Something strange happened to me after I quit flying: flights started haunting my dreams. My unconscious would frequently throw up recurring sequences involving planes and airports. Always, something felt deeply wrong; I’d be guilty, anxious and tense without knowing why... until I woke in a cold sweat and remembered, “Oh! I don’t fly any more. I gave it up.”
Although bizarre, this wasn’t as unique an experience as I initially presumed. Anna Hughes, the founder of the charity Flight Free UK, revealed to me that she has these dreams occasionally, too – despite not having set foot on an aircraft for two decades.
Now, after more than six years off flying myself, I’m about to take to the skies again in real life. And, just like in my dreams – or nightmares – I can’t help but feel guilty.
I first met Anna in 2019. Sweden’s flygskam (“flight shame”) movement was in full swing, and I was writing a feature on the Brits who’d also decided to ditch air travel because of the hefty carbon emissions it produces. I was The Independent’s deputy travel editor at the time, and had less than zero intention of following in their do-gooding footsteps. In fact, at the point of writing that particular article, I had already taken 25 flights in under six months – the equivalent of almost one a week.
But something very inconvenient happened in the course of interviewing all these thoughtful, genuine people who’d sacrificed fast, easy and cheap travel for the sake of the planet. They unwittingly planted a seed that grew into an idea: what if I, a person who wrote about travel for a living, could go cold turkey for a year?
The idea solidified into a certainty I couldn’t shake. I took my last flight in November 2019, and signed the Flight Free UK pledge on 1 January 2020, a new year’s resolution that saw me promise to swerve the runway for the next 12 months and swap skies for seas and land, without compromising on adventure or fun.
Alas, my sustainable travel plans – and everyone else’s – were scuppered by the small matter of a global pandemic. I signed the pledge again at the beginning of 2021, and wrote a book about my experiences in the interim, a flight-free travel memoir titled Zero Altitude: How I Learned to Fly Less and Travel More.
By the time I’d written 80,000 or so words on the subject, having spoken to a plethora of climate scientists, environmental experts and eco activists, something had fundamentally shifted in my soul. I could no longer turn a blind eye to the damage being done by the aviation industry, which by 2025 had bounced back to pre-pandemic levels.
I’d stepped up to take the helm of The Independent’s travel section in the intervening years, and decided on an unprecedented step: I would become the first travel editor of a national UK publication to officially go flight-free. I signed the Flight Free UK pledge every January for the next four years, and kept my vow even when I traded the travel desk for features writing.
I’ll confess, this wasn’t an entirely altruistic move on my part. In the process of staying grounded, I had also discovered the real secret of flight-free travel: it is way, way more enjoyable than the alternative. Yes, it was harder to book, and usually more expensive – obstacles that need to be addressed to convince more people to embrace slow travel – but the rewards far outstripped the challenges.
The journey itself became an integral part of each trip, something to look forward to rather than be dreaded and endured. There was the ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao, where a pod of dolphins joyfully jumped alongside the boat amid a mass of sun-tipped steel waves. There was the sleeper train from Paris to Vienna, where my berth-mates and I shared a bottle of red before being rocked to slumber to the clatter of tracks. There was the joy of using my own two legs as transport, spending eight hours a day walking through lush landscapes on the Camino pilgrimage trail.
Kicking the flying habit had added to, rather than taken away from, my experiences
Every trip was sprinkled with a little extra magic; kicking the flying habit had added to, rather than taken away from, my experiences. So why on earth have I suddenly decided to ditch my principles?
It’s a question I’ve had to really grapple with. In a short time, I’ll be breaking my flight fast in the most decadent way imaginable – with a month-long trip to Australia, New Zealand and Japan.
To be clear, it’s not that flying has suddenly become drastically more green. On the contrary: passenger numbers are projected to more than double by 2050, while emissions are forecast to rise by 59 per cent by then compared with 2019 levels. As the number of flights and passengers continues to grow unabated, improved efficiency, technological advances and more sustainable fuels don’t even touch the sides of the issue. Reaching net zero is currently a total pipe dream when it comes to aviation.
Longhaul flights like the one I’m about to take are, obviously, the very worst in terms of carbon footprint. According to a Guardian investigation, taking just one return flight to Oz will generate more CO2 than citizens of some countries produce in an entire year.
But the stars aligned for this trip in a way that was difficult to ignore. My sister and her family are currently in Melbourne on sabbatical, while two friends have moved to just outside Auckland. And Japan is, quite simply, my No 1, never-visited, bucket-list destination of all time.
The whole thing was only possible because of other circumstances unexpectedly lining up: my own request for a sabbatical got the green light; a surprise inheritance meant I could actually finance the thing. If I didn’t grab hold of the opportunity now, it felt like it might never come around again – particularly given that we somehow seem to be on the cusp of World War Three.
I’ve tried to follow some of my own former sustainable travel advice: namely, if you’re going to fly halfway around the world, you damn well better make it count. Go for longer, take your time, spread your tourist pounds around so they benefit locals.
I’m also going to literally put my money where my mouth is and offset my emissions. No, offsetting is far from perfect, as pointed out by plenty of climate activists; the private market is still largely unregulated, and plenty of schemes wildly overegg their impact. But don’t let perfect be the enemy of good, as my favourite bit of sustainability wisdom goes.
Measuring is key: use a robust emissions calculator, like Atmosfair, which lets you put in every detail of your flight and calculates the kilograms of carbon per passenger. I type in each journey with trepidation, and am floored by a tsunami of flygskam at the total number: a blistering 5,652kg of CO2.
If you’re going to fly halfway around the world, you damn well better make it count
The next step is finding an offset that uses carbon removals – which actually take the equivalent amount of carbon out of the atmosphere – rather than more woolly “climate protection” schemes. I’ve always heard good things about Climeworks, which offers a portfolio of removals, and so plump for the “mid-range” option that mixes nature schemes and cutting-edge tech solutions like Direct Air Capture.
Any legitimate offset worth its salt doesn’t come cheap, and I can’t help but wince at the £1,130 price tag. It’s not much less than I paid for the flights themselves. But if I’m serious about being a responsible traveller and mitigating the impact of this trip, it’s a cost that has to be accepted and absorbed as a necessary, non-negotiable tax – as unavoidable a part of my travel budget as accommodation and transport. Any scheme that purports to offset your flight for a couple of quid, by the way, is almost certainly too good to be true.
The final excuse for breaking my flight-free pledge? I suspect, quite simply, that this will be the last time I ever get on a plane. I’m mentally framing it as the last hurrah, my air travel swansong. I’ll enjoy every second – and then I’ll be ready to hang up my compression socks for good, content in the knowledge that I’ve got a lifetime of exhilarating, enriching and adventure-filled journeys over land and sea ahead of me.
I might always dream of flying, but here in the real world, I’m quite happy to keep my feet on solid ground. Especially if it helps protect the planet I so adore exploring.
