of green and verdant sights that are a gorgeous shock after the dry open spaces of WA.

5 Star hotels with beautiful gardens and numerous swimming pools.

Jolly good nosh at inexpensive prices.

A playground of culture and also holiday excitement. Everything from 8th Century temples to water sports and adventure activities. You want it? Bali can probably provide it.

Hassle – at least once you’re outside the hotel gates.

Water that you shouldn’t drink from a tap.

An environment that is not as clean as Australia.

Paradise lost and regained

These days the Seminyak and Kuta areas are a chaotic fusion of scooters, trucks, cars and people trying to sell you things. There are restaurants that can compete with anything you’ll find in Australia, and there are restaurants that can’t.

Pavements are uneven and cramped. Roads can be gridlocked.

Anything. T-shirts, DVD’s, trinkets, gift items, illegal chemicals, girls … you name it, and it will be for sale.

Markets are a feature in most tourist areas, and your tourist dollar will be lured with alacrity.

Bali has always been the place where young Australians go to play on a shoestring but now it’s super hectic, and this side of it is often not very nice anymore.

At Nusa Dua (the tranquil spot on the south coast that was created in the 1970s specifically as a haven for tourists with fatter wallets) you can expect the Five Star Bali where hassle is taken out of the holiday equation, but even this is changing.

Yes, it’s gorgeous, but be warned it’s getting busier. There are more hotels, more tourists, and it’s likely to take you a long time to travel by car to anywhere else.

These days, travelling from Nusa Dua to the factory outlets or the beach at Kuta in a taxi can take anything from a respectable 30 minutes, up to two hours, and travelling to the artistic mountain village of Ubud about 40kms away will take you around two hours.

Traffic aside, there are still glimpses of the old, magical Bali that I remember from 1983, although you need to travel further afield away from the south.

Meander up the east coast, visit the black sandy beaches of the north, or go inland to central Bali for the stunning UNESCO designated rice terraces.

Once you get away from the seething budget holidaying humanity, everything in Bali is voluptuous, bigger and brighter than in other places.

In the mountains Bali induces superlatives. It’s been called the split gate to heaven and Garden of Eden.

Away from the most touristy spots you’ll be surrounded by giant, waxy red and yellow flowers which hang like carvings, and sculpted palm trees that soar into the sky.

You’ll gaze at lilies, big white affairs and smaller feathery ones.

There are hibiscus flowers everywhere along with the ever present frangipani trees, their sweet, cloying scent hanging suggestively in the air, or perhaps wafting from right behind your ear as you are offered yet another bud with which to adorn yourself.

Touts, Tourism and Religion

It’s a fact that daily life in Bali is still indelibly linked to satisfying and appeasing not only the Gods but also the spirits and demons.

There are approximately over twenty thousand temples dotted across this tiny tropical island and everywhere you look or don’t look you’ll come across small offerings of rice dedicated to both gods and demons; these are garnished with flowers set in small cupped palm leaves, and you need to be careful not to step on them.

You may be tikka’d with rice on your forehead, and perhaps before a car journey into the mountains a prayer will be uttered for safe travelling. Offerings might be purchased by the driver and more prayers will be said which is both comforting, and a little disconcerting as you gaze down a mountain abyss.

Visit the ancient Besakih Mother Temple located in the foothills of the still active Gunung Agung volcano, which erupted and spewed lava around the area in 1963.

As early morning mist hangs over the mountainside it will be peaceful, cool and other worldly. You’ll perhaps encounter a Balinese prayer procession, and plenty of touts.

Be forewarned. For here 8th Century heaven has merged with 21st century hell. For you pay to enter the area, you pay for the WC, you have to buy or rent a sarong, make a donation to the temple to get in, and pay a guide. And you have to bargain for it all excepting the official entrance fee.

Yes, there is always an ‘angle’ to obtain money from tourists in Bali, and you will have to decide whether this puts it into a heaven or hell category, because hagglers are persuasive and it can be wearing. At the very least you need to go prepared with patience and some degree of bartering power which takes into account both paying a reasonable price so that the seller can earn a fair wage, and on the other hand ensures that you are not heftily ripped off.

And Now?

Bali has long been confronted by disasters like floods, volcanoes and earthquakes, but the foreign invasion of tourism, that seems to be both its economic saviour and its spiritual slayer is ever present.

Will the beautiful Balinese spirit hold out against corruption?

The people, the land, their art and architecture are visual statements of the harmony in which the Balinese live with one another as well as with their gods and demons.

But the inescapable march of the 21st Century is chipping away at this balance, blow by blow from the southern part of the island upwards.

And yet … the magic is still palpable.

The scenery is still significant.

The people are genuinely lovely.

And I, for one, can’t wait to return.

Have you visited Bali? Do you want to?

If you’ve enjoyed this article, please share or restack :)

Until next time,

Jo x

My answer? You’re asking the wrong question. The real question is: Why would you ever stop?

Here’s what I know after living in 11 countries, packing and unpacking countless wardrobes, and navigating the fashion expectations of dozens of different cultures: the bohemian look is one of the few style approaches that actually improves with age.

Because boho isn’t about looking young - it’s about looking free.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Boho

Let me be clear about what I mean when I say “boho” or “hippie style,” because these terms get thrown around until they lose all meaning.

Real bohemian style is about natural fabrics, comfortable outlines, mixing prints fearlessly, and accessories that tell stories. It’s maxi dresses and flowing tunics, wide-leg pants and peasant tops, layered jewelry and oversized sunglasses. It’s earth tones punctuated by vibrant florals. It’s the antithesis of “dress your age.”

Many of us were actually around when this trend started - we’re not copying it from Pinterest, we lived it. That gives us an authenticity that no 25-year-old fashion blogger can fake.

Why This Style Actually Suits Us Better Now

The brilliant thing about boho fashion is that it was designed for comfort and individuality, not for impressing anyone or hiding anything. Which means it works for every body type, every age, every mood.

Curvy? The flowing fabrics celebrate your shape without clinging. Petite? Vertical lines and maxi lengths create movement without overwhelming. Somewhere in between? Everything works.

I’ve spent decades in fitted clothes, restrictive waistbands, and shoes that looked great for the first hour. Now? I wear what makes me feel like myself. Wide-leg palazzo pants. Floaty white blouses. Maxi dresses I can actually breathe in.

The Essentials (That You Probably Already Own)

Before you start shopping, look in your wardrobe. I guarantee you already have pieces that work. Wide leg pants are all the rage right now. Wide-leg or palazzo pants in ethnic prints are even better -comfortable and elegant.

Maxi Dresses and Skirts
The ultimate boho staple. Go for earthy tones, florals, or solids depending on your mood. Pair with cowboy boots if you’re feeling bold, sandals if you’re not. The key is comfort and flow.

Jeans (Yes, Really)
Skinny jeans work in summer with a loose, flowing top and sneakers or strappy sandals. In winter, pair them with a poncho-style top and boots and an ethnic style cardigan.

Tops That Move
Bell sleeves, peasant-style tops, tunics, anything floaty. I live in loose white blouses during Australian summer. They’re cool, they photograph well, and they don’t require a thought at 7am.

The Accessories That Matter
Wide-brimmed hats (essential in Western Australia’s sun), oversized sunglasses, layered necklaces, stacked bracelets. I have a wide rimmed black that that I’ve worn to three continents. Best purchase I ever made.

What I’ve Learned About Mixing Prints

One of the questions I get most: “Can I really mix prints, or will I look ridiculous?”

The answer is: mix them, and stop worrying about looking ridiculous.

I’ve watched fashion icons like Kate Moss and Sienna Miller do this for decades. Floral maxi skirt with a striped top. Tribal print tunic with paisley pants. The combinations you’d think wouldn’t work are exactly the ones that do.

The secret? Confidence. If you’re second-guessing yourself, it shows. If you’re comfortable, people read it as intentional style.

Winter Boho (Because Not Everyone Lives in Perpetual Summer)

Don’t abandon your bohemian soul when the temperature drops. Layer with long cardigans, chunky knits, denim jackets. Add warmth through deep colors - burgundy, forest green, mustard yellow.

Living in Norway, my online friend Yvon (who runs Ibiza Boho Girl on Instagram) rocks the winter boho look better than anyone I know. Poncho tops with skinny jeans, statement boots, woolly beanies. She proves the style works in any climate. Check out more of her style here, Boho Style Over 50 and find some cool shopping suggestions.

The Truth About “Age-Appropriate” Dressing

Here’s what I’ve come to understand: the concept of “age-appropriate” fashion is designed to make us invisible.

The rules say we should wear neutral colors, conservative cuts, nothing too attention-grabbing. Why? So we don’t take up space. So we fade into the background.

I reject this completely.

I wear brightly coloured knee length linen dresses that float over my curves and team them, like this one below, with a statement handbag and art scarf.

I wear flowing maxi dresses because they’re comfortable and I like them. I mix prints because it’s fun. I pile on costume jewellery if I want to because it makes me happy. If that makes me “inappropriate” for my age, then I’m delighted to be inappropriate.

Where This Really Happens

Boho style isn’t reserved for music festivals and special occasions. It’s my everyday uniform - grocery shopping, coffee with friends, walking the dog, traveling.

A basic outfit for me: well-fitted jeans, a loose boho top, comfortable sandals or boots depending on the season. Add a scarf or hat, done. It takes thirty seconds to put together and works for 90% of my life.

The beauty of this approach is versatility. You can dial it up for special occasions with statement jewellery and a dramatic maxi dress. You can dial it down for errands with simple separates. The core aesthetic stays the same.

What AI Can’t Teach You About Style

AI can generate articles about “boho style tips,” but it can’t tell you what it actually feels like to wear these clothes through real life.

It can’t tell you which fabrics hold up after a decade of washing. Which items work when you’re actually walking through airports, not posing for Instagram. Which accessories are worth the investment and which are just clutter.

That knowledge comes from experience - from living in these clothes across continents, climates, and decades.

Your Assignment (If You Want One)

Please share your boho style dress tips in the comments. Let’s see how many of us still love the hippie era.

Next up? I'll be taking you to the magical island of Bali!

Until then, channel your inner hippie. She never really left.

Jo x

Leave a comment

I’ve written widely about Boho style on my Blog. You might also like:-

• 7 Boho Chic Outfits to Ignite Your Inner Free Spirit

• How to Create Boho Outfits Without Really Trying

• 5 Reasons Why I Love Maxi Dresses and Boho Style

• Boho Style Outfits : How to Create a Bohemian Look

• Best Boho Dresses and Affordable Boho Clothes for Over 50

  My Blog : Lifestyle Fifty

P.S. Some items featured in the images in this post, and the posts above were previously gifted, and some link to affiliate links from which I stand to earn a small commission but at no cost to you. Thank you for supporting my endeavours.

My husband says this to me with the kind of patient exasperation our friends reserve for their shaggy golden retriever who’s just discovered their new couch.

And honestly? He’s not wrong.

Here I am - a capable woman who spent nearly 30 years dragging suitcases across continents as (what used to be called, rather charmingly and of course not at all condescendingly) a trailing spouse - and now I’m perfectly content to be glued to my keyboard, deep in the rabbit hole of my Blog or Substack while the actual world carries on outside the window.

The irony is not lost on me.

After all, getting out of the house is where the real living, the hands on learning, and often the deep engagement in life begins.

I’m not saying that we need to journey widely to learn significant skills and life lessons from travel, nor do we need tour guides at every juncture. Not at all! I think we can benefit from a simple outing, wherever it takes us however short or long.

However, once I’m off the couch and away from Substack I’m deeply curious. About life, about places, about history.

And I love travelling. Whether I’m on a day trip to Bussleton, or setting off in our pop-up caravan on a weekend escape through the gorgeous south of Western Australia to somewhere like Albany, or embarking on an overland adventure of discovery in India, I’m constantly learning.

Getting off the couch and into the void is what matters.

The reality is that the journey itself never stops mattering. Even a two-hour drive to somewhere new does something to your brain that no amount of scrolling or Googling can replicate.

So whether you’re planning a round-the-world adventure, a glamping weekend, a cruise, or just a solo Saturday somewhere you’ve never been - I want to make the case for going. Properly going.

Here’s what travel has genuinely given me over the years, and what I think it might give you too.

Travel hits the reset button.

Life gets busy and loud. Sometimes you just need to be somewhere nobody knows your name, your schedule, or your to-do list. Honestly? There’s something really refreshing about being anonymous, or being somewhere wild and remote.

To prove to yourself that you can.

Navigating a foreign train system, ordering in a language you don’t speak, figuring it all out on the fly - travel is quietly, brilliantly good for your confidence.

To eat all the things.

Let’s be honest - half of every trip is planned around food. Pasta in Rome, curry in Rajasthan, Laksa in Malaysia, Nasi Goring in Bali, street noodles in Bangkok, Pastel de Nata in Lisbon, pain au chocolate in Paris … travel is basically a delicious excuse to eat your way around the world discovering authentic dishes and flavours you don’t get at home.

To feel alive again.

Routine is comfortable, but it’s also quietly numbing. A new place wakes you up - suddenly you’re noticing things, feeling things, and remembering that the world is wonderfully, overwhelmingly big.

To see what all the fuss is about.

You’ve seen the photos a thousand times. But standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, gazing directly at the Taj Mahal, or seeing the Northern Lights for real? Turns out the fuss is entirely justified.

To collect stories and experiences.

Souvenirs collect dust. But stories? Stories get better every time you tell them - and somehow you were always just a little bit braver, the restaurant a little more hidden, the sunset a little more spectacular. Yes, I know … embellishment (ahem, I’m also good at that!)

Honestly though, stuff breaks or ends up in a garage sale. But the memory of getting wonderfully lost in a cobblestoned city and finding the quaint restaurant where you ate the most delicious meal of your life? That one will live rent-free in your head for years.

To actually talk to people. Strangers! It’s fine!

Travel forces conversation in the best possible way. You ask for directions, someone asks where you’re from, and suddenly you’re sharing a table with a retired teacher from Bruges who has opinions about cheese. You come home a slightly better communicator. This is not nothing.

You realise everyone is winging it, just like you.

One of travel’s great gifts is the humbling realisation that the confident-looking woman with the Lonely Planet guide book sitting at the next table to you in Madrid? She’s most likely also confused. Also figuring it out. Nobody has the secret. We’re all just here, doing our best. Oddly comforting.

Travel rewires how you think about “the destination.”

We spend so much of our lives chasing the arrival - the promotion, the house, the milestone - that we forget we’re already living the interesting part. Travel, especially the messy, unplanned bits, teaches you that the journey is the point.

You get surprisingly good at budgeting.

Nothing sharpens your financial instincts like being in a foreign city with a fixed amount of cash and a deep desire to eat well. You become your own CFO, fast.

You learn to go with the flow — or at least, stop fighting the current.

Plans fall apart. Flights are delayed. The “charming boutique hotel room” turns out to be a tiny room above a nightclub. The long haul flight is hellish. And somehow, you survive. More than that - you adapt. That skill, the expect the unexpected muscle, becomes one of the most useful things you’ll ever develop. In travel and in life.

To come home a slightly different person.

Every trip teaches you something - about the world, about other cultures, about yourself. You leave with a suitcase. You come back with a new perspective. (And possibly an overweight suitcase.)

You think more about world issues and history

You begin to think about life differently. You may begin to question the status quo of your own existence; whether you want to go back to live in the same place or stay in the same job. Travel, both near and far might make you rethink a once firmly held belief, or question your political stance or even your views about a certain person.

History becomes embroiled with the present

Wherever you wander, history will be evident if you keep your eyes open. That old building on the corner - what was it used for once upon a time? Who lived there? What did they do? What impact did they have on the world? Any kind of travel makes you begin to think about people past, about world issues, and about how history has shaped what’s happening today.

You get better at saying No.

Away from the usual cast of people who need things from you, and removed from the shackles of friends’ and family expectations, you develop a quiet sense of your own worth. You stop people-pleasing out of habit. You’re able to say no to the optional tour, the pushy vendor, the adrenalin charged activity you don’t want to do - and nothing bad happens. Revolutionary.

You stop judging quite so much.

Or at least, you judge less. Travel is a great equaliser. When everyone around you is navigating something unfamiliar, you stop keeping score. You start extending the kind of grace to strangers that you probably should have been extending all along at home.

You learn to properly observe.

This one is underrated. Travel slows your eyes down. You notice light, texture, faces, small moments. You become more present, almost by accident.

And finally, just travel for the sake of it - because life is genuinely, terrifyingly short.

Not to get too deep about it - but one day you won’t be able to go. So while you can, while your legs work and your passport is valid and there’s still so much world left to see ... go!

So yes. My husband is right. Get out of the house!

It doesn’t have to be far. It doesn’t have to be expensive or Instagram-worthy or life-changing in any grand sense. It just has to be out there, away from the familiar — because that’s where the good stuff tends to happen.

Home is lovely, but so is leaving it. I’ll be taking my own advice this weekend. Probably.

What have you learnt from travel? Where are you off to next? Even if it’s just down the road — I’d love to know. Drop it in the comments.

You might also like these travel posts on my blog: -

Travel Advice from a Savvy Ex-Travel Attendent

9 Top Travel Bloggers talk Cruising: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Since then, I’ve become much more aware, not anxious, just smarter, because I realise what could go wrong, very often does go wrong.

After more than 40 years of long-haul travel (with children in tow and later without them), I’ve learned that staying safe isn’t about fear. It’s about being quietly savvy. It’s about thinking one step ahead, noticing what’s going on around you, and putting a few simple habits in place so you can relax and enjoy the adventure.

I don’t want you becoming someone’s easy target on what should be a joyful holiday.

So in this article, I’m sharing the practical, real-life tips I now swear by - the little things that make a big difference, so you can travel confidently, safely, and happily.

Before you travel

Okay, I know researching anything other than where to go and what to do can sound boring, and isn’t the most exciting part of travel planning. But trust me, looking into the official stuff first is so worth it.

Before you jet off, take a little time to get familiar with the local laws, customs and dress requirements of the countries you’ll be visiting.

Do pay attention to any travel advisories your government has put out. Check out sites like SmartTraveller for current alerts about where’s safe, and where’s not.

Make sure you apply for any Visas that are necessary and also inform your bank of your travel plans to prevent your cards from being blocked.

Get comprehensive travel insurance.

Please don’t travel without it. A good policy should cover medical emergencies, trip cancellations, theft, and evacuation if necessary. Medical care abroad can be extremely expensive, and insurance can be the difference between a manageable situation and a financial disaster.

Don’t forget to copy those docs!

This one might sound a little boring, but hear me out because it could save your trip. Before you head off, make both digital and physical copies of all your important documents; your passport, travel insurance, visa, and emergency contacts. Pop the digital ones in your email or a cloud service like Google Drive, and tuck a printed set somewhere separate from the originals - like a different bag or your accommodation safe. Why? Because if your bag gets lost, stolen, or you accidentally leave your passport in an Uber, you won’t be left completely stranded in a foreign country having a total meltdown. Future you will be SO grateful that past you took that extra 10 minutes.

On the road - safety first

Okay, real talk. We’re all guilty of wandering around a new city with our nose buried in our phone, trying to figure out where on earth we are. But here’s the thing: looking distracted or obviously lost can unfortunately make you a bit of a target for theft or scams.

Keep your wits about you!

Try to check your maps before you head out, walk with purpose, and keep your phone tucked away as much as possible. And please, please listen to your gut! If a place gives you a weird vibe, or someone is making you feel uncomfortable, just leave. You don’t owe anyone an explanation - your safety always comes first. Your instincts are smarter than you think, so trust them!

• Watch out for scams. Don’t ‘look at the baby,’ if you’re asked to, and don’t let a stranger divert your attention and engage you in conversation while you’re being discreetly robbed of your valuables from behind.

• If public transport is crowded then hang on to your bag. Clamp it in front of you and cover the zipper or the opening with your hands. Otherwise tie a scarf around the zipper and the strap of the bag using a secure knot. Be very aware of pick pockets in crowded places - Paris metro was our downfall.

• Travel with a crossbody bag that has a strong shoulder strap and anti-theft features.

• Don’t ever put your mobile phone in your back pocket.

• Only change money with authorised dealers, banks are best.

• Use ATM’s in well lit and secure locations. If anyone dodgy appears to be hanging around just walk away. Alway cover the keyboard from above with your hand when you punch in your pin. Try and have your partner or a friend act as a shield around you to prevent anyone leaning over, or getting too close.

Secure your money and Valuables

I find crossbody style bags are the best for sightseeing. Please don’t go sightseeing with a large, top-opening tote bag, or a flimsy, fashionable shoulder bag. They might be okay on an airplane, but not when you’re walking in crowds. A stylish, practical bag (with anti-theft features if possible) that you can wear confidently across your body makes you look more like a local, and less like a tourist.

You could also carry your passport and cash in a secure money belt (although this screams tourist) or tuck cash and credit cards into a hidden pouch beneath your shirt.

Don’t take all your credit cards and cash out of the hotel at once. Leave things in a safety deposit box if you can. Lock up excess cash, passports, important documents and credit cards you’re not going to be needing.

You might also like this post ... Best Crossbody Bags for Travel

Travel Hacks for a super holiday when you’re over 50

Let’s be honest - once you’ve sailed past 50, comfort isn’t a luxury, it’s a strategy.

These days, I choose destinations the way I choose shoes. They should be interesting to look at, supportive and good for gentle exercise. I realise that I’m never going to audition for a role in Cirque du Soleil so there’s no need to practice tackling cobblestones in flimsy sandals or kitten heels. For safety’s sake I wear sensible footwear and pay attention to rutted surfaces.

I’m content to have outgrown the need for the adrenalin rush. I much prefer seeking out destinations with a captivating history: At this age, we’ve got time for stories, so why not explore destinations with fascinating tales to tell? It’s a lot safer and smarter than say parachuting on your 60th birthday!

Now’s the time for discovering fabulous scenery from the deck of a ship or a luxury canal cruise. It’s my time to find quaint cafés and places with a view where I can sit with a coffee and watch the world drift by. And I really like the thrill of discovering ancient alleyways less travelled, and the serenity gained from taking long walks through beautiful scenery. Top it all with a sunset cocktail and I’m a very happy traveller.

Smart Travel Tips

My Kindle is now as essential as my passport. It’s lighter than lugging novels around, slips neatly into an airplane pocket, and best of all, I can read at night without disturbing my partner. Marriage saver.

A practical word about coach holidays: Always ask whether there’s a toilet onboard. If not, check that they schedule regular stops. Trust me, travelling as a carefree 20-something on a Contiki trip is a very different experience from touring with companies geared towards mature travellers like APT or Trafalgar. One size does not fit all - especially when it comes to bladder capacity.

Embrace the “Early Bird Advantage.” The days of dancing until dawn are long gone - and honestly, I don’t miss them. I love wandering out early, beating the crowds, and taking full advantage of early dinner reservations. There’s something satisfying about being back in your room with a cup of tea while everyone else is still queueing.

And finally don’t be shy to admit you’re a senior because: “Senior Discounts!” Ah, the sweet sound of savings! Take advantage of senior discounts and perks wherever you go. Whether it’s discounted museum tickets or reduced train fares, being over 50 definitely has its perks, so have some form of ID handy, and milk them for all they’re worth!

I’ve written lots of articles about how to pack for long haul travel, but I always come back to this basic advice: Pack smart casual, comfy clothes that don’t crease, that can be washed easily and which you can layer with undergarments and overgarments. Opt for roomy dresses with sleeves, that are comfy to wear on planes, trains or buses and can be dressed up a little for night time. Take comfy shoes. Take a scarf.

Travel doesn’t have to get smaller as we get older, but it should get smarter, and if we do it right it can be infinitely more enjoyable.

Looking for more travel tips? You might like to check out the following posts on my blog Lifestyle Fifty.

10 Tips for long haul travel in Europe

21 Tips to make Long Haul Flights easier

Ultimate Packing List for International Travel

Got any travel scams to share? Or travel tips, and travel experiences that have taught you how to travel wiser. I’d love to hear about them in the comments section.

Until next time,

Jo

I don’t find the memories hilarious! Not at all. I was no doubt red-faced and anxious leaving Hong Kong airport, heaving an enormous suitcase onto the scales while the airline staff exchange that look - you know the one. The suitcase weighed more than some of my travel companions! And the kids’ carry-on daypacks (and mine) would also have been bulging at the seams.

I was proud of that big suitcase that could hold over 30kg when stuffed full. It could accommodate everything. Backup outfits for the kids and I for every conceivable weather scenario, a full-size hairdryer, various types of shoes “just in case,” various toys and enough toiletries to stock a small pharmacy. I was prepared, I told myself.

What I actually was, it turns out, was a porter for unnecessary belongings.

And when the kids had grown up, I still lugged that enormous suitcase to the UK from Australia, because I couldn’t give up all the ‘just in case’ items. My family tut-tutted every time they tried to fit said enormity into the boot of their car when ferrying me to and fro from a coach or railway station. I think the breaking point came when my step father transported my case to the bus stop in his wheelbarrow, rather than wheeling it!

Fast forward a few years and something shifted - and honestly, a lot of it came down to my energy levels and my knees, and the fact that as empty nesters we began to travel more.

There’s nothing quite like hauling an overweight bag through a cobblestoned European street, and then up four flights of stairs to a charming-but-lift-free Air B’n B, to make you reassess your entire relationship with stuff.

My body, which had loyally carted my excess baggage around for years without much complaint, started sending very clear memos. We need to talk, the memos said. About all the shoes. About all the ‘what if items’.

So I started experimenting. On one trip to Bali, I forced myself to pack in a single carry-on. I agonised over every item. I put things in, took them out, put them back in, took them out again. I rang my travel companion in a mild panic asking if she thought I’d need two cardigans.

Dear Gentle Reader, I did not need two cardigan, for the tropics!

What I discovered on that trip - and have confirmed on many journey since — is that I wear a fraction of what I pack. I can buy almost anything I forget, and the freedom of breezing through an airport without checking in a bag is one of travel’s great underrated pleasures. No waiting at the carousel. No white-knuckling moments hoping my bag made the connection. No huge excess baggage fee I hadn’t budgeted for.

Don’t get me wrong. I travel with carry-on only when it suits my trip. If I’m on a cycling, walking and eating-in-nice-restaurants trip, then I do use a suitcase. But it’s manageable, and if it ever gets stuffed to capacity if only weighs in at 20kgs - though generally I pack only around 12 - 15kgs depending on the itinerary, which also means I have room for any gifts I might buy to bring home.

The other thing I’ve learned is that packing light isn’t about deprivation - it’s about being intentional. It means choosing clothes that actually mix and match rather than entire standalone outfits. It means taking items I can wash and dry easily and which don’t need ironing, it means decanting toiletries into small bottles. It means accepting that if it all goes wrong, most destinations have shops.

I also started keeping a packing checklist, refined over many trips, which has become my single most useful travel tool. Not because it tells me what to pack, but because it stops me packing what I don’t need. There’s a difference between a list you add to and a list you edit down, and the second kind is far more useful.

Below you’ll find the checklist I now use every time I travel - tested across multiple climates, and ruthlessly stripped of the second cardigan scenario. Plus, I’ve included my 13 hacks for successful packing.

Your back will thank you. Your shoulders will thank you. And if you’re anything like me, you might just find that travelling lighter feels, unexpectedly, like freedom.

Happy travels — and may your bag fit in the overhead locker (at least sometimes!)

Packing Checklist

• Passport and Visa (and copy of each either on my phone or a hard copy)

• Travel Insurance Documents

• Tickets/Boarding Pass/Copy of insurance docs

• Cash and Credit Cards

• Emergency contacts and passwords

• Mobile Phone/Camera//Laptop/Kindle & Chargers

• Adaptors/Power Board

• First Aid Kit (and any prescription medication)

• Antiseptic wet wipes

• Tissues

• Toothbrush and Toiletries

• Pen and palm sized notepad

• House keys!

• Light waterproof mac or poncho

• Sun protection hat.

• Sun tan lotion

• Sunglasses and reading glasses.

• A crossbody bag for everyday use.

• Noise cancelling headphones

• Waterbottle

• Sarong (which can always double up as a towel)

• Silk scarf

• Ziplock Bags (for things like your phone charger, tablets, hand luggage liquids, house keys, mobile phone in bad weather)

• For a 2 week vacation I’ll try and stick to the following: 4 Tops, 4 bottoms, 1 sweatshirt, 1 cardigan, 1 fleece jacket, 2 dresses. One pair of walking shoes (or trainers), one pair of sandals (or boots), one pair of ‘going out shoes’ and some leak proof underwear.

13 Clever Packing Tips

1. Roll, don’t fold. Clothes rolled tightly take up less space and wrinkle less.

2. Use scarves to create attention. One scarf can change your entire look. It can also cover your shoulders if you’re visiting temples. It can warm your neck if it’s cold, and it can be tied around your hair. You can also knot it to secure your handbag opening (tie the scarf onto the zipper and tightly knot it onto the strap).

3. Stick to 3 pairs of shoes max. Wear your bulkiest shoes on the plane.

4. Only pack neutrals + one pop of colour. It’s the easiest way to look pulled-together.

5. Pick a base colour and then layer. For warm-weather destinations take a couple of 3/4 length pants in a base colour such as black or grey, then add base colour tops, and a colourful tunic top to ring the changes. If it gets cooler you can add a t-shirt shirt underneath a tunic top, and a cardigan over the top, followed by a jacket. If you’re heading for cold weather then take long pants, an under slip, a long sleeved t-shirt and layer with a cardigan then add a jacket.

6. Try to make sure that every top matches every bottom.

7. Start with your shoes, then choose items that go with your shoes rather than vice- versa. You will have far more to wear and will pack less.

8. Accessorise cleverly. A statement necklace or earrings take a plain tee from casual to chic.

9. Travel knickers & bras matter. Comfortable, breathable, quick-dry undergarments can make your trip 10x more comfortable.

10. Pack a “day bag” outfit. In your carry-on, stash a fresh top, underwear, and scarf in case of travel delays.

11. Buy an identifiable luggage tag for your suitcase or individualise your suitcase with bright ribbons, shoelaces, or stickers so that it’s not the same as everyone else’s black suitcase on the luggage carousel.

12. Always travel with a sarong. It’s a towel, a picnic rug, a dress, a rug, a head covering, a sunshade.

13. A friend of mine has this advice for anyone embarking on longer cruises: “I take 4 dresses suitable for evening wear. One for Mondays and Wednesdays, one for Tuesdays and Thursdays and one for Friday and Sundays, and then something special for Saturdays. Then I apply the same rule for day wear.”

Have your own packing tips? I’d love to hear them in the comments.

Next Week: I’m taking you back to India for my second Rajasthan post - “From a Maharaja Banquet Hall to a Family Table: Rajasthan’s Spectrum of Stays.”

Until next time,

Jo

Travel feels different at 67 than it did at 25. I no longer chase intensity for its own sake - but I still crave meaning. This piece is about what happened when I returned to a country that once overwhelmed me, and discovered that age changes the traveller more than the destination.

When India was first suggested as a holiday, I hesitated.

We wanted adventure - not a lie-by-the-pool, cocktail-in-hand escape - but at 67 I no longer travel with the reckless resilience of my 25 year old backpacking self. My immune system is less cavalier, my energy no longer boundless, my patience no longer elastic. I crave discovery and meaning over gung-ho escapades and Kingfisher beer fuelled nights.

Having backpacked through India in 1983, I felt certain my 2026 expectations would be met. I remembered the onslaught to the senses. I expected noise, colour, humanity and chaos to press in from all sides. I was prepared to feel hesitant, anxious, slightly undone. This was not going to be a holiday of serenity and ease.

And yet, arriving in Delhi felt like slipping on an old glove that had been sitting quietly in my pocket for years.

Comfortable. Familiar. Known.

We arrived just before dawn on a hazy winter morning. The air was cool, smudged with smog. Instead of bracing myself, I found myself exhaling.

Our first day unfolded gently in the gardens of Maidens Hotel in Civil Lines - one of Delhi’s oldest surviving colonial-era hotels. Indian palm squirrels darted across the lawns, babblers chattered in the trees, parakeets flashed green overhead. It felt tranquil, almost improbably so.

Then we stepped outside the gates.

Tuk-tuks rattled past. Car horns shrilled without restraint. Traffic thrummed and surged. The air vibrated with movement.

A short walk led us to Qudsia Bagh - once a Persian-style garden of water channels and pavilions, now a crumbling echo of its former elegance. A derelict mosque and the worn stone arch of Hathi Gate leaned into the present, speaking of empires, revolts and time’s quiet erasure. History in India does not sit neatly behind glass; it frays at the edges in plain sight.

Along the road we passed a Mother Teresa orphanage. In a recessed window, a small cradle - a Palna - waited silently: a place where unwanted newborns can be surrendered anonymously. We walked on, quieter than before, suddenly alert to the stark contrasts India presents without apology.

Delhi revealed itself as a living paradox - ancient and urgent all at once. At Raj Ghat, the simple black marble memorial marking Mahatma Gandhi’s cremation site, flowers lay fresh against the stone and soft devotional music drifted through the air; it was unexpectedly moving, a pocket of stillness in the capital’s restless heart.

Hours later we were swallowed whole by Chandni Chowk - a riot of colour and commerce where rickshaws tangled with cattle carts, monkeys balanced along railings, merchants hawked everything imaginable, and the senses simply surrendered.

We climbed the vast steps of Jama Masjid, Shah Jahan’s grand 17th-century mosque, wandered through the formidable Red Fort - once the palace of a Mughal emperor - and ended the day at Akshardham, a modern temple complex shimmering with devotion and spectacle. It was a whirlwind of faith, empire, noise and reverence - a day that left us exhilarated, reflective, and acutely aware of both India’s antiquity and our own privileges.

Later that evening, we found ourselves at the restaurant said to have made Butter Chicken famous. I hadn’t realised this most comforting of curry dishes dates back to 1947. In India, even the familiar carries history.

Our journey through Rajasthan over the following weeks connected me with everything that sustains me - continuous learning, the uncovering of ancient culture, history appearing in the most unexpected places, culinary discoveries at every turn. Yes, there was sensory overload. At times it felt like being thrown into a kaleidoscope and shaken - dazzling, disorienting, impossible to categorise.

Gustave Flaubert once described his Egyptians travels as being “hurled while still asleep into the midst of a Beethoven symphony.”

Alain de Botton, in The Art of Travel, suggests that travel reveals our character by exposing us to places we might, unexpectedly, prefer to home.

When I returned to Australia, I felt acutely aware of my privileges - our orderliness, our space, our dependable infrastructure. I was grateful for clean tap water, plentiful loo paper, the absence of relentless noise. Coming home to long, straight, empty roads and vast open land was a profound relief.

And yet.

Almost immediately, I longed for India again.

For the jewel-bright saris against the dust.
For the call of “Chai! Chai!” rising above the traffic.
For antiquity leaning into the present on every street corner.
For the heave and pulse of humanity lived so visibly, so unapologetically.

I returned relieved.

I remain enchanted.

My India series follows our travels - the stories, the itinerary, and what India revealed about travelling well at this stage of life.

Photos Dave and Jo Castro

You know that moment when you’re standing in front of yet another cathedral, your coffee has worn off, and your tour guide is delivering what sounds like their doctoral thesis on 14th-century Gargoyles, and you need a pee? Yep, me too!

Now that I’m at, shall we say, an advanced age of travelling, I have no time to lose.

Let’s face it, most of us are travelling not only for enjoyment but also to find out more about the people, places and cultures we’re discovering. We’re not travelling to prepare for a doctoral thesis on architecture, or swotting for a degree in history. If we arrange a city tour, or any other kind of sightseeing tour, we’re looking for an engaging, informative and possibly humorous few hours, possibly with a loo stop, and coffee (somewhere interesting) thrown in.

Well, at least I am!

But the thing about tour guides is that by the time you’ve said ‘yes’ to their offer, and set off to tour a city, you have no idea what level of detail, history or knowledge you’re getting.

Essentially it’s a tour guide lottery out there!

Here’s the thing: Many tour guides are brilliantly educated (for instance, in Spain, they actually need university degrees) and most of them are incredibly knowledgeable, and absolutely determined to transfer the entire contents of their brain into yours during your two-hour city walk.

The problem? Many of us are operating on our holiday brain, fuelled by espresso and pastries, with the retention capacity of a goldfish. And while we may want to deep dive into a city or a culture, there’s only so much we’ll be able to remember a few years (or in my case, a few hours) later.

The Academic, The Actor, and The Machine-Gunner

On a tour through Europe and Morocco, we collected tour guides like some people collect fridge magnets. And they came in all varieties.

There was the one who sat at the front of the bus, delivering history in great rhetorical chunks, his gravelly sotto-voce making everything sound vaguely conspiratorial. His information seemed lifted straight from academic textbooks. It was most probably accurate, certainly thorough, and about as sticky in my brain as water on a raincoat. I was genuinely relieved there wasn’t an exam afterwards.

Then came the Mediterranean Lothario, all swarthy looks and swanky dress sense, delivering facts like he was calling a horse race. Lots of energy, lots of hair gel, a brown leather coat, and not much that actually stuck.

Another guide channeled pure acting school. I remember her performance far better than anything she actually told us. And one poor soul just machine-gunned information at us, rat-a-tat-tat, leaving us all shell-shocked and confused.

The One Who Got It Right

But then, oh then, we found the good ones.

The best guide spoke slowly, repeated himself in different ways, and wove the city’s story together like he was sitting across from us at a bar, spinning yarns over drinks. He understood something crucial: after your tenth cathedral and fifteenth palace, you’re not capable of retaining dates or pronouncing foreign monarchs’ names. You’re just hoping for fun facts, a laugh and an overall picture of what you’re experiencing.

As Mark Manson brilliantly put it when he was writing an article about book summaries: What you really want is, “The most useful information spoon-fed to your brain like an overgrown child in an intellectual high chair.”

Exactly.

When History Gets Juicy

In Granada, we struck gold. Our guide had a wonderfully naughty sense of humor and understood that the best history is gossipy history.

She told us about Juana La Loca (Juana the mad) - sister-in-law to Henry VIII and elder sister to Catherine of Aragon - who married the memorably named, Philip the Handsome when she was just 16. When Philip died, Juana refused to part with his decomposing body. She carted him around Spain in his coffin, periodically opening it to kiss his increasingly skeletal remains, searching for the perfect burial spot.

Really?

Now that’s the stuff that sticks. Let’s have another look at the tomb!

Or the ancient drainage system in Fes Medina - over 1,000 years old and still working! Sure, there’s an occasional foul smell as you walk around, but we could forget about that because we were encouraged to focus instead on the mind-bending engineering achievement: Like how did they even do that a millennium ago?

What Actually Works

The guides who understood their craft knew that we didn’t need every date, every battle, every architectural term. We needed stories that connected past to present, that showed us how our world fits together. We needed the quirky bits, the amusing scandals, the universal truths about how humans have always been, well, gloriously human.

Give me medieval gossip over military conquests any day. Show me the drainage systems, the love affairs gone wrong, the mad queens refusing to let go. Tell me about the black sheep of imperial families rather than reciting another list of glorious victories.

Because here’s what I learned touring through Europe and Morocco: the best guides don’t try to make you an expert. They give you colorful threads, an observation here, a juicy story there, that you can weave into your own understanding. Little pieces of the labyrinth that help you see how it all connects; how Morocco was the gateway between Africa and Europe, how history can often be an endless soap opera played out in elaborate buildings.

The Bottom Line

By the time you’ve done multiple city tours, you’re not looking for encyclopaedic knowledge. You’re up to your ears in mosques and cathedrals, your brain is full, and you just want someone to make it all interesting again.

The tour guide lottery is real, my friends. When you win - when you get the storyteller who makes Juana the Mad come alive, or who can make you care about ancient plumbing, it’s magic.

When you lose? Well, refer to a good guide book and find a cute cafe for strong coffee and a delicious pastry.

What’s your tour guide horror story - or your moment of tour guide brilliance? I’d love to hear it in the comments.