LITMIR.BIZ

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it had been Harry’s idea. And admittedly, grabbing a backpack and trotting off to see ancient Inca ruins had hardly been on my top-ten list of things-to-do-before-you’re-thirty. But, as much as Harry’s impulsive plan had taken me by surprise, almost as soon as I’d agreed to it I began to feel a little spark of excitement ignite inside me. Hadn’t I always, secretly, felt a little like I was missing out when I heard others talk about their travel experiences? And it was only three months… why not make the most of it, see some more of the world, safe in the knowledge that my dream of starting a family would still be possible when I come back?

      It might not have been my idea, but if we were going to do this, I was going to make it my trip, too.

      So I started researching destinations on the internet. It began with a casual google on my phone during the long train journey home, but I got increasingly drawn in to reviews, blogs and stories of exotic creatures, jungle hikes, mountaintop camp fires and tantalising local cuisine.

      I bought an updated version of the Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia travel book, and found myself staying up later and later each night, underlining and folding down corners and writing in margins. A scribbled wish list began to take shape on the final page, with places I’d never heard of until a few weeks ago gradually coming to life and clamouring for my attention as I jotted down place names, addresses and ideas.

      Yet, even as my excitement and anticipation about the trip had gained momentum, Harry seemed increasingly distracted as the countdown to our departure began. Distracted… and, if I’m honest, downright grumpy and difficult.

      ‘I want to try humitas,’ I told him one night as he climbed into bed beside me. ‘There’s this café in the old town in Quito, Ecuador – it had the best reviews in your old guidebook, and it’s still here in the new version I bought – look.’

      Harry had been quite insistent that we begin our voyage in Ecuador. Something about it being nice and central with easy overland connections to the rest of the region. I hadn’t minded, as it was all uncharted territory for me – like choosing between Mars or Saturn or Jupiter for your first space voyage. But after reading more about each place on our sketchy itinerary, I felt I actually had something to contribute to our plans.

      ‘They’re like steamed corn cakes with a cheese filling – apparently really traditional in Quito and the highlands,’ I persevered, still holding the guidebook aloft across the bed, where Harry hadn’t taken it from me. ‘And this café has its own unique recipe, passed down through generations, along with other typical Ecuadorian food and live music… I’d really like to go there.’

      ‘Christ, you sound like some sort of tour guide,’ Harry muttered, slumping back on the pillows and reaching for his phone. ‘Can’t you give the planning a break for a bit?’

      Smarting, I turned to stare at him, letting the guidebook flop closed on top of the duvet beside me. With the light already out, only Harry’s profile was visible, illuminated in the light from his phone, suspended above his face.

      ‘Harry… what the—? Why are you being like this?’ I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, determined not to have an argument at a time like this, when we should be pulling together to plan the adventure of a lifetime… shouldn’t we?

      ‘Can you at least look at me?’ I persevered, my irritation swelling as the flickering light across Harry’s face told me he hadn’t even stopped scrolling through his news feed when I spoke.

      A tense silence filled the space between us for a few seconds. Then the light disappeared as Harry dropped his phone and rolled over to embrace me.

      ‘God, babe, I’m sorry,’ he muttered into my hair. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t mean to be horrible. I don’t know what’s come over me the last few days. I… I’m glad you’re looking forward to the trip so much.’

      I felt his arm wrap around me tightly, and listened to his breathing gradually change as he drifted off to sleep. It was so unlike Harry to snap at me like that, I had no problem forgiving him. But another, deeper sense of unease stayed with me as I stared into the darkness… yes, I was looking forward to the trip, more than I had initially ever expected I would. But why was it starting to seem like Harry wasn’t?

      The next morning, in the light of day, I reminded myself again that Harry was just really busy. We had so much to sort out before leaving the country, it was understandable he was preoccupied. It’s a big step, I told myself as I took my first sip of coffee and booted up my laptop. I must be patient with him. He’s probably just nervous about leaving his job, and everything else, behind.

      Funnily enough, my own feelings of apprehension and nervousness about the journey had seemed to subside with every passing day, as I did more research and had more ideas. One idea in particular had started taking shape in my mind, one that I decided not to even share with Harry. At least, not yet. Almost every travel blog and expat website I came across told stories of volunteer opportunities, some with links to charities and organisations, offering foreign travellers the chance to work with the local community in a colourful variety of ways. I fleetingly recalled the Gap Year Gang at university, and at last began to see their tales of teaching street children or renovating school buildings in a completely different light. For what better way to experience another country than from the inside, living alongside its people, and by giving something back?

      So I also began noting down information about volunteer work. There was a women’s refuge in Peru that welcomed foreigners to visit them for the day and give a lesson in English or another language. A children’s charity in Venezuela offering free city tours in exchange for volunteers’ time at their day school.

      Could I really do something like that? Even as I scrolled through their websites, I got cold shivers at the thought of standing up in front of a room full of women, or – even worse – an entire class of children.

      But, even so, I printed out the information, wrote down the phone numbers, and filed them away in my ever-growing folder of travel ideas. I didn’t have to actually contact them, I consoled myself. But simply having the information to hand made it feel a little less like ‘Harry’s idea’.

      As we arrive at Mum and Steve’s that evening, Mum flings open the front door before we’ve even turned the engine off.

      ‘Sweetie!’ she cries, loud enough for the rest of the street to hear, smothering me in a hug right there on the driveway. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Come inside, I’ve got those chocolate crispy cakes you like!’

      I feel a pang of guilt then, thinking of all the weekends over the past few months when Harry and I have chosen to do something else instead of make the two-hour trip up to Essex to see Mum. Whatever Harry says, it’s only really an hour and a half if you leave early on a Saturday morning. As Mum herds us inside the house I tell myself firmly that, once we’re back from our travels, I really will insist on making time to visit her more often.

      My remorse is short-lived, however.

      ‘Do you have internet banking?’ I hear Mum asking Harry as he follows her into the kitchen. ‘If so, you should cancel it, love. It’s dodgy. I’ve been reading about this man who—’

      ‘Hacked the Pentagon computer systems… yes, I know,’ I snap, more impatiently than I’d intended, as I almost go flying in an attempt to avoid standing on her large black-and-white cat, Chester, spread out inconveniently in the middle of the hallway carpet.

      ‘I’m serious, Kirsty, it’s not safe. I’ve been reading about it.’

      ‘Right, Mum, I’m just going to use your toilet…’ I step past her and lock myself gratefully in the sanctuary of her downstairs loo.

      What is it about being back in the company of your parents that can turn the most articulate and sensible twenty-something into a stroppy, monosyllabic thirteen-year-old? However much I tell myself before each visit to my mother’s house that this time I really will make an effort to be more patient with her… it’s bizarre how, within five minutes of being in her company,

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