Lettie Goes Travelling

My love of travel started young.

I still have cine footage of me running around the decks of the Reina Del Mar as we toured the Mediterranean in the mid-60s. I really must get it transferred one day.

My parents were publicans and worked long, exhausting hours. But when they did get time off, they wanted to get away properly.

Two weeks at Whitsun, one in September — and usually a week in Cornwall in the spring, which in those days meant a very long drive broken by an overnight stop in Exeter, because the motorway network was still more dream than reality.

I don’t remember much about the early cruises, but I vividly remember the flights. That’s where the fascination started. Aviation grabbed me early — and never really let go.

We lived in the north of England, so flying meant proper planning. Holidays were booked through travel agents, and destinations were discovered through the likes of Alan Whicker and Judith Chalmers. My dad distrusted package holidays and insisted on scheduled flights, which meant trips via Heathrow and, for me, even more time around aircraft.

I was obsessed.

Ask my best friend Jo — every time she came over, I’d make her play “airports” with me. I had timetables, delays, departures… the lot.

So when work experience came around at school, there was only ever one choice: Manchester Airport.

I was told it was unlikely. Places were limited. I should have a backup plan.

But I was determined.

And somehow, I got it.

One week with British Airways. And from day one I was clear — no, I didn’t want to be cabin crew. I wanted operations. The background. The mechanics of how everything worked. I even talked my way into two days with the Red Caps — aircraft dispatchers — and that was it. Hooked.

I went back to school knowing exactly what I wanted to do.

Except life had other ideas.

My dad wanted me to go to university. First in the family. A big deal.

So we made a compromise: if I could secure a job in aviation with prospects, I could defer my place.

I had twelve weeks.

I found a one-week temp job with a tiny air taxi company — answering phones and making tea. Six weeks later, they couldn’t do without me. I trained in operations, worked long hours, saved hard, and occasionally even flew with clients.

And eventually, I booked my first solo trip.

Three weeks in South Africa.

Because I’ve always believed in going big or not going at all.

I loved it. Every second. I was even offered a job.

But instead, I chose the safer path — a relationship, a life that felt more predictable.

And that’s where my travelling stopped.

For nearly three decades.

Life became smaller. Quieter. More careful.

There were reasons — mental health, responsibility, loyalty — but the result was the same. My world shrank.

Until one day I realised I couldn’t do that anymore.

Five months after leaving that life behind, I found myself at Gatwick Airport, boarding a flight to the Algarve. A place I knew. Somewhere that felt safe. A friend waiting at the other end.

And yet I was terrified.

I cried on the plane. Proper tears.

Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t chatting to a partner. I wasn’t planning dinners or laughing over cocktails. I was alone — gripping the armrest and wondering what on earth I was doing.

But when I landed, something shifted.

That’s what travel does. Especially solo travel.

It strips things back. It shows you who you are when no one else is shaping the experience. It gives you space to rediscover yourself — not the version you were, but the one you’ve become.

And slowly, trip by trip, I found my way back to myself.

So that was the back story.

This space is where I’ll share the travels that followed — the good bits, the awkward bits, the lessons, the laughs. There may be turbulence along the way, and the odd patch of bad weather…

…but there will always be stories.

Lettie ✈️