Wanderlust

How many times in your life have you woken up under the same sky? Walked the same streets to the same job and said the same old things to the same old people? It occurs to me that I've done this more times than I can count, and whilst it's not an inherently bad thing, it does leave me wondering what else is out there.

Those of you who know me will recall that I've spent the last 7 years talking about my intention to go travelling. As somebody with very little in the way of actual direction, this dream is one of the few that has continued to gnaw away at the forefront of my mind. Issue is, due to some complicated family history, I wasn't able to get a passport until just under 6 months ago.

Long story short?

My maternal great-grandparents decided that it would be a good laugh to raise the most elusive child in history and leave virtually no record of his birth. Unaware of this, I searched for his details for months to no avail, and began to consider the possibility that I may be descended from some kind of Jason Bourne-style super-spy. This idea was quickly discarded as it seemed far more likely that my grandfather was an immigrant from Papua New Guinea, and I worried that once David Cameron figured it all out I would soon be deported.

My first taste of duty-free alcohol.

For those of you who don't know me; I am a 5'6, ginger chap from Wales. With that in mind, the lengths I had to go to just to prove I was British were nothing short of painstaking. Seriously; I'm so pale that in the right light you can see my heart. Fortunately, what I lack in height, I make up for with detective skills that would put Batman to shame, so eventually I was granted that little red, leathery key to the world and thus embarked on my first holiday.

I should clarify that a 3-week alcohol-fuelled bender in Spain is not my idea of travelling, but at the time I was happy enough just to be walking different streets. Even if those streets were heavily populated with drunken TOWIE rejects and wily prostitutes.

I did all the things a young man does when he finds himself on an island where the main form of sustenance is sambuca; I smoked, drank, got absolutely rinsed by strippers and entered a state of perpetual hangover. But as I say, this didn't feel like travelling.

5 months on, it feels as if "travelling" has become nothing more than a placeholder term assigned to an aspirational eventuality. I wake up each morning and consider the day ahead; knowing exactly what that day will hold. At 24, surely I'm too young for life to have become so routine? I'd like to think we all are.

So maybe it's time to rethink it all? Essentially, the only things that are stopping me are time and fear. Fear is easily conquered, and as long as you make time an ally instead of something you rage against, I guess there's not a great deal you can't achieve. You just have to want it enough.

For now, I'll settle for small steps. With that in mind, if anybody has any suggestions for a cheap, 1-week getaway in January, that'd be swell.

Because I'm f***ing clueless.