In my 40’s after a few decades of holidaying with my family it was my time to jump back into solo travelling. My first trip on my own I was so nervous, booking very little, letting the trip unfold and changing destinations along the way. It was 6 weeks in India no compromising, no awkward waiting around, just me and the rhythm of a new place. I could wake when I wanted, eat where I wanted, and stay in a café with my kindle for hours if I felt like it (and I often did).
However it is not all fun and games it has its challenges—no one to split the taxi fare, no one to support you when your money is stolen and no one to laugh with over that odd dinner menu item, —but there’s a clarity that comes from being in a place with only your own thoughts and choices to guide you. It is a kind of self-trust that deepens over time and it allows you to start enjoying your own company.
One of the greatest surprises of travelling later in life is just how rich the connections can be. You find yourself talking to strangers more easily, and the conversations go beyond “Where are you from?” They turn into shared stories, advice swapped over breakfast, invitations to home-cooked meals, or spontaneous group hikes that end with wine and laughter under the stars. You might not stay in touch with everyone you meet, but you carry the imprint of those encounters with you. They become part of the journey—the real souvenirs.
I still vividly remember a brief, unexpected connection I made with an 80-year-old French woman in Rishikesh. I had woken before dawn to hike up into the hills to watch the sunrise over the Himalayas. It was steep, cold, and honestly, far too early for someone like me—but completely worth it. On the way back down, I was rewarded by the soft morning light stretching across the fields, the scent of chai from a roadside stall, the laughter of children heading to school, and a surprise detour to a waterfall that stopped me in my tracks. Six hours later, with aching legs and a full heart, I collapsed into a café by the Ganges, craving caffeine and a moment of stillness.
That’s where I met her.
She was seated on the terrace in a crisp linen shirt, designer black sunglasses, and a silk scarf tied just so—effortlessly elegant, smoking a long cigarette as if the café was her personal salon. I must have looked completely wrecked, a mess of dust, sweat, and emotion. But she looked up, gave me a nod, and somehow, we started talking.
She listened as I shared the story of my hike—how overwhelming and beautiful it had been. I don’t know if she was genuinely interested, or simply indulging me, but she responded with curiosity and kindness. Over strong coffee and a shared bowl of vegetable curry, she began to tell me her own story.
She had first come to Rishikesh in the 1970s, newly divorced—her second husband—and in her early 30s. India called to her then, as it has called to so many over the years: with the promise of anonymity, freedom, spiritual stillness, and a break from the expectations of life back home. She found what she was looking for. And then she just... kept coming back.
For 50 years, she has returned to the same spot, in the same season. She’s a fixture now. The café orders her favourite coffee from Europe in preparation for her arrival. They turn a blind eye to her cigarettes, letting her soak up the winter sun in peace. Every shopkeeper knows her name. She’s watched Rishikesh change, shift, modernise—watched the rise of the yoga pants brigade, the wellness influencers, and the “find yourself” crowd. She rolls her eyes at all of it, but not unkindly. It’s her place, too. Always has been.
When I asked her what her children think about her travelling solo to India well into her 80s, she shrugged, took a drag of her cigarette, and said, “They know better than to tell me what to do.”
There was something wildly aspirational about her. Fiercely independent, unbothered, stylish and sharp, still chasing moments of beauty in a place she loved. She was everything I hope to be if I’m lucky enough to still be wandering the world at 80. A little cantankerous, completely self-assured, and entirely at home wherever she chooses to be.