Post-pandemic, I’ve become a right Little Englander, even though I’m from Glasgow. I hate leaving the country because I hate travel, and I loathe flying. Gone are the days of any kind of nostalgic glamour a la Alan Whicker or that scene in Catch Me If You Can where Leonardo DiCaprio sweeps through the airport flanked by beautiful air hostesses.
Nowadays, it’s like Squid Game — trying to get through security without getting shot for not removing your belt, watch and trousers while unpacking your tech half-naked within 30 seconds and failing to place your Kindle in the right tray. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to have a flight which is actually taking off. Travel has become an endurance test.
However, a few months ago I decided to leap out of my comfort zone. Grab life by both hands and go see the world. High off the Netflix fumes of White Lotus, I decided to book a trip to Sicily with friends. I felt vivacious and exciting. My trip was ripe with promise.
But alas, disaster struck. I am no longer channelling my inner Judith Chalmers; it’s all gone a bit Jennifer Coolidge series two finale. I have just had to cancel my much-anticipated trip.
For many of us, the great summer get away is going to be a hugely expensive and dangerous gamble.
As the heatwave has raged over southern Europe over the past few weeks, the group WhatsApp messages have morphed from “ooh, what restaurants shall we book?” to “ooh, how does one deal with Oppenheimer atomic bomb levels of heat?”
I was still quite keen to push on through (mainly because I’m tight) until the decisive blow landed — both local airports have been on fire this week with temperatures reaching 45 degrees. I’m a Scottish peri-menopausal woman; this doesn’t end well for me. I would spontaneously combust. All that would remain would be a melted, steaming pair of FitFlops.
Even though the airports have been closed, and there is local advice warning about the extreme heat and fires, the flights are still on (unless air traffic strikes affect them).
This seems mad, so I have reluctantly taken control and cancelled the whole thing — even though I’ll lose out financially as insurance won’t cover it. But it’s just not worth the risk of turning up to a scene from a disaster movie, getting evacuated and suffering PTSD for the rest of my life.
The bigger question is what this climate change and extreme heat will do to our patterns and behaviour. Will it make us fly less or change our lifestyles? Sadly, probably not. But I do think many of us will rethink how we travel, particularly over the summer. Who wants to take the risk, especially when there is little compensation from insurance companies and the Government doesn’t want to get involved.
It’s going to get problematic for the industry and those countries which rely on tourism. But for many of us, the great summer get away is going to be a hugely expensive and dangerous gamble. As for my next travel adventure? Having been (almost) burned to a crisp, I’m playing it safe. Orkney here I come.
Sometimes it is good to meet your heroes
It is very sad news that BBC journalist George Alagiah has died of cancer at the age of 67 this week. Tributes poured in with such consistent warmth and affection that you knew this was a genuine reaction to a truly great man — respected as a professional and loved as a person.
I grew up watching Alagiah reporting from around the world, and he was a huge role model as a senior non-white reporter who had such charisma and authority. He inspired so many of us brown kids who now work in journalism at a time when there wasn’t much on-screen diversity.
I was lucky enough to meet him in 2018 when I won the Eastern Eye Award for stand-up comedy and he was so generous and kind to me, I almost wept. Sometimes it’s good to meet your heroes.
His passing is a great loss and a reminder to us that in an era of loudmouth, shock-jock journalism, the qualities which really endure are decency, intelligence, professionalism and quiet courage. RIP.
