Nothing feels slower than waiting for wind to sweep you 3000 miles to land. This time last year we boarded a 50 ft 1930s Norwegian ketch and did exactly that. The voyage was not without its fair share of drama, being stalked by whales and snapping masts, but it remains one of the most relaxing times of our 2 year around the world adventure. Check out below an account of 4 weeks in which sea, sky, a block of wood and 4 friends became our world.

We got on board Lista Light ready to set sail across the Atlantic in late October last year. We ended up leaving on the 21st December. It therefore wasn’t surprising that our planned departure time was slipped from morning to midday to sunset. Our voyage was destined to be a very, very slow one. Indeed it wasn’t until we had cycled through Las Palmas laden with twice my weight in vegetables, slathered beef fat on the masts, stowed any moving object in sight and eaten £7 worth of Haagen Daz ice cream that we were finally ready to let slip the stern lines and head into the open Ocean. Despite bracing ourselves for the worst, the ice cream stayed down and the fresh veg lasted us until week 3. The beef dripping, however, would later prove futile and stowing was hardly a necessary concern as after only 3 days progress the winds refused to blow and we entered the era of The Great Becalming.

On the morning of the 24th December I woke up to find that the world had literally stopped moving to celebrate my birthday. By far my most attention seeking triumph yet. The swooshing wind and raging sea had vanished and we were left with a cloudless blue sky and glassy sea. This was just as well because the boat had a birthday feast of pizza, crisps, puddings, cakes and joy planned for me and any ripples might have interrupted the cooking. So it was in this silent sea that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day 2008 rolled around and took on one of the most surreal I have yet to experience. A becalming has a very strange effect on people’s behavior. Lista Light took on characteristics more akin to an asylum than transatlantic vessel. A ‘normal’ scene would be Dan and Nick in full length Moroccan jalabas waving fishing rods vacantly back and forth at our stern, Dave tinkering with some tools in a red boiler suit and goggles, and Kat attempting aerobics in half a meter square of space at the bow.

It was a surreal 5 days sitting in a little wooden boat going nowhere in a big flat still pond of an empty sea . And, during The Great Becalming the sea only conspired to add to the crazy vibes. On Boxing day evening Dave and Kat called us all to deck after hearing bizarre blowing and puffing noises in the sea. Stumbling onto the deck we try to decipher what is out there, but all we can do is hear the spluttering noises and every now and then see a flash of phosphorescence as something creeps its way around the boat. Fearful imagination runs riot as sight fails us. Suddenly we are trespassers in a world we don’t begin to understand and all we can do is sit in it and guess what might be out there. The stories we had heard of whales sinking boats come rapidly to the fore. One evening though, we could make out dolphins diving down and torpedoing their way back up out of the water with a blow. Suddenly the sea monsters slipped to the back of our minds and we could enjoy the firework display of the ocean. Even the micro fauna got a look in. After spotting patches of orange on the water from afar we (slowly) drifted over towards it, nervously creeping towards what looked more and more unnatural floating in the water (to a War of the Worlds theme tune to heighten expense). When we finally hit the orange sludge (some kind of flagellate apparently) the movement of our boat through it made it vividly glow bright green, blue and purple. Like radioactive waste there was a moment we feared this red algae might corrode us, but then we realized it was just another ocean spectacle.

By the 30th December Nick and I were ready for some wind. Ten days in and most people would be half way across by now. We hadn’t even started heading West. Thankfully on the 31st we had drifted far enough South to pick up the trade winds. Desperate for something to do we all scrambled for sails and sheets and got as much up as possible. Before we knew it we were heading 260 degrees at 5 knots. On the morning of the 1st we even had a pod of 20 or so dolphins leaping, flipping, diving and playing around the boat and 3 petrels diving in amongst the waves to celebrate the end of the becalming. It felt good to be on the road again!

Within a couple of days of 2009, after the driest Birthday, Christmas and New Year I will hopefully ever experience, we were up to 6 knots and making great progress West. Speed was on our side and so we got stuck into one of the most anticipated activities of the crossing: Fishing. To begin with our fishing triumph was entirely passive as flying fish simply hurled themselves onto our deck throughout the night. The first to make this fatal error hit Kat smack in the face whilst she was on night watch. Once the scales had been scraped from her face and calm restored we realised that we could eat these strange little invaders. Night watches became considerably more entertaining when armed with winch handle and listening out for a flipping noises on the deck it was easy enough to race around the deck smashing heads off and bucketing fish ready for tomorrow’s lunch. We probably got through a good 30 of them before the novelty wore off; not only do they look like aliens but they also have more bones, scales and wing than anything really edible.

After this episode we moved onto bigger and better things. Our squid lure, a good 40 m out the back managed to bag us a Dolphin Fish one day and a horrendously mutilated Barracuda another. The Dolphin Fish was happily gorged on for 2 hours over an unusually silent lunch but the Barracuda was chewed down more reluctantly. Not only did it look like something not of this earth with its guts hanging out its savagely tooth filled mouth, but we also read that Barracudas are sometimes toxic and will cause the central nervous system to shut down. Not the greatest catch.

The real winner was the last catch. One evening the boys shout that they’ve caught something and they think its big. Here we go again catching some ghastly monster I’ll be made to eat. Shouts grow more excitable and so I race up and watch on whilst the boys struggle pulling in a line that is racing around from left to right, up and down. Despite some nasty plunges down and wire nearly taking off Dan’s hands we finally see the beast below and the boys fight him up with cries of ‘wow’ ‘oh my god’ and plenty of worse obscenities. Nick, being the manly sea hero that he now is, grappled the gaff (long thing with big hook on the end) and speared the beast in the neck and flings him up onto deck where Dave gets him under foot and Nick pushed the gaff in further. Excitement and adrenaline is high as the boys feel their masculinity sore and the girls look on in admiration. There’s now a fish about the same size as me flapping around under Dave’s feet and there is blood everywhere. I squeal because I’m a girl and I thought it would make the men feel more heroic. I hand over the mega chopper from the kitchen and the boys proceed to hack away the head. Thankfully the fish is dead pretty quickly. The deck is red with blood. We sit back and contemplate the fact that we Lista Light of notoriously bad fishing skills caught a 1.5 m Wahoo and are going to eat like Kings for days to follow. And we did. This fish was all meat. Fish steak, fish goujons, fish pie, fish cakes, fish pate, fish sandwiches, fish pasta, fish stir-fry, fish coming out of our ears 24 hours a day. The line remained firmly on board for the next couple of weeks.

As we came to the end of the Wahoo feasting at 1600 miles from land, slap bang in the middle of the Atlantic tragedy struck Lista. At 6am Nick grabs me out of bed for my watch and I commence the routine that I know only too well. Head torch, clothes, life jacket, deck, darkness, quick chat, alone and contemplate life for two hours. However this time I only got as far as the life jacket and I hear a snap. It doesn’t sound good. Nick shouts for me to get Dave NOW but Dave’s already heard and has flung himself out of bed donning nothing but a lime green blanket that he frantically clutches around his bits as he shouts in a panic, ‘What was that?’. ‘The running back stay has snapped’, Nick’s voice sounded serious and Dave leaps to the deck. The next 15 seconds Nick helplessly looks on as our main mast throws itself from side to side in the swell. Then the worst sound you could hear on a boat – crunching, cracking and snapping wood. It sounded like we had been hit by lightening. Dave got on deck just in time to see it ‘f****************k, f***********************k’. I will never forget the sound of his anguish and panic. I race on deck and its hard to make much out in the darkness. The moon just sinks behind the horizon and all you can see is the outlines of shrouds, sails, mast, wire, rope hanging off the sides of the boat dragging down into the ocean. We are still traveling at 5 knots and so first thing is to head into the wind and slow the boat. I get to the helm, Dave and Nick start hauling anything back in that can, but mostly just grabbing knives and the angle grinder to start cutting it all away. Now the sparks of the angle grinder reveal the loss. The boat is empty and bare at its bow and vulnerability is high. There is splintered and broken wood everywhere. Kat starts getting the life raft ready and Dan mans extra pumps as the remains of the mast knock hard against the hull. The moment you fear whenever at sea, especially half way across an ocean.

But by 8 am we were all sat at the helm with the engine running and the darkness was beginning to lift. No one really knew what to say but we were alive, on the boat and hadn’t been holed, which was good news. Lista however looked completely broken, the stump of the mast would have looked more at home in a torn down rainforest. All that sail, wood, and shrouds that had got us this far were somewhere floating thousands of metres towards the bottom of the sea. However, over the next few days we all had little choice other than getting on with what had to be done. Dave spent an ambitious few hours over the next couple of days hanging on up the remaining mast fixing some temporary rigging. We re-rigged the mizzen sail onto the stump of the main and put up whatever sail we could manage.

Now more than ever we were keen to get there as quickly and safely as possible. For a moment, whilst Dave was up the broken mast this aim was dashed by our biggest visitor of the crossing. The whole crew was on deck on afternoon in silence concentrating on not letting Dave plunge to the deck when Nick and I spotted the huge face and bulge of a whale surfing down a wave heading directly for our stern. It was almost a comical sight because it looks so huge its ridiculous, but we really didn’t need to be ploughed into by a whale right now. Luckily though the visitor was just curious and repeated this action over and over again that afternoon and remained there for the next four days, surfing in the waves up to the boat, plunging under it and surfacing to blow just 10 m or so from us. We were being stalked by a Minke Whale. We spent 4 days watching our new friend and became quite attached, worried even that he was trying to flirt with us and we weren’t responding probably or that he thought we were its mother. We never will know why we befriended by a whale.

Once Minke the Moocher left us we were into the final week of the crossing. It was inevitably a slow one and though you tell yourself not to count down the days for worry that the wind might stop, the temptation is too great. Especially because it was the wettest part of the trip and some days we would all be huddled up damp and muggy downstairs eating everything and anything. That is apart from whoever is on watch who strips off and temporarily enjoys showering in the fresh water of the squall before getting a bit cold and miserable when realising that you now have another hour and a half of being naked, cold and damp alone on deck. Gradually though evidence of land popped up in the form of floating buoys, different birds, more dolphins, a few more boats and some crackling noises on our radio. At one point a small fishing boat came within 50m or so of us and suddenly seeing other humans was alarming enough for us all to worry about pirates. Firearms turned out to be the least of our worries though when 2 days later we came within 20m of colliding with a fishing boat anchored at sea and not under watch. It would be rubbish to go under when this close and so watches became more vigilant.

Yet slowly but surely the numbers on the GPS counted down. 3 sleeps to go, 2 sleeps to go… becalmed again so still 2 more to go, and then finally it is the final night watch. The dim lights of land begin to show in the night sky and then sure enough through the binoculars we could see St. Maarten. I came to take over from Nick and the horizon was littered with stars. Turns out it was land. I spent the next 2 hours excitably racing around the deck making out land marks and checking the chart for unseen rocks. This time tomorrow we were going to be on land! At 7 30 am we were all called to deck by Dave for breakfast and just to our starboard is the rocky outline of a Caribbean island. We had made it. We had crossed 3,100 miles in just under 31 days. We had come almost totally under the power of the wind across one of the world’s oceans and were about to set foot on land. The feeling was euphoric.

Last September my fiance and I packed up our hectic London lives and jumped on our tandem bicycle to circumnavigate the Northern Hemisphere without flying. I’m afraid our reasons for not flying are entirely indulgent. We don’t think that airplanes are the devil and aren’t trying to save the world. Nor are we hardened explorers out to make our mark. We simply thought that traveling without jumping on and off planes, in and out of sterile airports, would be a bit more interesting. That inkling has proved to be a massive understatement. 11 months in and I am a huge convert to the slow travel movement. Our average speed around the world is 3mph. The world is bigger, more intriguing, more welcoming and more awesome the slower you travel through it. And that isn’t just for those looking for an epic adventure. There’s a slow means to take the world in on everyones doorsteps. I hope that some of our tales help inspire people to do so.

So far we have cycled from London to The Pyranees, walked across Northern Spain, sailed across The Atlantic, hitch hiked on boats down the Caribbean, bused across Venezuela and Colombia, sailed to Panama, bused to Mexico and cycled from Mexico to Canada. We now find ourselves in Japan, having just spent 11 days on board a 65 000 tonnes container ship across The Pacific. We’ve now got 9 months to travel overland around Asia before picking up our tandem on the edge of The Black Sea and cycling back into London.

Our trip is essentially lots of mini adventures stuck together. We have tried to make our means of travel as enlightening as the experience of actually traveling through somewhere. In most cases we have found that the means of traveling can actually be more important than where you are: It completely changes your perspective as well as how strangers perceive you.

When you are an unexpected visitor or don’t comply with the norm you immediately open yourself up to your surroundings. Rather than being intimated by you, locals are intrigued and want to be part of the adventure. The world is on your side. On our fully loaded tandem, even the most inhospitable dusty backwaters of middle America became havens of smiling, bemused and welcoming faces. When we arrived in a Moroccan fishing port on a 1930s sailing boat we were quickly befriended. The locals wanted to know why 5 Westerners we were on a dilapidated old boat in a fishing port. Consequently they gave us tours of the town, took us to the local watering holes and gave us a huge insight into their culture. Similarly when hitch hiking on banana boats in the Caribbean we saw a long way beyond the sandy beaches of the tourist resorts. The locals weren’t used to seeing white folk in their parts of town and so welcomed us in, escorted us around and cooked us BBQ chicken feasts.

Traveling slowly has allowed us to see the best of the world and its people. It forces you to embrace the ‘nowheres’ of the world, leaving the tick list of the well trodden path to faster moving folk. The more time you have and the less things you must see the more open you are to unknown experiences and people. I hope you enjoy reading about some of them on the next leg of our trip!

“Didn’t you get bored?” is the question most people ask when I tell them we spent fifteen days crossing the Pacific Ocean from Hong Kong to Los Angeles. I asked my myself a similar question before we left. Scared about lacking stimulation I took a stack of DVDs, a pile of books, a sketch book, and a selection of travel-sized board games. I didn’t get through the first two items and didn’t even touch the last two. Being at sea with nothing to do is far from boring.

The northerly part of the North Atlantic was a mass of low pressure systems and storms forcing us to sail through the tropics instead. So there was plenty of sunbathing to be done, along with watching clouds, sunsets (the highlight of many days) and stars.

We had a luxurious journey, in comparison to many of those experienced in South East Asia, especially as we were given the Owner’s Cabin, the best on the ship. After the craziness of the past few months and the pace at which we had travelled through Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam is was wonderful just to stop. To have drawers, cupboards and a washing machine so we could wash and unpack the stinking contents of our backpacks. Time to catch our breath, reflect on the continent we were leaving (Asia) and the very different continent we were travelling towards (North America).

To be given two weeks with no itinery, no phone calls and no emails is a rare treat, and an even rarer treat to be given a whole extra day. As we crossed the International Date Line Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship - the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We had recently discovered porridge on the menu, which made a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but she just ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (excellent) and Bobby (average).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° latitude, and the day started again. So when we woke the next morning we opened the second third of December window on our special, homemade World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

The second third of December began much like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun. After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and flags. Then I was led to the prow of boat where, surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides, Tom got down on one knee and popped the question.

That evening we celebrated with the Philipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a guitar serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

[Lara and Tom are travelling around the world without flying. For up-to-date information on their adventures visit www.worldinslowmotion.com]

One thing that I love about working in the ‘birth business’ is that I don’t have a structured schedule. Mine is more like a feast or famine schedule - no babies for two weeks, then BAM! four babies in three days. It certainly makes for an entertaining life.

Babies come whenever they like, and they always seem to come in a clump. Yes, a clump. “Group” would be the wrong word. A group feels orderly, predictable. But a clump - well, that sounds like just the right word for how babies arrive in the world. They seem to get a signal that NOW! is the time, and they all come in a clump, all jumbled together, jostling for position.

I attended five births the other week - five glorious, slow births. These babies didn’t watch the clock (neither did their mums and dads and caregivers), and certainly didn’t concern themselves about my lack of sleep. These babies came in their own time - one gently in the water, one with her mum’s feet firmly planted on the ground, and a few with grand flourishes. But, they all came at their own pace - slowly, deliberately, safely. These babies taught us patience, and more than a few hard lessons.

So, when this recent clump had all arrived, I jumped at a chance to go with my husband on an impromptu visit to a small island close to our home. I didn’t have any babies due for a week or two, so I could breathe easy, and run away.

We walked onto the ferry as the sun set, and, fifty minutes later, walked off the ramp into the darkness, carrying our backpacks. We didn’t know exactly where the local Inn was, but the clerk had said, “You’ll find it.” We followed a woman who was pulling a suitcase on wheels, jittering over the rough road, hoping that she was going to the Inn. We might have been following her to her cabin, but we didn’t mind. We were living slowly.

Sure enough, she drew us through wrought-iron gates to the Galiano Inn, complete with cedar shakes, tall tree posts, and, through the door to a vaulted space with a stone fireplace. We had arrived.

The next morning, we woke up to see the sun rise over Mount Baker, watched the large ferries plough through Active Pass, and laced up our boots for the day’s walk. We had left our car, and our bikes, at home, opting for an even slower pace around the island. After breakfast, we walked to the Bluffs, explored the cedar forests, waved at llamas, watched the eagles soar, checked out the local organic food store, and, 15 miles later, returned to the Inn for a good soak and a read (about the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.)

The other people staying at the Inn spent their time in the spa having hot stone massages and facials. But, that’s not our style. So, we told the clerk that we’d be hiking to Montague Harbour. She had a quick intake of breath, “Oh, there’s some wicked hills! You’re walking? Really?” Being a mapmaker’s daughter, and daring enough to interpret those lines on the map, I took a guess and said, “Let’s head clockwise. I bet there’ll be less hills that way.”

Boy, am I glad we didn’t go the other way!!!

As it was, the hills were still a challenge. But, we just kept in mind that we were on foot, and not grinding our way up those hills on our bikes (or on the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage!) We had time to stop, think, listen to the wind in the trees, watch the misty rain fall, feel it on our faces, wrap our scarves more tightly, gaze at the sandstone cliffs and the erratics at their feet. It took two hours to hike to the harbour, where we ate caraway cheese and stone fennel crackers on the shell beach. We didn’t meet any other pilgrims on our trail, just a lone cyclist on a 40 degree hill, pretending to be Lance Armstrong on Mont Ventoux.

After four hours on the hike, we could feel each muscle working to keep us going. No pain, just good hard work. Our legs seemed to work independently, keeping pace with each other. We held hands at times. We tucked out hands in our pockets when we needed. Then we saw the rain heading our way. It came as a mist bank, white and blanketing the hills. We knew there was a pot of tea close by, at the Market Cafe, and reached the cafe just as the downpour started. A roaring fire, four throbbing legs, two cups of tea, and chocolate. Slow hike rewards!

An hour passed, and the rain softened. We ran across the street to the locals’ trail to Sturdies Bay, only two kilometres away. This was our third passage of this trail, so we felt like we knew its secrets already, knew where the fern grove was, where the boggy sections were, where the people were gathering firewood, where we needed to take small steps to easily climb the steep sections. We felt like we belonged.

At the end of the trail, and around the corner, we treated ourselves to a visit to the local bookstore. It’s one of those places that has reviews glued to the shelves - “John’s pick”, “Jennie’s favourite”. I bought “French Toast: eating and laughing your way around France.” My husband bought “The Wisdom of Donkeys: finding tranquility in a chaotic world.” Two slow life books.

Later that night, after we’d left the island by ferry, and arrived home, fully refreshed, the stragglers of the baby clump decided to arrive. Two babies came over the next three days, one after the other. We’d only been home for five minutes when the first phone call came. “Jacquie, I think the baby’s coming!”

I smiled, changed out of my hiking boots, put on my birth gear, and headed out into the night. I loved our Slow Escape, but I also love Slow Birth (and those unpredictable clumps of babies!)

- Jacquie Munro, Slow Birth

It was one of those ideas which bubbled up from the bottom of a pint - a nice slow pint - of ale.

“Why don’t we go on a trip around the world…?”

“Lara pulled a long face.”

“Without flying…”

“Her face lit up.”

A year later we found ourselves on the open road: no job, no house, no family and friends; just the two of us, a couple of bulging backpacks and a vague route sketched out on a little Michelin map.

This was World in Slow Motion - our aim was to circumnavigate the world, choosing to undertake it wholly without flying - the old-fashioned way, the slow way.

We didn’t view our decision as debilitating; instead we saw it as an opportunity, opening up a whole new world of possibilities to us.

Without flying we were able to perhaps able to get a clearer sense of the world, its sheer size, its variety and differences. Almost infinite possibilities.

Plus we would be able to travel between these different worlds, dawdling where we felt the need, becoming more sensitive to the gradual changes between places - towns, regions, whole countries - as they arose around us.

There were other benefits as well - we hoped to get closer to the people and places we passed through - something you simply couldn’t do in an anonymous aeroplane screaming between A and B. We would get to stop at C and D and, if we felt like it, E as well.

Then there were the environmental benefits as well, flying being a far more carbon-intensive mode of transport than any other. With the need to reduce our individual carbon footprints more pressing than ever, we have opted for a greener journey and, through our website, hope to help others do likewise.

This website (www.worldinslowmotion.com) not only recounts our adventures but also seeks to help others who would like to give travelling without flying a go, offering as it does a plethora of information for prospective surface travellers, from getting visas to booking a berth on a container ship.

Now eight months into our travels we have travelled some 36,000 miles, through 18 different countries. It’s been an amazing adventure, and all the more enjoyable for not flying.

We’ve met many interesting characters along the route - from drunken Russian soldiers and
teenage Laotian monks to Japanese salarymen and Mexican cowboys - and had same memorable experiences.

Particular highlights have included visiting Mayan ruins in the Guatemalan jungle, speeding through the streets of Hanoi’s old town on a moped and hitting the streets of New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

I’ll shortly be posting accounts from some of these adventures, plus adding in new ones occasionally as we travel across our current country, the United States.

In my own time, of course…
We hope you enjoy travelling with us in slow motion. For more information visit our website www.worldinslowmotion.com

Concorde, ah, Concorde…it’s almost five years to the day that the world’s first much celebrated supersonic passenger jet made a somewhat ignominious retirement. Following the disastrous Paris crash of 2000 and coupled with the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and the somewhat pricey, elitist cost of the whole ‘Concorde experience’ this was all perhaps a little inevitable. But the really interesting aspect of all of this for me was the notion that for practically the first time in history travel had just a got a little slower.

Since someone in Asia hacked a piece of wood into a rounded shape around 4000BC and discovered the propellant properties of the wheel it seems we’ve been forever getting inexorably faster. From cart and horse, to racing chariots, through the fears that steam rail travel would cause people’s necks to break, and red flag waving men preceeding ’speeding’ motorcars to alert sleepwalking pedestrians, we have lurched from a fear to a love of speed. Now it’s of the essence, road cars with engines capable of several times the speed limit, planes to take us on short-haul flights of bunny-hops less than 150 miles, we want to be there quicker, and ‘there’ is further and we want to do it more often!

So for me the  fifth anniversary of Concorde’s retreat from serving the Trans-Atlantic flight routes is no bad thing. We’ve taken an arguably progressive step back from our obsession with ever faster travel. Travel that valued the destination over the journey, that encouraged a ‘fast food’ approach to experiences - stuff as much as you can in, as quick as you can, and compelled us to travel in cattle-trucks of the sky, sat, strapped in serried rows, glued to the in-flight entertainment and instructed when to eat and sleep (like giant babies in some aerial nursery).

Let’s rediscover the joy of slower travel. That part of the travel experience is about being on the move. Travelling through rather than simply over countries, relishing the gentle transitions of landscape, culture, people, language and cuisine. Meeting the people and negotiating borders that are real and physical not thousands of feet below. Ride an animal or two, they’re usually slow and pretty low carbon to boot, even if theyre not always available or entirely willing! Imagine the journey as a home-cooked meal, one to take care and love over cooking and then really savouring the end result. Or travel as a slow seduction process as you get to know your destination and the places along the way intimately, rather than a quick ‘knee-trembler’ behind the bike sheds of a budget, package holiday. Last year I went all the way around the world without flying and the experience of slow travel was incredible (www.lowcarbontravel.com).

Is it possible to travel ’slowly’ by plane? I don’t know, although a recent trip on an airship suggested to me that the return of the Zeppelin would certainly bring a new glamour and wonder to aviation. But when we travel in a truly grounded fashion, over the surface of our wondrous planet, be it overland or sea, we really connect with it. ‘The world’s a small place’ goes the clique. Well, yes. Until you travel through it.

So why not resize your planet. Reaquaint yourself with a slower pace of life and style of travel. And don’t worry about the absence of Concorde from our skies. Just enjoy the respite from our ever escalating speed and do things more sedately. But make the most of it. Before long Richard Branson will be twanging us into space on his passenger rocket, and things will start getting a whole lot faster again!

Ed Gillespie

www.lowcarbontravel.com