“What, on your own?”

“What, on your own?” is a phrase I heard, uttered in horrified tones, throughout my early twenties. My adventures to the likes of Helsinki, Bucharest, Vilnius and Trondheim were tame by the standards of internet travellers but by the standards of the people I encounter in day-to-day life, I might as well be venturing to another planet.

I’ve been travelling on my own far longer than I’ve been a solo female traveller. My first ever trip was to a raptor protection camp in southern Italy, aged fourteen. That time wasn’t on my own but my companion was my fourteen-year-old best friend and the pair of us were not just unaccompanied by adults but met at Calabria airport (so we hoped!) by strangers from Germany, in the pre-mobile phone age. That’s travelling alone in practice, really.

Red-eyed me in Italy on my first solo travel adventure aged 14

Then I spent a year in Switzerland as a language student and although I started French grammar at 8am, we were often finished by mid-afternoon and so I spent a lot of time on the train to as many corners of the country as I could. On my own. I was an adult by then and had adult schoolmates but they cared more about their schoolwork and results than I did and after a few weeks I gave up begging them to come with me. So embarking on a career as a solo female traveller wasn’t really a major step.

My first selfies on a train home from St Gallen in 2006
This is the day I discovered selfies, on the train home from St Gallen.

It’s not just travel. It started as travel and gradually, I got used to not having other people around. I got used to enjoying not having other people around. I can do what I want when I want. I live an independent life, not a lonely one. And gradually I began to notice everyone around me. I heard someone say “I want to see that new film but my husband doesn’t want to so I can’t. I’ll just have to wait for the DVD.” That’s so far beyond my comprehension. You can… just go and see it by yourself. You really can. Or you can go with friends. I know you have friends. I’ve met some of them.

The one I still see is eating out alone. People really don’t like it. I regularly see tweets saying things like “I was so scared but I brought a book and sat in a corner” and they’re trying to tell you how brave they are as if eating without adult supervision is something that requires courage. Touring comedians tell horror stories of being seated by the window where everyone can see that they’re alone. Even solo travel blogger types seem uncomfortable with it more often than I would expect. I don’t eat out much. I’m Too Difficult. But there’s a pub a ten minute walk from work where I go for a nice melty cheese panini far more often than I should and for the first couple of years, I didn’t even know this was a thing I should be nervous about. I do take a book but it’s not for moral support. It’s because I get bored waiting for the food to arrive and if I don’t distract myself from eating then it’s entirely possible I can panic from the sensation of having food in my mouth. Yeah, I’m a delight to eat out with. The staff at that pub know my order and occasionally look surprised when I sit at a different table because my usual one is already taken.

Then I come back to work and I get “Where did you go?” and I tell them and guess what response I get? “What, on your own?” Yes. Yes, as a grown adult I did manage to walk ten minutes down the road in broad daylight into the market town full of elderly folk, enter a public eating establishment, order some food and then eat it, with no help at any point in the process. 

But travel is still where I get it the most. People were just getting used to it – after ten or so years – and then within the space of a month and a half, I went to Amsterdam with my sister and to the Innsbruck Christmas market with my parents and sister. That did it, that reset it back to zero. Every time I’ve gone anywhere since then, the question has come up again. Surely two trips have taught me the error or my ways and I will now go everywhere in the company of a family member?

Sitting on a girder at A'Dam Lookout in Amsterdam with my sister

I go to places on my own for two reasons. Number one, people don’t want to go there with me. My dad went to New York and Las Vegas with my sister, who didn’t want to go on her own. I was nervous about Russia and I asked if he’d come with me. Flat no. He didn’t want to go to Russia. People don’t want to go to Svalbard or Kyiv or whatever outlandish destination I’ve picked this time.

Selfie near Alyosha monument on the hill above Murmansk
Any excuse to reuse this selfie from Murmansk

Number two, I don’t want people with me. Those two family trips reminded me of that. My mum flaps and fusses and wants to be out the door fifteen minutes before the time she told me we were leaving. There’s no getting on the wrong bus and finding out what happens. That’s a recipe to be furiously hissed at for the next week. There’s no stopping to wander the Christmas market without prior permission and a set time to return to the hotel. People want to stop and eat. I don’t do actual meals. I picnic along the way and graze all day. I don’t want to go into KFC and fail to find a table until the food is cold and then sit and eat it. I don’t want to make and stick to plans. I don’t want to go along with someone else’s plans.

Drinks in a Haarlem creperie while waiting for crepes
Alright, fine. I wouldn’t have gone in this Haarlem creperie if left to my own devices and I did enjoy that.

So yes, on my own. Please, I’ve been doing stuff on my own for as long as you’ve known me. It’s what I do. Stop asking. And once in a while, just once a year maybe, just when you want to do a thing, try it out by yourself.

….

Five minutes after finishing writing this, I answered the phone to my company director who enquired about my Christmas plans. “At home for Christmas and in Switzerland for New Year,” I told him. “Very nice,” he said. “On your own?”