The Solo Traveller

Italian Retreat Part I

Just a few days before my recent trip there was a feature on BBC Woman’s Hour about travelling alone and I learned that 2025 is apparently the year of the female solo traveller, although I’m not entirely sure who it is that feels qualified to make such pronouncements. However by all accounts there has been an increase in the use of the hashtag #solotravel on both Instagram and TikTok and the CEO of Hostelworld, Garry Morrison claims there has been a recent surge in solo travellers, in particular young female backpackers.

To be quite clear, I was not about to go off backpacking, but I was going to be travelling alone to join a writing retreat in Italy, so I listened with interest to the advice given about sharing rooms (don’t!), avoiding being that single woman that couples take pity on, staying safe, trusting ones instincts and generally being open to meeting people. All common sense stuff really and most of it not very applicable to the trip I was embarking upon, apart from the bit about meeting people.

My trip was a writing retreat in Tuscany hosted and led by writer

Rosie Meleady

who I first discovered here on Substack. Ten women together for five full days of writing, travel and sightseeing, led by Rosie. I love Italy, I love Italian food and Italian people, plus I would love my writing to go beyond just writing here on Substack, so it felt like a perfect opportunity. It’s not the first time I have travelled alone and although I would be embarking on the journey solo, once at my destination the group would stay together for most of the time and I wasn’t going to be making any decisions about where I stayed, ate or how I spent my time, so it was fairly risk free solo travelling.

It was an amazing experience that I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend, and it has generated so many thoughts and ideas I think it will take me weeks to fully process all I have encountered. I wrote every day, a practice I would like to continue now I am home, along with drawing and painting every day and we all know how that’s been going, but I am full of positive intentions. I have returned with several ideas that I intend to take further but I am starting here with a miniseries of short essays based upon my daily journal whilst I was away. Whilst writing the journal I tried to take on board the ideas we were juggling with during the retreat, about being more descriptive and using our senses as well as our imaginations so it’s a bit of an experiment. It will be a way for me to share some of what I experienced during the week whist consolidating my own thoughts, so I hope it will be of interest to you too.

The day starts with the gentle pulsing of the alarm; a soft bell announcing that it is 5 am although the birds had already begun their chorus twenty five minutes earlier. Saturday 17^th May and the adventure begins.

Even at this early hour the airport is heaving. A giant petri dish of human life behaving in ways that I imagine they wouldn’t in usual circumstances. At least I hope they wouldn’t, because where else would people be sampling gins or eating burgers before 7 am, eating, drinking and shopping. I dislike shopping at the best of times so it is completely beyond my comprehension why anyone would choose to shop in such an overcrowded, noisy ,brightly lit space whilst trying to manoeuvre bags, cases and sometimes even small children. I understand that one might need to buy toiletries, maybe a book or newspaper and of course food if like me the day has started early, but clothing, accessories and homewares don’t belong in an airport as far as I’m concerned. And on the subject of airport purchases… does anyone actually buy Toblerone anywhere except in airports? I hold that thought as I negotiate the crowds in search of a seat, with a coffee and croissant in one hand and bags in tow in the other. There are bodies everywhere and it’s like searching for the holy grail but eventually I find some room at the end of a bench.

The flight is full, and the space feels constricted and claustrophobic. The recycled air dries my nose and mouth, but I sip my water slowly not wishing to necessitate a trip to the toilet where I will have to navigate the drinks trolley. I am not a nervous flyer, but I don’t enjoy it very much so would rather stay in my seat reading, not thinking too hard on the fact I’m hurting through the sky.

Rome. Shades of ochre and dusty pink apartment blocks line the road into the city, slowly giving way to shops and businesses. Occasionally there is a break in the buildings and instead there stands the ruins of an ancient building dating back centuries. The bus moves slowly in the city traffic, and I watch people from the window. Only in Italy I think, as I observe a stylish man, tanned and elegantly dressed in an open necked white shirt, navy blazer, and beige slacks finished off with leather loafers but no socks, as he double parks his large car blocking in two other vehicles. He leaves his hazard lights on, as if that makes it okay and goes into a fashionable clothing store. Cyclists weave in and out between the cars oblivious to traffic or pedestrians, however this is not unique to Rome. This could easily be Cambridge.

I arrive at Roma Termini, the main train hub in central Rome and I am completely overwhelmed by the sheer size of the station. I’m grateful that I have plenty of time before my train departs. I buy a panino caprese which is the only way to get a seat as there appears to be no other seating outside of the restaurant area. There is however plenty of opportunity to shop once again should I desire. I don’t. I finish my sandwich and go in search of platform 1est. There are no signs and no one to ask but eventually I locate the platform and board my train. I find an empty seat and struggle to lift my case onto the luggage rack, but I’m helped by a young priest. I smile and say “Grazie mille” but it’s only as I turn that I see how very handsome he is. All I can think of is the ‘hot priest’ from Fleabag as I feel myself blush profusely. Bless me father, for I have sinned… such impure thoughts! Get a grip Gina, you’re old enough to be his grandmother, never mind his mother!

There is another train followed by a short car journey but finally I arrive at Il Maggese which will be my home for the next few days. It is an idyllic typical Tuscan farmhouse surrounded by rolling green hills and cypress trees and it’s here that I meet Rosie our host plus nine other fascinating and extraordinary women, Katie from Ireland with whom I am sharing an apartment, Sif from Iceland now resident in Italy together with her beautiful little well behaved dog Odin, and Amy, Colleen, Julie, Shelley, Val, Sheri and Emily all from the USA. I admit I had been slightly concerned when I heard so many of my companions were from America given the current political situation, but my fears were unfounded. As Val said, she would like to wear a badge that states ‘I’m American and I’m sorry. I didn’t vote for him”. Enough said.

A result of a misunderstanding in communication and the fact that Katie was a statuesque woman at least six inches taller than me, meant that I ended up in the small single bed that was basically in the kitchen of our apartment which was far from ideal. It was my my only real gripe I had all week so not really a problem. We made it work.

Introductions were made, aims were set for the week and then it was down to the serious business of dinner. The wine flowed and the food was excellent, a four course feast of Italian home cooked fare. We started with a plate of antipasti – olives, cheese, taralli (little olive oil biscuits) and cinghiale sausage (wild boar). I usually eat very little meat but confess I was tempted and loved it! This was followed by a plate of mushroom and cheese ravioli, next course was Parmigiana, and we finished with a typical ‘Torta di Nonna’ (grandmother’s cake)

Finally to bed after what was a long day and sleep comes quickly and deeply, although once again I am awake by 5 am and I lie listening to the birds, eager to know what the new day will bring.