A love story disguised as a travel memoir. Or perhaps, the other way around.
What happens when 'normal' life feels... wrong? Like a splinter in the mind? Ever had that nagging "Is this it?" doubt—the job, the routine, the quiet erosion of evenings? That feeling life is an endless pilgrimage, chasing a destination that never quite satisfies?
Staring down thirty-something complacency, our relationship fraying under unspoken strains, Cesca and I did the mad thing. We quit our jobs, packed two bulging rucksacks, and set off for a year across twelve countries, testing not just the world, but us. Could we survive stripped bare, with no safety net of home's comforting bath?
But this wasn't a postcard holiday. The real thread was our marriage, laid raw on the road and healing in unexpected ways—from tense silences in third-class trains to quiet hand-holds under the Bodhi Tree, proving that love, when tested, can rewrite the map entirely.
"An engaging and compelling travelogue with a vital and strong emphasis on connection and experience over ticking off the bucket list... Overflowing with the author's curious spirit." — LoveReading (Indie Books We Love)
A love story disguised as a travel memoir. Or perhaps, the other way around.
What happens when 'normal' life feels... wrong? Like a splinter in the mind? Ever had that nagging "Is this it?" doubt—the job, the routine, the quiet erosion of evenings? That feeling life is an endless pilgrimage, chasing a destination that never quite satisfies?
Staring down thirty-something complacency, our relationship fraying under unspoken strains, Cesca and I did the mad thing. We quit our jobs, packed two bulging rucksacks, and set off for a year across twelve countries, testing not just the world, but us. Could we survive stripped bare, with no safety net of home's comforting bath?
But this wasn't a postcard holiday. The real thread was our marriage, laid raw on the road and healing in unexpected ways—from tense silences in third-class trains to quiet hand-holds under the Bodhi Tree, proving that love, when tested, can rewrite the map entirely.
"An engaging and compelling travelogue with a vital and strong emphasis on connection and experience over ticking off the bucket list... Overflowing with the author's curious spirit." — LoveReading (Indie Books We Love)
Prologue — On the Road, a Note to Friends
The flat echoes. Empty now, stripped bare, everything relegated to the limbo of storage units. Tomorrow, I walk away from my job for the last time – a prospect that sends a thrill, not a tremor, through me. I find myself glancing at the clock. The bags stand sentinel by the door, packed tight, bulging obscenely, attempting to contain the necessities (and probably far too many luxuries) for a year spent living out of them. Basho, it seems, is going global.
On June 22nd, Cesca and I leave these familiar shores. We step out the door, onto the road, embarking on another adventure together. Bilbo Baggins had it right: “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no telling where you might be swept off to.”
Our intended path, sketched lightly on the map of the year ahead, meanders through Australasia, Indochina, China, India, and culminates in Japan. A year, at least – that's the rough timeframe. Beyond the initial outbound flights, nothing is booked, nothing fixed. We're winging it, embracing the uncertainty, trusting the road to lead us where we need to go. A real adventure, then.
So, what seismic shifts precipitate this departure from the 'normal'? For Cesca, the urge to travel seems less a decision, more an innate condition, woven into her very being, like an itch she's always scratching. The question isn't 'Why travel?' but rather, 'Why stay put?' For me, it’s always been different. I've travelled before, plenty of times, but the idea of simply dropping everything, casting off the lines for an extended period, never featured high on my 'life list'. Until recently.
Life, sometimes, delivers its messages not as gentle nudges, but as a confluence of forceful waves that knock you off your feet. One wave: a close friend battling cancer. Another: the unexpected death of my grandfather. Then my father, made redundant after years of service. Add the subtle, persistent erosion of our own happiness, Cesca's and mine, navigating the pressures and compromises of city life, the quiet strain that has crept into our evenings.
A small financial windfall provides the means. The UK housing market spirals into absurdity (and looks poised for a coronary). The relentless creep of the surveillance state adds a layer of low-level unease. Individually, perhaps manageable shifts. Together? A flood, demanding a change of course.
Underneath it all pulses two insistent questions: “Is there a better way to live out there?” And the big one: “Stripped of context, of career, of routine – what do I actually want to do with this one life?” Should be nice and easy to answer, right?
It feels like hitting 30 has triggered something, an early onset of the famed 'mid-life crisis', not just for me but for many of my generation. A sudden, urgent need to take stock, to question the trajectory. As Morpheus put it in The Matrix: “You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong with the world ... like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.” That resonated. Deeply, echoing something I hadn't dared articulate. Cesca and I sat down, talked honestly, and slowly, the great wheel of life began to turn in a new direction.
Naturally, I started reading. Travelogues, philosophy. Encountered Alan Watts again, properly this time. Realised how deeply ingrained my own thinking was in the 'pilgrimage' model of life: endure the journey, strive towards some grand reward at the end (career success, financial security, retirement?), the meaning found solely in achieving that final goal. School, university, job, promotion, manager – chasing the destination. But Watts, and others, spoke of a different way. Life not as a pilgrimage, but as music. The point isn't the final chord; the point is the dance while the music is playing. That clicked. Resoundingly. So, that's the plan: learn to dance along the way. (No doubt, after six months sleeping in questionable backpacker hostels besieged by mosquitoes and questionable plumbing, I'll be heartily cursing this analogy and dreaming of my old routine. We shall see.)
So, consider this an open invitation. Join us, virtually at least. Share the highs and inevitable lows of long-term travel: the missed connections, the breathtaking sights, the unexpected smiles, the moments of frustration or tears, the philosophical musings sparked by a sunset, the new friends met over shared adversity, the sheer exhilaration of discovery, the astonishing vistas. If you've ever wondered whether ditching the rat race might be more fulfilling, more alive, well, here's your chance to find out vicariously, without even leaving your seat.
Wish us luck. Basho
Trials and Tea Ceremonies is a travelogue, and having travelled through South East Asia and India myself, I found many of the places and experiences immediately familiar. The descriptions of well-trodden tourist routes, encounters with fellow travellers, the hostels and moments of quiet observation resonated strongly with my own memories of travelling through these regions. Travel writing can be a very personal thing, and there is always the risk that it becomes inward-looking, more of a relayed holiday experience recounting individual reactions to unfamiliar cultures and environments but Basho largely avoids this.
I found his reflections thoughtfully expressed and easy to follow, allowing me to travel alongside him and his wife, rather than simply observing their experiences from a distance. It felt easy to imagine being there with them. As the narrative moves through India and onwards to Japan, the prose becomes noticeably more poetic and contemplative. Basho references philosophers and begins to explore why we travel, acknowledging what you can truly take away from time spent in these countries.
What stood out most to me was the realisation travel is best experienced through interactions with the locals; the experience is far richer when you are not being whisked around by travel companies, skimming the surface of the journey. Basho is able to share that the time he spent with his wife strengthened his relationship and through the adversity they jointly experienced. These reflective moments are where the book feels strongest and most honest. I also appreciated the way historical and cultural insights are woven in, providing context without overwhelming the personal story.
The book is very readable and left me with a renewed sense of curiosity and wanderlust. Laos, in particular, has now been firmly added to my own bucket list. One small criticism is the inclusion of snapped photographs, which felt more like personal holiday snapshots and did not match the depth or quality of the writing. I wanted to see more of these photos with Basho and his wife present, rather than just of the sites seen. Overall, Trials and Tea Ceremonies felt like a thoughtful and reflective account of travel as a shared, evolving experience, rather than a simple record of places visited.