As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a traveller; a creature of the road.
Certain questions haunt me and I think I travel to find my answers: to meet and to know, to ask and to ask again. The Holy Lands call me back, Egypt feels like an old friend and the open spaces of my memories remind me why I move. Why I must.
I’m happiest in dusty places, where the roads are long and rarely flat, where maps are vague, and silence still howls against the digital tide. I’ve travelled alone, in love, with friends and with family, always to visit people, to meet language; to sit with strangers and leave as friends, to tell stories and have them told to me. A quiet conversation in a roadside café can teach more than a thousand guidebooks.
I will always be restless. My rucksack will always be half packed. Had I been born in another time, I might have been an explorer, a soldier of fortune. Instead, I just ‘go’—to learn, to witness, to hold onto what I can before it fades. Because travel, at its best, isn’t about passing through. It’s about paying attention.