Photo by Paul Tritschler

Midway through the event, a woman seated in the front row of the audience asked the panel of four authors, all of whom had made an appearance for the purpose of promoting their recently published travelogues, if they could explain in simple terms how their notion of travel differed from what most ordinary folk called holidays. Nothing is more difficult than to be simple, but the elitist charge implicit in her question, one that was somehow rendered more pointed by her affected pleasantness, laid another layer of complexity. The moment demanded deflection by way of a pithy response — l’espirit de l’escalier might have suggested a poignant quote from Ibn Battuta or something whimsical from Rabelais. Instead the panel, with a tad too much haste, dug themselves into a defensive trench, and in the process shovelled dirt on what they ill-advisedly and repeatedly referred to as common tourism. And they wouldn’t stop digging.

Conversations erupted throughout the room but eventually settled into silence, and no indication was given that the audience would assist her in pushing the panel off its platform, if indeed that was her intention. That being said, it most likely nudged it a little; peering through the newly created cracks in the edifice, the panel’s itinerant forays and desultory wanderings would have appeared to some people as lofty peregrinations wrapped in pompous superiority…or thoughts to that effect. Their somewhat clumsy efforts to enumerate the differences between what they get up to and what everyone else does would not have helped in that determination. On the other hand, some would have interpreted her question as self-aggrandising, one motivated by conceit, point-scoring and the desire for audience adulation. Either way, the nourishing conversations that were until that moment shared between the panel of authors and what felt like a roomful of friends, now a breathing mass of strangers, failed to revive.

Possessing an air of originality, mystery and spirited adventure, the mention of travel arouses more curiosity than that of the humble holiday, and there can be little doubt that by describing oneself as a travel writer rather than a holiday writer one gathers greater cachet. Yet it often seems that, at core, there is no difference between them. Indeed, the travel writers sharing the podium might easily have described their journeys as holidays. After all, three were promoting books about relatively short stays in what many would deem holiday destinations, including a fortnight in Paris, three weeks in a wine-growing region of France, and a month in Tuscany. Only one took a longer and more varied route, that resulting from an unplanned year of backpacking.

Putting it this way perhaps challenges their street cred, yet many philosophers, among them Seneca and Thoreau, were greatly inspired by the odd holiday, during which they created notable works of reflection on nature, on the human condition, and on life’s meaning or purpose. The same is true of literature. Agatha Christie developed the idea for a well-known detective mystery whilst on a leisure cruise down the Nile. Virginia Woolf wrote To the Lighthouse whilst on vacation on the Isle of Skye, and Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Enchanted April was inspired by a month-long holiday to the Italian Riviera. The list goes on. In the end what matters most are the stories, and to this one might add a degree of self-discovery.

. . .

Old Cathy used to come into our house to wash her money. Though she scrubbed the stairs of every last one of them, and had done so for years, ours was the only flat in a long street of tall black-sooted tenements where she could come and go as she pleased. She even had a key. Some people would rinse out and refill her bucket, but she would have to remain at the doorstep, door closed. To be fair, Old Cathy wasn’t one for conversation, and in fact blanked most people, but that wasn’t the only reason people covered their doors. For much of her life she lived between the mental asylum, as it was then known, and the street, and when that information got around the neighbourhood by the usual whispering campaign people kept a watchful eye. During the time our family knew Old Cathy she had secured permanent residency in a Salvation Army hostel not far from where we lived: a small room with an iron-framed bed, a chair, a cabinet, and a cross on an otherwise bare white wall. Visitors were not allowed, but we visited anyway, my sister and me, and whilst some residents occasionally looked at us with suspicion, neither the warden nor anyone else ever refused entry.

My sister always firmly insisted that if anyone were to question us I should stay silent and let her do the talking. When neighbours or anyone else asked questions she generally cut in to finish my sentences in ways I could never anticipate. Three years my senior but in reality much older, I guess my sister would have been around eleven or twelve when we visited Old Cathy. She doted on us, and was always steady and sunny, but I doubt if many people saw that side. She just kept her head down as she scrubbed the stairs, her metal bucket echoing in the close as it clanked down each step, then reached back up to draw intricate floral patterns with white chalk on the margins of every step. This was a common custom in our neighbourhood, an area that outsiders called slums, but unlike Old Cathy most women just chalked a quick zig-zag or squiggle. Either way they only lasted a day at best.

A woman notorious for malicious gossip once stopped us to ask if our dad knew that our mother allowed a pauper lunatic to wander in and out of our house when he was at work (he worked almost all the time). We of course knew who she meant, but as instructed I buttoned up. I would have liked to have said that we loved Old Cathy, who was one of the kindest people on Earth, and that not only did she visit us, we visited her; but as my sister later reminded me she would most likely have called the police and had her thrown out of her residence and into the street. Adults were a different breed, and I dreaded the thought of mingling with them. Even at the early stages of adulthood most people showed signs of becoming distinctly unpleasant. I think Old Cathy felt the same way.

This was a time when mothers who took to their bed for days or weeks or maybe even months were generally considered to be indolent rather than depressed, a time when postpartum depression was for the most part unknown, and a time when having a stillbirth — regardless of the sadness, guilt and anxiety that were at heart a cry for help — was hushed up as a shameful failure. Mrs Bogus, a pathologically nosey upstairs neighbour of ours — listening at the letterbox, she fell into our hall one time when my dad opened the door on his way to work — stopped me and my sister on the stair to ask if my mother was still lying in her bed. She called her a lazy article, jolting her miserable mongrel on a choke chain before briskly walking on. No one ever explained to me the meaning of article, but I got the gist. Just ignore her, my sister said, and don’t repeat what she said to anyone. I didn’t have to: everyone seemed to know that my mum had sunk under the covers and let the house go to hell. It even got around the school.

For the best part my sister looked after things at home, organising clothes, tidying up, making meals, but after a while things began to slip there too, and the mess just piled up. We made a space on the sofa between heaps of clothes and coat hangers and ate cereal from the box. On one occasion we heard our mum mumble to herself that she wanted to cut her throat, and I was told never to repeat that either, not to anyone, not even to dad — especially dad! She didn’t mean it, my sister insisted, but I couldn’t quite dismiss the possibility. For all their promises to the contrary, adults were notoriously unpredictable. My friend’s sister killed herself over a stupid fiancé, the mother of a boy at my school was murdered by his dad — just one punch, they said, whilst she was doing the ironing — someone sunk an axe into someone’s front door, another put a petrol bomb through a letterbox, men filled with rage and hearts of hate fought to the death outside pubs, and psychopathic razor gangs roamed the streets and alleyways. No adult could be trusted entirely.

We came home from school one day to find all the mirrors in the house had been smashed — why mirrors? — and immediately I wondered if my mum had taken a shard of glass to her throat. I envisaged it. My sister made me wait in the hall until she checked out the bedroom. Mum was sobbing under the blankets, but otherwise okay. Old Cathy was there, calm and calming, picking up the pieces. She would have known worse, and most likely understood the situation better than anyone. For several weeks no stairs were washed as Old Cathy stepped in as our femme de ménage, arriving before we went to school, and leaving in the evening. Between those hours she did the shopping, made breakfast and prepared dinner, looked after my mum, washed clothes, tidied the house, and even found time to play board games with us — she was a master at draughts. In time, when my mother got back into harness, Old Cathy got back down on her kneeling mat to scrub and chalk the tenement stair, the distinctive sound of her metal bucket once more echoing in the close as it clanked on each step. Thereafter she would rinse out her bucket, brushes and money in our small scullery whilst the kettle boiled before settling down to sit with my mum, gazing into the embers in silence.

. . .

For some people, travel writers are escape artists sharing their secrets on how to break loose from sameness. Others live to wander, to find stillness in motion, and perhaps by chance to find missing parts of the story that made them who they are. It was whilst perched on a doorstep under a hot sun in Tamil Nadu that Old Cathy, for the first time since childhood, wandered into my thoughts. I was watching a woman take great care to create a kolam at the entrance to her home, a decorative chalk circle with floral designs that is said to bring good luck and prosperity to the occupants. The drawings are walked on, scuffed and washed out every day, and whilst illustrations and meanings vary, each in their own way presage the transience of our existence and the impermanence of all things. The process was hypnotic. With eyes squeezed shut I remembered Old Cathy with head bowed drawing similar floral patterns with her piece of chalk on the steps to our door, and for a moment that door opened. The long journey to India had led me back to the start, and perhaps, after all, that was the point.

. . .

In addition to teaching psychology in universities, adult education and colleges across the UK, Paul Tritschler has managed organisations within the fields of brain injury, sensory impairment, mental health and community activism. He has written for a variety of magazines, including Aeon, Psychology Review, Bella Caledonia, Counterpunch and Open Democracy.