I like to travel alone. I have friends –not too many- and relatives –not too many- and so on –not too many-… But I do like to travel alone. My soul happens to love merging into the dark blue of the sea, or into the walls of an old Romanesque monastery (St. Martin du Canigou is a clear example of this), or to get lost in any tiny fishing harbour at early morning. Travelling alone is a sad business some times, but a superb experience when art and nature are your primordial targets. My stomach loves fresh fish grilled on olive oil and a pinch of garlic. My feet love to climb hills, to jump over a puddle, to tread the hot sand, to swim … Yes: I love to travel alone.
Well, to be precise, not totally alone. I travel with my old car and my loyal Brompton (British folding bicycle). They are good travel companions. Wherever I go, I park my little car and get my bicycle out of the trunk. And I ride. And I smile. And I am happy.
Yes. This is the way I travel.