Years ago in my native Aberdeen, when the conversation
strayed to “folk down South”, we meant people in Edinburgh and the sybaritic
Scottish Lowlands. In Edinburgh the same phrase described inhabitants of
London, in that land of Babylonian excess. Every area will have its “down
South” unless you are lucky enough to reside in Cape Town or unluckily drew the
short straw of Patagonia.
Such provincial viewpoints are gradually fading away though
pockets of parochialism survive. I recall a London colleague who had never
ventured as far North as Manchester in over 40 years. East Anglia and the West
Country are also a very “settled” areas whose denizens seldom see the point of
wandering far. Even in the Cotswolds, I recall being told by a yokel nephew
that his uncle, now past 80, hardly ever left his farmhouse but had just once
gone to highly respectable Cheltenham, returning permanently shaken by its
debauched ways.
I have Scots friends whose wanderlust always astonishes me.
One vigorous Aberdonian pal decided to go East and bounced from Abu Dhabi to
Bangladesh to Hong Kong, then languid, luxurious years in Indonesia before
retiring to Australia via Germany. An old Dundonian friend fled local
accountancy to start in Hong Kong then moved to Paris, Brussels, Newfoundland
and Quebec before many years of happily running his farm in balmy Costa Rica.
By comparison I am decidedly stay-at-home, seldom leaving Europe, although I
spend many months annually in Greece. In Greece of course the sunshine is
wholly reliable and the place would be heavenly if the electricity supply,
plumbing, tax rates and rule of law were equally reliable.
Mass tourism and the Boeing Jumbos have transformed our
society. My own parents thought they were smart trail-blazers when they flew to
Italy in the early 1950s, having previously been austerely contented with
Cruden Bay, Southport and Bournemouth. For
younger people now, the world is their oyster. As if they are taking a bus,
they will jet off for the Maldives, St Lucia or the Galapagos Islands,
destinations which seemed beyond contemplation a generation ago. Two of my
itchy-footed sons have recently swapped London for New York in pursuance of
their careers and, well-travelled in Europe, they have holidayed in exotic destinations in
Malaysia, Bali, Mexico and Thailand. They already know many high-spots in the
States and no doubt now find a casual weekend in Florida or a hedonistic trip
to New Orleans much to their taste.
I personally am coming to accept that I shall never see the
Pyramids, Machu Picchu, the Taj Mahal or Ayers Rock (or whatever they call it
now). I resist the pressure of those books telling me of 101 places I must see
before I die and shy away from the associated “bucket list”, a catalogue of
things to do before the bucket is finally kicked. As someone said, it is often
better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Yet I can only admire the
perseverance of those bucket list travellers; a supposedly terminally diagnosed
friend of mine returned from Nepal in rude good health and I imagine he will
keep on the move for years yet.
I do not feel diminished by any gaps in my life’s itinerary;
I have seen plenty lovely places, fondly recalled, but I certainly do not have
the proverbial ants in my pants. I cherish tranquillity; travel can be
exhausting and frustrating; it is invariably painful to the wallet, a
particularly tender spot for an Aberdonian. There is the well-known adage: East, West, Home’s best. Oh, for the
comforts of home, wherever that may be! As Yeats sang: I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
SMD
15.11.14
Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2014
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