Episode 12: The Prodigal Sun

All good things must come to an end. My travels conclude crammed into another dehumanising aeroplane surrounded, for the first time in over three months, by my fellow countrymen. Let me run you through them, with ne’er a punch pulled. In front of me is a pallid, dumpy mum in an adidas tracksuit, positively spitting with abject rage at her son Ethan for the reprehensible crime of moving his legs occasionally. I have had the edict “Eefan, put yor soitbelt on and face der front, oim warnin ya!” bored into my protesting skull. Ethan’s dad is across the aisle from his happy family, soul searching his individually plastic-wrapped disposable headphones and looking about as cheerful as a laudnam-addled poet composing his latest ode to death.

To my immediate left are an enormous couple, who look like the sorts to offset their nutrient-free, processed-meat dense diets by drinking Diet Coke instead of full fat. Behind me is a nauseatingly middle class social justice warrior, smug glasses perched underneath his smug curtains, who sat down and, with absolutely no coherent segue or encouragement, has spent the last hour delivering filibuster polemics on climate activism, vaccine mandates, racial reparations and trans rights lectures. He’s made some good points, but the poor woman looks as if she is seriously considering taking a shortcut to Islamabad, over which we are currently flying. I am doing my best to shoot her a pained, sympathetic glance.

I feel inexplicably fond of all of them. Perhaps it’s just nice to have some company with whom I can legitimately complain about the excessive heat in Thailand, and the lack of it in London. Or people who are sufficiently cynical to sympathise when I roll my eyes at the over-zealous, obsequious flight attendant.

There’s been another hiatus from this blog, for which I apologise; I should really bring you all up to speed on the last fortnight. I stayed on Koh Tao for much longer than intended, because I loved it so much. An island that small soon felt like MY island, especially once I became a regular to the restaurant, hostel and bar staff. Every traveller was more than willing to be my best mate for a while, so I had made quite the international cast of friends by the end. I attended jungle parties, went snorkelling, swimming in the sea, took boat tours, zipped about on mopeds and visited the viewpoints for some spectacular sunsets, each activity shared with a colourful combination of new people. And we drank. A lot.

The typical length of stay at any given location for a backpacker usually doesn’t exceed a week. My beloved German companion Johannes left, followed by all the various pals we’d made. I was still reluctant to follow, which worked out pretty well, because a mate from school rocked up to Koh Tao with her own posse of co-travellers in tow. Adi, Henry, Savannah and Katie have a dynamic so intensely intimate that I’ve never heard of the like before.

Their borderline polyamorous relationship officially had its origins in Vietnam, where they dubbed themselves “WAGS” - an anagram of their surnames’ initials. They are (still) a family. They do everything together, love each other, argue with each other (less often than you’d think) and are inseparable. So insular was their dynamic that I was told to consider myself extremely fortunate to be integrated at all - and even then, I was only an honorary member. The WAGS moniker was not to be amended.

But integrated I was, and for the first time I was travelling with a group of friends. It was great. It felt as though there was almost nothing daunting enough to extract us from the comfort zone that was each other’s company. Even disasters, like Sav domino-effecting dozens of parked mopeds, or me slicing my feet open on the coral.

When we sauntered into town to pick a restaurant to make our own for the evening, and lounge around in stunning locations playing cards and drinking Changs, the world really felt like our oyster. But it has to be said: retrospectively, I don’t consider it travelling. It was holiday-making. Less discovery, more debauchery. Less insight, more convenience. All of us are learning far more about each other than we are about ourselves. Which is no criticism. It’s an observation.

I returned to Bangkok to brave the Khaosan Road with Jonny, another Sixth Form mucker. Then, in the nick of time to gatecrash mum’s 50th birthday bash, I boarded my Thai Air flight. Speaking of, there’s a reason I am inflicting my rude aeroplane anecdote on you all. It’s because this final episode is a love letter to home. I have not felt homesick once. But WAGS was a canapé of home, and now that the prospect is so close, I am ecstatic to be returning. We come in to London just as the sun has sunk, the greatest city in the world unfurling like a starry sky below us. Like reuniting with that mate from school who always punched your arm or gave you wet willies, it is shitting it down with rain in Blighty. I grin to myself as I pull on a jumper and pair of socks for the first time in weeks.

I read a quote in Raf Behr’s new book, which offers an answer to the question “what is a country?” Ece Temelkuran - whoever that is - defines it as “A vast land and a table. It is a table surrounded by loved ones to whom you don’t have to explain your jokes, and the vast land that surrounds it, which is mostly your imagination.”

This sentiment is why, I think, I am not a very good traveller; why I’m not someone who might get addicted to the road, like cousin Mads was. I am far too content with home - be that the country itself, or the people in it - to be sufficiently restless. You might think that makes me sound middle aged. I think it’s a compliment to you all, because you really don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. My unedifying plane companions are reminders that no matter its foibles - and at present there are many - there truly is no place like home.

The last three-and-a-bit months have barely experienced a blip in the wall-to-wall fun. But by Golly, it’s good to be back.

Thanks for reading. Fxx