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f his old friends by mail as she refused to use any form of communication except pen and paper. My father often criticized her for living in the Dark Ages. Personally, I think she was living in the Enlightenment…<figure id="7d1d"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/0*IQve9egmD_ObkT6g"><figcaption>(Image/ Public Domain/Victoria Museums)</figcaption></figure>I’ve been in this job three years now. And I’m itching for a change. I can feel it in my bones. Some mornings, I have to literally stop my legs from carrying me down the road to the bus stop to take me back to the city.I miss the stimuli, the bustle, and opportunity of the metropolis. The ability to wander the streets anonymously, to observe the strangeness of our species. To go into a bar, or a restaurant and eat some food you’ve never had before. Or simply to sit on a park bench because you’ve run out of things to do.But do I want to go back to the city after nine years of clean air. Roads which I can cycle on without being killed. Where I can scream at the top of my voice and not be heard by a soul?It’s a dilemma. City or countryside? Fresh air or smog. Silence or noise?I suppose I could move to the suburbs…<figure id="b14e"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*HZYn5rzZEiQgIdWXK31evA.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@aviosly?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Avi Waxman</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure>As an adult, I’ve always lived in the middle of nowhere, or in the beating heart of the city. But perhaps now I’m older, the suburbs are my destiny.That glorious place where nothing ever happens, but one feels secure and safe. Safe in the knowledge the city is close, but at the same time you can get out into nature within fifteen minutes.I could talk with my neighbours about bin collections, or swap anecdotes about recent shopping trips to the Hypermarket. Or complain about the bright street lights. Or drive to a diner every Friday and hang out with all the other mums and dads who also wonder what happened to their dreams.You might think I’m being facetious. I’m not. I grew up in the suburbs. I know what it’s like. I used to cycle on my BMX around the maze of roads where I lived thinking I was in my own private world. Then I’d stop off at the new MacDonald’s they’d built and order a Big Mac. Paradise!I grew out of that when I was 16. One day my BMX got stolen (the suburbs became corrupted), and that was the end of the fun. Two years later, I left home, and didn’t return.<figure id="8696"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*mOSC71v0IUxz-CRlx9JQjw.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@dee_cavalheiro?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">bhim dutta</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/old-bmx?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure>Bruce Chatwin once saidMan is happiest when he is on the moveI don’t think you can argue with this. After all, isn’t it why we go on vacation?My father never went on vacation to see a castle or a ruin. Or to go to a water park. Or to swim with dolphins. Or eat ice-cream on the beach. He went on vacation to get away.</p

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‘I’m just looking forward to getting away,’ he always said, even if we were just going on a rainy seaside vacation to Skegness.It didn’t really matter where we went. We could have gone to Mars if the technology had existed. ‘Can’t wait to get away,’ he would have cried out as he packed his shorts, snorkel, and spacesuit.This wanderlust we inherited from our nomadic ancestors still burns strong in us. Even in our present day form as sedentary Homo sapiens, we still possess that burning desire to get away…to Skegness.<figure id="42bc"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*QZd47rbOOac-VZDxFEpgLA.png"><figcaption>Skegness (Image/OpenStreetMaps.org)</figcaption></figure>Even my cousin — the most sedentary of beings — goes on vacation. And this is a guy who hates leaving the house to go to the supermarket. But once a year he says to me, just like my father did, ‘You know what Philip, I’m really looking forward to getting away.’Why not? As Voltaire saidIt might not always be good. But it will certainly be new.Thanks for reading. For more non-nomad stuff, check out.<div id="cc1f" class="link-block">

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Where am I?

The Art of Being Alone

A brief history of a 48-year-old nomad

I moved around a lot as a child, and the habit never died. I’m currently on my 50th address, and I’m only 48.

My cousin, who I grew up with, lives in the house in which he was born. He never left home. When his parents died, he stayed put.

I can’t blame him. I wish I’d done the same. Instead of spending the last thirty years criss-crossing the globe tangling myself in knots.

I’ve been in my current job here in Normandy for three years. Before that I was looking after a crumbling 18th century château in South West France. Before that a lonely farmhouse in Abruzzo. Before that a spooky hotel on the edge of the Arcachon Basin. I could go on…

Like strong wine, you need a strong head for this sort of thing. You have to like being alone and not afraid of ghosts. The château in France was occupied by a hundred dead souls. And in Italy during the winter, I didn't see anyone for three months. Yet I enjoyed it immensely.

In the mornings, I used to swim in deep pools fed from a mountain stream that ran next to an old Benedictine monastery. Then I’d run for an hour to warm up, before gorging on pasta for lunch. In the afternoon, I painted the house for the owners ready for their return in the summer. In the evening, I watched Netflix…

The internet has made these assignments easier. I remember doing a teaching job in Warsaw at the turn of the millennium, and lived in an old 30-storey Soviet apartment. I had no TV, no phone, no internet. Just an old Russian short-wave radio that I listened to the BBC World Service on.

I miss those days. That lack of communication with the outside world. When # was something you found on a nerdy calculator. And @ was only found in emails. Not that anyone replied.

‘Did you get my email?

‘Er, no, sorry I haven’t checked it for about six months. Was it important?’

I wrote letters instead, and waited for people’s reply. Sometimes it took months, but I always got one, and I still believe there’s nothing better than getting a reply to a letter.

After the recent death of my father, I corresponded with one of his old friends by mail as she refused to use any form of communication except pen and paper. My father often criticized her for living in the Dark Ages. Personally, I think she was living in the Enlightenment…

I’ve been in this job three years now. And I’m itching for a change. I can feel it in my bones. Some mornings, I have to literally stop my legs from carrying me down the road to the bus stop to take me back to the city.

I miss the stimuli, the bustle, and opportunity of the metropolis. The ability to wander the streets anonymously, to observe the strangeness of our species. To go into a bar, or a restaurant and eat some food you’ve never had before. Or simply to sit on a park bench because you’ve run out of things to do.

But do I want to go back to the city after nine years of clean air. Roads which I can cycle on without being killed. Where I can scream at the top of my voice and not be heard by a soul?

It’s a dilemma. City or countryside? Fresh air or smog. Silence or noise?

I suppose I could move to the suburbs…

As an adult, I’ve always lived in the middle of nowhere, or in the beating heart of the city. But perhaps now I’m older, the suburbs are my destiny.

That glorious place where nothing ever happens, but one feels secure and safe. Safe in the knowledge the city is close, but at the same time you can get out into nature within fifteen minutes.

I could talk with my neighbours about bin collections, or swap anecdotes about recent shopping trips to the Hypermarket. Or complain about the bright street lights. Or drive to a diner every Friday and hang out with all the other mums and dads who also wonder what happened to their dreams.

You might think I’m being facetious. I’m not. I grew up in the suburbs. I know what it’s like. I used to cycle on my BMX around the maze of roads where I lived thinking I was in my own private world. Then I’d stop off at the new MacDonald’s they’d built and order a Big Mac. Paradise!

I grew out of that when I was 16. One day my BMX got stolen (the suburbs became corrupted), and that was the end of the fun. Two years later, I left home, and didn’t return.

Bruce Chatwin once said

Man is happiest when he is on the move

I don’t think you can argue with this. After all, isn’t it why we go on vacation?

My father never went on vacation to see a castle or a ruin. Or to go to a water park. Or to swim with dolphins. Or eat ice-cream on the beach. He went on vacation to get away.

‘I’m just looking forward to getting away,’ he always said, even if we were just going on a rainy seaside vacation to Skegness.

It didn’t really matter where we went. We could have gone to Mars if the technology had existed. ‘Can’t wait to get away,’ he would have cried out as he packed his shorts, snorkel, and spacesuit.

This wanderlust we inherited from our nomadic ancestors still burns strong in us. Even in our present day form as sedentary Homo sapiens, we still possess that burning desire to get away…to Skegness.

Even my cousin — the most sedentary of beings — goes on vacation. And this is a guy who hates leaving the house to go to the supermarket. But once a year he says to me, just like my father did, ‘You know what Philip, I’m really looking forward to getting away.’

Why not? As Voltaire said

It might not always be good. But it will certainly be new.

Thanks for reading. For more non-nomad stuff, check out.

The Joy Of The French Half Bath

— and why I hate showering

medium.com

Where Have All The Wi-Fi Free Zones Gone?

I stopped flying when they banned smoking. Chain-smoking Marlboros was the only way to pacify the growing panic I felt…

medium.com

The Best Movies You’ve Never Seen

But say you have any way, so you don’t sound like a jerk

medium.com

Why Vacations Are No Longer Vacations

Simply work days at the beach

medium.com