I might be 76, but the idea of slowing down or retirement is nowhere near my thoughts. It’s true that I lack a substantial pension or a companion to spend my twilight years with, yet my enthusiasm for travel remains as intense as ever.
I thrive on pushing my limits with new adventures, and if a friend or my daughter isn’t free, I’ll set out on my own. Traveling solo is infinitely more rewarding than staying home reminiscing instead of seeking new horizons.
Therefore, when I was presented with the opportunity to experience a naturist vacation in southern Crete this July, my initial reaction was not, “OMG, naked among strangers!”, but rather, “No checked baggage!” The prospect of shedding my clothing at a resort filled with unfamiliar faces felt invigorating instead of intimidating.
I hitched a ride to Vritomartis naturist resort from my lodging in the neighboring village. It wasn’t until I encountered a cheerful, unclothed, somewhat stout male guest wearing flip-flops and a baseball cap outside the reception that I comprehended fully what I had signed up for. I was the lone woman alone among 180 couples. Surprisingly, it felt freeing, and I departed with a newfound appreciation for every part of my aging physique for the first time in years.
Wandering has always been in my veins. As a kid, raised in Basingstoke, Hampshire, with a garden that overlooked the A30, I was mesmerized by the massive, roaring Scania lorries, complete with curtained beds in the back, and fantasized about life as a long-haul trucker. A getaway to Cornwall on a boyfriend’s Vespa at 17 ignited a passion within me that continues to this day. After my husband passed away 25 years ago, and a relationship ended years later, my love for travel remained steadfast – and I refuse to allow it to fade away as I grow older.
At a friend’s request, when I reached 62, I embarked on my first journey to India, zipping around Delhi in a tuk-tuk. Following that, I transitioned to Nepal, where I stayed in a monastery in Kathmandu and Pokhara to witness the sun rise over Annapurna.
In 2020, at 70, after a decade in London – and without a partner, pet, or grandchild at that point, amidst the Covid crisis – I craved a fresh challenge. So, I sold my flat and relocated to Seville. For three years, I lived independently in a rented, furnished apartment, learning to adapt to the local lifestyle and navigate a city I had fallen for.
During my time there, I consumed a whole lot of Spain: I indulged in a yoga holiday in Galicia, attended a detox vegan retreat in Formentera, learned about Málaga’s art and museums beyond just gold chains and bare bodies, and marveled at the stunning works of Sorolla in his home in Madrid. I frequently took day trips by train to Cádiz to unwind on a lounger at a beach bar, feast on fried fish for lunch, and enjoy small beers at €1.50 each.
Now I’m back in the UK, residing in Brighton, yet I’m more apprehensive about remaining idle, missing out on chances, and not growing – and the travel itch remains strong.
One aspect I’ve observed, while revisiting my diaries and notes, is how my packing lists have transformed with age. Vacations with my spouse and three children, traveling by car to the West Country in our seven-seater Volvo, required items like travel cots, beach toys, a beach tent, and essential kitchen tools. For fashion sales trips to Paris, I would sketch stick figures on Post-it notes of outfits deemed “successful” (back then, successful meant attracting attention). Trekking in the Jebel Sahro in Morocco prompted me to pack a head torch, a Shewee – and did I truly only rely on Factor 15? Nowadays, my essentials include five different heart medications, Pepto-Bismol, large earrings, Bluetooth headphones, hearing aid batteries, and compression socks.
I never let my age dictate my travel plans. In fact, if anything, being aware of my mortality has only intensified my eagerness to explore and step out of my comfort zone (although my history of a heart attack and breast cancer makes travel insurance pricey at my age).
It’s only through the reactions of others that I recognize they view me as an older woman. When a man over 50 offers to assist me with my suitcase into the overhead compartment, saying, “my mother had trouble with that.” When I find myself at the aircraft steps waiting for the shuttle to the terminal, and the cabin crew inquires if I need help. I envisioned a horse riding holiday with my 40-year-old son, but the company I reached out to gently reminded me that, yes, I could indeed suffer a nasty fall “given my age.” Many friends tell me I’m incredibly brave for continuing to travel and seek new experiences, yet engaging with new individuals in fresh environments revitalizes me, keeping my mind sharper than any crossword or Wordle ever could.
Recently, I’ve had fantastic solo getaways, engaging in activities I had never undertaken before. In December, I embarked on my first cruise. The packing list for this luxurious adventure in the Caribbean also marked a first, including guidelines for evening dining: “ladies should wear cocktail or dinner attire”. Neither of which I possessed, both of which I borrowed. Being among the few solo female passengers on board, I encountered the typical remarks while dining: “Just for one?”, “Are you expecting someone?”, “Will you have company?” And, yes, I might have enjoyed myself more if my daughter or a friend had accompanied me. Perhaps I would have stayed up later and ventured into the bars or clubs for dancing and indulged in more than one drink, for I don’t believe a tipsy woman alone presents a good image at any age.
Yet, as an older female traveler, I never feel unnoticed or erased. A friend recently remarked that it’s a relief not to receive attention from men anymore. True, I no longer board a plane or train with the hope of sitting next to a future romantic partner – my only hope now is to avoid a seatmate who snores or has an unpleasant odor – but the idea of a romantic connection hasn’t been entirely excluded from my future aspirations.
My travel considerations as an older woman resonate alike with those of women at any age. Numerous women I’m acquainted with feel more uncomfortable dining alone in the evenings than during lunch. I find that carrying a notebook and a pen assists in my relaxation more than mindlessly scrolling on a phone.
Having spent time in larger cities means I’m seldom intimidated walking around after dark, and I’ve learned survival tactics, like keeping my phone pocketed in the streets. Modern technology, such as Google apps, simplifies travel these days. Translate is indispensable when you’re at Crete airport at midnight trying to explain to a taxi driver that you want to journey across the entire island, please. And Google Maps was incredibly helpful when I was maneuvering a transfer in mainland Greece from Volos bus station in Pelion to Thessaloniki airport – feeling like a participant in a solo Race Across the World.
Thus, the clock is ticking, and the dreary autumn skies have settled in Brighton – where shall I head next? This winter, perhaps I should consider spending a month at that Bone and Body Clinic in Goa that a friend suggested may alleviate the osteoarthritis in my knees and hips? Or maybe Taiwan? I’ve never explored south-east Asia, and I’ve heard the cuisine is divine. However, one thing you will never see me doing is wild swimming in cold water: I’ll leave that to those who are far braver than myself.
Elaine Kingett is a writer and journalist who organizes writing retreats in Spain
