I forgot to mention in my posts prior to Amsterdam that flying to Schiphol was the first time I had ever been on a commercial flight.

I was alone.

I was nervous.

So, naturally, I sat off in the Wetherspoon’s in Birmingham International with a pint of Guinness to calm myself down.  BBC News was running on the TVs, and although I couldn’t hear it I could see the headlines and the talking heads miming the news.

And a plane swimming in the Hudson river.

So here I am about to embark on my first commercial flight, on my own, and I’m watching a plane crash.  And it was time to board.

‘No going back’, I thought, and I took what was potentially my last walk ever.  For the first time I sat in a plane.  For the first time I watched those safety drills famous comedians always talked about.  For the first time I watched a commercial plane leave the ground from within it’s cage.

I was holding on to my seat for the entire journey.  Every time we hit turbulence I panicked.

Then I watched England disappear.  I had left my country for the first time.  It was the furthest from home I had ever been.

I think that was the point I became addicted to travel.  I knew it was always going to be risky, but it would always be worth it.

And this feeling would end up taking me to places my family would beg me not to go.