Backpacking. An entire travelling pursuit constructed around one specific luggage type.
Of course, anyone who has allowed themselves to undertake the dangerously ad-hoc avocation of backpacking, knows that it comprises many more facets than simply the type of bag you keep your crap in.
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Born from a heady mixture of climate consciousness and self-castigation, two weeks ago myself and my good friend Tasha found ourselves at Victoria Coach Station, waiting to catch a bus to Krakow, Poland.
I know right.
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New York: The Big Apple, The City that Never Sleeps, So Good They Named it Twice... For a destination of such fame, it is kind of ludicrous that until three weeks ago, I had never visited it.
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Camping on the edge of Yosemite National Park. Sounds idyllic, I agree. And for the most part, when I pitched up in the (relative) Californian wilderness a few years ago, it was.
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It’s not exactly ground-breaking satire to complain about National Rail. Anyone who has ever experienced rush-hour commuting will undoubtedly have the words ‘we are sorry for any inconvenience caused’ tattooed across their heart, and will be so accustomed to functioning in intensely overcrowded conditions that even an armpit directly across the face is not enough to deter the devouring the Metro’s ‘guilty pleasures’ section.
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