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at abandoning tightly choreographed coach trips to do our
own exploring, delighting in the fact that we were always
the last family back on board, our arms full of exciting local
produce that we had haggled for ourselves.
My parents were never afraid of plunging into the relatively
unknown and trying something new and this was most
evident not in travel but in the kitchen. The shelves at home
were always stacked with spices and exotic ingredients that
they or their friends had brought back from far-flung places.
I was the only child I knew who was regularly presented with
tagines, samosas or dolmades for tea. I didn't always welcome
the unfamiliar cuisine at the time but now I recognise that the
enthusiasm of my Mum and Dad instilled in me a curiosity for
difference and the confidence to be open to new cultures when
I was eventually old enough to experiment for myself.
However, there is a part of my desire for adventure that I
can't attribute to parental influence. Much of it is simply an
integral part of who I am, as tangible and intrinsic as my
height or the colour of my eyes. From the start I couldn't help
but see the possibility for adventure wherever I happened to
be. Growing up surrounded by woodland I saw the trees and
fields as potential locations for secret camps or homemade
zip-wires. Mum has a photo of me aged seven or eight sitting
under a bedsheet thrown over a string I'd tied between the
trunks of two closely spaced trees. I'm trying (unsuccessfully)
to toast marshmallows over a miserable smouldering of twigs
which I no doubt imagined to be a most excellent camp fire.
My sister has been dragged along to be my tent-mate and we
are both grinning, bursting with pride at the success of our big
expedition even though we are barely out of sight of our own
front door.
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