12 Solo Travel Tips I Wish I Had Known Before My First Solo Trip

I need six months of vacation, twice a year.

You’re contemplating solo travel but terrified you’ll end up sobbing into your overpriced airport coffee? Or perhaps you’ve already booked that ticket and now you’re catastrophising about everything from pickpockets to poisonous spiders? Either way, you’re in the right place. This article shares twelve hard-won lessons from someone who’s made every possible solo travel mistake (yes, including accidentally joining a funeral procession in rural France whilst wearing fluorescent cycling gear). You’ll discover why your smartphone is both your best friend and worst enemy, how to navigate the peculiar loneliness of eating magnificent food alone, and why talking to strangers might just save your sanity. Plus, there’s a rather amusing story about a woman named Alice who learned these lessons the spectacular way on the Camino de Santiago.

5 Key Takeaways for First-Time Solo Travellers

1. Your discomfort is temporary; your regret about not going is permanent – That knot in your stomach before departure? It dissolves approximately seventeen minutes after you’ve successfully navigated your first solo restaurant meal.
2. Pack half the clothes, twice the confidence – You’ll wear the same three outfits anyway, and that “just in case” evening gown will mock you from the bottom of your rucksack for the entire journey.
3. Loneliness and solitude are entirely different experiences – One feels like punishment; the other feels like freedom. Learning to distinguish between them is the secret superpower of solo travel.
4. The locals know better than TripAdvisor – That Instagram-famous restaurant is probably mediocre and overpriced. The place where the postman eats his lunch? That’s where magic happens.
5. You’re more capable than you think – Every problem you solve independently (even if it’s just working out the European loo flush mechanism) builds a small fortress of self-belief that nobody can take away from you.

Introduction: The Permission Slip You Didn’t Know You Needed

Something nobody tells you about solo travel: the hardest part isn’t navigating foreign train systems or deciphering restaurant menus written entirely in mysterious squiggles. It’s not even the actual being alone bit, though that’s admittedly peculiar at first.

No, the hardest part is giving yourself permission to go.

We women are spectacular at finding reasons why now isn’t the right time. The dog needs walking. The garden needs weeding. That friend-of-a-friend’s cousin’s wedding requires attendance. We’ve become world-class experts at prioritising everyone else’s needs whilst our own dreams gather dust in the corner like forgotten Christmas decorations.

But here’s the truth that took me embarrassingly long to grasp: your life is happening right now. Not after retirement, not when you’re thinner, not when you’re braver. Now. This minute. And if you’re reading this article whilst simultaneously talking yourself out of that trip you’ve been fantasising about for the past six months, consider this your official permission slip.

I’m Margaretha Montagu, and for over twenty years, I’ve been guiding people – particularly women – through transformational experiences on the Camino de Santiago in southwest France. I’ve witnessed hundreds of first-time solo travellers arrive at my retreats near Eauze looking absolutely terrified, convinced they’ve made a catastrophic mistake. And I’ve watched those same women leave days later, walking taller, laughing louder, and already planning their next adventure.

Through my storytelling circles (held both during retreats and as separate gatherings), I’ve heard countless travel tales – the triumphant, the disastrous, and the downright hilarious. These stories, shared with vulnerability and courage around flickering candlelight or beneath the vast Gascon sky, have taught me something profound: we all share the same fears, make the same mistakes, and discover the same revelations when we finally take that leap into solo travel.

So let me share with you the twelve lessons I wish someone had whispered in my ear before I embarked on my own journey. But first, let me tell you about Alice…

Alice Newman’s Spectacular Introduction to Solo Travel on the Camino

Alice Newman arrived at the tiny train station in Eauze on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, looking like someone who’d packed for every possible apocalypse scenario. Her rucksack – a behemoth in aggressive purple – appeared to have its own gravitational field. She emerged from the train carriage backwards, wrestling the bag through the doorway whilst simultaneously clutching a rolling suitcase, a duty-free shopping bag that kept splitting, and what appeared to be a ukulele in a soft case.

The platform was empty except for a ginger cat that regarded Alice with the withering disdain only French cats can properly muster.

“Bonjour, chat,” Alice said brightly, her voice pitched slightly too high with nervousness. The cat yawned, revealing a pink tongue and impressive indifference, before sauntering away with its tail at full mast.

Alice consulted her phone – battery at 8%, naturally – and then the crumpled paper printout of my retreat directions. The afternoon sun felt thick as honey on her skin, and the air smelled of warm stone, lavender, and something yeasty that might have been the boulangerie on Rue de la République. In the distance, church bells chimed three times, the sound hanging in the air like audible mist.

She’d been walking for approximately four minutes when the handle of her rolling suitcase – which she’d purchased specifically for this trip despite my email explicitly advising against wheeled luggage on the Camino – snapped clean off. The case tipped sideways with a crash that startled a nearby pigeon into explosive flight.

“Brilliant,” Alice muttered. “Absolutely brilliant.”

She stood there on the sun-bleached pavement, squinting at the map, whilst doubt began its familiar creeping crawl up her spine. What on earth was she doing here? She was a forty-three-year-old accountant from Northampton who got anxious ordering pizza over the phone. Who was she kidding, thinking she could do this?

The rational part of her brain – the bit that had convinced her to book this retreat after three years of “maybe next year” – reminded her that she was only 1.2 kilometres from the retreat centre. She could absolutely manage 1.2 kilometres. She’d walked further going round IKEA looking for tea towels.

So Alice did what any sensible woman would do: she abandoned the broken suitcase behind a recycling bin (she’d retrieve it later, she told herself, knowing she absolutely wouldn’t), redistributed her belongings between her rucksack and the splitting duty-free bag, and set off again.

That’s when she realised she’d been reading the map upside down.

Twenty minutes later, she found herself in someone’s back garden, face to face with a extremely large pig. The pig – who seemed equally surprised by this development – made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a query. Behind Alice, she could hear dogs barking and a woman’s voice calling something in rapid French.

“I am so sorry,” Alice said to the pig, backing away slowly. “I appear to have taken a wrong turn.”

The pig snorted, which seemed like reasonable commentary on the situation.

By the time Alice finally located the retreat centre, she was sweating through her carefully chosen “first day impression” linen shirt, her hair had staged a full rebellion against its clip, and the duty-free bag had finally given up entirely, depositing three novels and a family-sized Toblerone into a particularly muddy patch. Her trainers – which she’d bought specifically because they were “suitable for light hiking and very comfortable according to seventeen Amazon reviews” – had already raised a blister on her right heel that felt like it had its own heartbeat.

I was grooming Twiss, one of my Friesian horses, when Alice rounded the corner. She stopped dead, taking in the scene: the converted stone barn with its lavender-framed doorway, the paddock where Kashkin, and Zorie stood like living sculptures, and Loki and Lito, my Falabella horses, who were presumably plotting something mischievous behind the hay bales.

“Is this…” Alice’s voice cracked slightly. “Is this the Camino CrossRoads retreat?”

“It is indeed,” I replied, setting down the brush. “And you must be Alice. Welcome.”

That’s when she started crying. Not delicate, camera-ready tears, but proper shoulder-shaking sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep and long-ignored. Kash, curious as always, stretched his magnificent neck over the fence rail and exhaled warm, grassy breath across Alice’s tear-stained face.

“I’m sorry,” Alice gasped between sobs. “I just… I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never travelled alone. I got lost. There was a pig. My suitcase broke. I don’t even know why I’m here. My sister said I was being ridiculous, that I should join a book club like a normal person instead of gallivanting off to France by myself at my age…”

I handed her a tissue and waited, giving her the space her tears needed. Twiss stood patiently, this enormous gentle creature offering the kind of non-judgmental presence only horses can provide.

“The thing is,” Alice continued, wiping her nose rather inelegantly, “I’ve spent my entire life doing what everyone else thought I should do. Safe choices. Sensible choices. And then I turned forty-three, and I looked at my life, and I thought… is this it? Is this all there is? The same conversations, the same Sunday roast, the same routes to work? And I kept seeing these photos of the Camino, and I just… I wanted to know what it felt like. To walk with nothing but what you can carry. To be nobody’s wife or mother or colleague for a few days. Just… me.”

She looked up at me, vulnerability and defiance mixing in her reddened eyes. “Does that sound utterly mad?”

“It sounds,” I said gently, “like you’re exactly where you need to be.”

Over the next five days, I watched Alice transform in the ways I’ve witnessed countless times before, yet which never cease to move me. That first evening, at our storytelling circle, she could barely speak above a whisper when sharing why she’d come. But by day three, emboldened by the daily walks, the meditation sessions, and the quiet confidence that comes from successfully navigating each small challenge, she was telling stories that had the entire group weeping with laughter.

The Alice who left on Sunday morning was not the same Alice who’d arrived crying in the driveway. This Alice walked taller. Smiled more readily. Had learned that she could read maps (albeit occasionally upside down), handle discomfort (the blister had been thoroughly addressed), and perhaps most importantly, enjoy her own company.

“I think,” she said to me as she prepared to leave, her rucksack now sensibly packed, “I think I might actually be quite good at this solo travel thing.”

And the truth is, she was right. Because solo travel isn’t about being fearless or having everything sorted. It’s about taking that first terrifying step despite the fear, and then the next one, and the next. It’s about learning that you’re far more capable, resourceful, and resilient than you ever imagined.

Alice’s story illustrates something I’ve observed through years of facilitating storytelling circles: our travel disasters often become our most treasured memories. The broken suitcase, the wrong turn, the unexpected pig – these aren’t the parts that go wrong. These are the parts that make the story worth telling, that transform a trip into an adventure, that reveal character we didn’t know we possessed.

The 12 Solo Travel Tips I Wish I’d Known (Before Learning Them the Hard Way)

1. Your Luggage Should Be Your Friend, Not Your Nemesis

If you can’t comfortably carry your bag for fifteen minutes, you’ve packed too much. Full stop. I don’t care if you “might” need that second pair of heels or if you’re “just being prepared” with seven different jacket options. Every extra kilogram is a small act of self-sabotage.

The reality: You’ll wear approximately 20% of what you pack and resent the remaining 80% every single time you have to move locations. Pack for a week maximum, regardless of trip length. Accommodation comes with sinks. Washing clothes is an adventure in itself, and hotel laundry services are often brilliantly affordable.

What to pack instead of clothes: A portable phone charger, a universal adapter, a water bottle, and a book that makes you think differently. Also, bring a sarong or large scarf – the most versatile item in any traveller’s kit. It’s a blanket, a beach towel, a modest cover-up for religious sites, a picnic rug, a dress, and occasionally, a superhero cape when you’re feeling particularly triumphant.

2. Eating Alone Is a Skill Worth Mastering

The restaurant solo meal is many travellers’ greatest fear, hovering somewhere between public speaking and discovering a spider in the shower. We imagine everyone staring, pitying us, wondering what tragic circumstance has led to our solitary dining situation.

Here’s the truth: nobody is looking at you. They’re too absorbed in their own lives, their own conversations, their own phones. And even if they are looking? They’re probably thinking, “Good for her. I wish I had the confidence to dine alone.”

The secret: Bring a notebook or book if you need a security blanket initially, but try to wean yourself off props. Dining alone is an opportunity to actually taste your food, to people-watch shamelessly, to have a conversation with the waiter that might reveal the best local secret spot. Some of my most memorable meals have been solo affairs where I was fully present to the experience rather than distracted by companion conversation.

Practical tip: Lunch is easier than dinner for beginners. Start there. Also, sitting at the bar rather than a table often feels more natural and can lead to lovely spontaneous conversations with bartenders or neighbouring diners.

3. Your Phone Is Both Blessing and Curse

Navigation apps have made solo travel infinitely more accessible. Translation apps are minor miracles. The ability to video call home when loneliness strikes is genuinely comforting. But your phone can also rob you of the entire point of solo travel: being present, noticing, discovering, getting gloriously lost and finding your way back.

The balance: Designate phone-free hours. Use your phone for navigation to get somewhere, then put it away and actually experience being there. The Instagram stories can wait. The emails definitely can wait. That moment – right now, right here – cannot.

Controversial opinion: Some of my retreat participants initially panic when they discover the mobile signal near our Camino routes is patchy at best. By day two, they’re describing it as liberating. There’s something profoundly peaceful about being temporarily unreachable, knowing that the world will manage perfectly well without your immediate input.

4. Loneliness and Solitude Are Not the Same Thing

Solitude is choosing to be alone and finding richness in it. Loneliness is feeling isolated even in crowds. Solo travel will introduce you to both, sometimes within the same hour.

The wisdom: When loneliness strikes (and it will), don’t panic or convince yourself you’ve made a mistake. Loneliness is often your psyche adjusting to the unfamiliar silence where other people’s needs, opinions, and energies usually reside. Sit with it. Journal through it. Walk through it. It usually passes.

The counterintuitive bit: Sometimes the solution to loneliness isn’t seeking company but leaning further into solitude until you break through to the other side, where you discover you’re actually rather enjoyable company for yourself.

5. You’ll Make Friends in the Most Unexpected Ways

Solo travel doesn’t mean lonely travel. In fact, you’ll often find it easier to connect with others when you’re alone. People are far more likely to chat with a solo traveller than interrupt a couple or group.

Where connections happen: Hostel common rooms, walking tours, cooking classes, queues (British people, this is your superpower), and anywhere you ask someone to take your photo. The photo request is the universal icebreaker.

The storytelling circle effect: I’ve witnessed this phenomenon repeatedly in my circles. When people share stories – particularly about their vulnerabilities, fears, and adventures – bonds form with remarkable speed. Strangers become friends. Acquaintances become confidants. It’s why I’ve made storytelling circles central to my retreats. There’s something about the combination of shared experience, vulnerability, and the non-judgmental presence of horses that creates psychological safety for authentic connection.

6. Trust Your Instincts, But Question Your Anxiety

Your instincts are ancient, wise, and designed to keep you alive. Your anxiety, however, is often an overprotective friend who sees danger in every shadow and catastrophe in every minor inconvenience.

Learning the difference: Instinct feels calm and clear, even when it’s warning you. It says, “Something’s off here. Let’s leave.” Anxiety feels frantic and catastrophic. It says, “EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE. WE’RE GOING TO DIE. WHY DID WE EVER LEAVE HOME?”

Practical application: If something feels genuinely wrong – a person, a place, a situation – trust that feeling and extract yourself. If you’re just feeling scared because everything is unfamiliar, that’s anxiety doing its anxiety thing. Acknowledge it (“Thank you for trying to protect me, anxiety”), then do the thing anyway.

Safety basics: Share your itinerary with someone back home. Keep copies of important documents in separate locations. Trust local women – if you’re lost or concerned, looking for help from other women is often your safest bet. And for goodness’ sake, don’t advertise that you’re travelling alone to complete strangers, particularly men who are paying you too much attention.

7. Embrace the Glorious Art of Getting Lost

Getting lost is not a failure of navigation; it’s an opportunity for discovery. Some of my most treasured travel memories involve taking wrong turns that led to unexpected churches, hidden cafés, or conversations that changed my perspective.

The exception: Don’t get lost at night in unfamiliar areas. That’s not adventurous; that’s silly. Do your exploring during daylight hours when you can properly assess your surroundings and when help, if needed, is readily available.

The secret: Download offline maps before you travel. Google Maps and Maps.me both offer this function. Then you can wander freely, secure in the knowledge that you can always find your way back.

8. Budget for Generosity (Including Towards Yourself)

Solo travel can be more expensive than travelling with companions because you’re not splitting accommodation or meal costs. But pinching every penny creates a stingy, anxious experience that rather defeats the purpose.

The balance: Budget wisely, but build in room for spontaneity. When the fishmonger in the market offers you a taste of something unidentifiable, say yes. When you stumble upon a small museum that charges €5 entry, go in. When the locally made olive oil costs twice what the supermarket version does, buy it anyway and consider it an edible souvenir.

The gift to yourself: Budget for at least one experience that feels extravagant. Maybe it’s a proper massage, a cooking class, or a meal at that special restaurant you’ve been eyeing. Solo travel is partly about proving you can be delightfully generous with yourself, that you’re worth the investment.

9. Routines Will Save Your Sanity

When everything is unfamiliar, small routines become anchors. They provide structure, reduce decision fatigue, and give you something reliable to hold onto when everything else feels strange.

Examples: Morning coffee in the same café for a few days running. An evening walk at sunset. Journaling before bed. A specific time for calling home. These aren’t boring limitations; they’re gentle rhythms that help you feel grounded whilst everything else is gloriously chaotic.

The retreat rhythm: This is partly why my Camino retreats incorporate daily meditation, regular walking times, and evening storytelling circles. The predictable structure allows participants to relax into the experience rather than constantly wondering what’s happening next. It’s the same principle you can apply to your own solo travels.

10. Learn Basic Local Phrases (And Mispronounce Them with Confidence)

You don’t need fluency. You need approximately ten phrases: hello, thank you, please, excuse me, where is, how much, this one, delicious, toilet, and help. Master these, and you’ll navigate 90% of situations.

The magic bit: The effort matters more than accuracy. Locals appreciate attempts at their language, even spectacularly butchered ones. It shows respect and openness, and it often leads to patient, amused interactions where both parties end up gesticulating wildly and laughing together.

In France specifically: “Bonjour” before any interaction is non-negotiable. It’s not being friendly; it’s basic manners. Launch straight into English without greeting first, and you’ll encounter significantly less helpfulness. Say “Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais?” and watch doors open that seemed firmly closed moments before.

11. Document the Internal Journey, Not Just the External

Yes, take photos. Capture those sunset moments and architectural details. But also document what you’re feeling, thinking, discovering about yourself. The photos will trigger memories of places; the journal will trigger memories of who you were becoming.

The practice: Write in the moment, not just later when everything is sanitised through memory’s filter. Write when you’re scared. Write when you’re euphoric. Write when you’re sitting in a café feeling slightly ridiculous and wholly alive.

Years later: You’ll forget the name of that restaurant or which Tuesday you visited which museum. But you won’t forget how it felt to realise you could navigate an entire day in a foreign country by yourself, or the moment you stopped checking your phone every five minutes, or the evening you chose to sit under stars instead of heading back to your room because other people’s opinions about what you “should” do suddenly mattered significantly less.

12. Your First Solo Trip Won’t Be Perfect (And That’s Rather the Point)

If you’re waiting until you feel completely ready, completely confident, completely certain, you’ll never go. The truth is, you’ll never feel entirely ready for something you’ve never done before. Readiness comes from doing, not from contemplating doing.

Permission to be imperfect: You’ll pack wrong things. You’ll get lost. You’ll have meals that are disappointing and accommodation that’s less charming than the photos suggested. You’ll have moments of profound doubt where you wonder why you’re putting yourself through this instead of being comfortably at home in your pajamas watching Netflix.

And then: You’ll have a moment – maybe small, maybe spectacular – where you realise you’re doing it. You’re actually doing it. You’re navigating a foreign country by yourself. You’re solving problems independently. You’re discovering that you’re resourceful, capable, and far stronger than you imagined.

That moment? That’s what you came for. Everything else is just the journey to that realisation.

The Deeper Truth About Solo Travel

Solo travel, at its heart, isn’t really about the destinations at all. It’s about the relationship you develop with yourself when nobody else is watching, when there’s no audience for your personality, when you’re free to shed the roles and expectations you’ve been carrying like invisible luggage.

I’ve hosted women on retreat for over twenty years, and I’ve come to understand that the physical journey is merely the container for something far more profound. When you walk day after day with nothing but what you can carry, when you strip away the accumulated responsibilities and identities that usually define you, something remarkable happens. You remember who you actually are underneath all of that.

The Camino has been a pilgrimage route for over a thousand years, walked by millions seeking something – penance, adventure, healing, answers, or simply a pause from the relentless pace of modern life. What I’ve observed is that everyone who walks it finds exactly what they need, though rarely what they expected.

This is true of all solo travel, really. You set out thinking you’re going to find stunning landscapes or taste extraordinary food or see famous landmarks. And yes, you’ll find those things. But what you’ll actually discover is far more valuable: you’ll find out what you’re capable of when you’re solely responsible for yourself.

The Solo Travel Learning Curve

There’s a predictable arc to most people’s first solo travel experience, and understanding it helps normalise the emotional rollercoaster you’ll likely experience.

Days 1-2: Excitement mixed with terror. Everything is hyper-stimulating. You’re acutely aware of being alone. Every interaction feels significant. You’re probably over-thinking simple tasks like ordering breakfast or finding the bus stop. Your senses are overwhelmed with newness.

Days 3-4: The wobble. This is when doubt creeps in. The initial adrenaline has worn off. You’re tired. Something has probably gone a bit wrong. You might be feeling homesick or questioning why you’re doing this to yourself. This is the phase when many people nearly give up. Don’t. This is just your psyche adjusting to the unfamiliar.

Days 5-7: The settling. You’ve developed a rhythm. You know how to work the shower. You’ve found a café you like. You’re no longer startled every time someone speaks to you in a language you don’t understand. You’re starting to enjoy your own company.

Day 8 onwards: The transformation. You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You’re comfortable being alone. You’ve stopped constantly checking your phone for validation from the world you left behind. You’re present. You’re noticing things. You’re having conversations with strangers. You’re making decisions based purely on what you want to do, not what you think you should do. You’re free.

Understanding this progression helps you push through the wobble phase, knowing that the transformation phase is waiting just beyond it.

Why Women’s Solo Travel Differently

I work primarily with women on my retreats, and there’s a reason for that. Women’s relationship with solo travel is complicated by layers of socialisation that men simply don’t contend with to the same degree.

We’re taught from girlhood to be careful, to not take unnecessary risks, to consider how our actions might be perceived. We’re told the world is dangerous for women alone. We’re trained to always be aware of our surroundings, to carry our keys between our knuckles, to never leave drinks unattended, to watch what we wear and where we walk and how we smile.

All of this is true, to varying degrees. But it’s also incomplete. Yes, women face specific safety considerations when travelling alone. But we also face an internal barrier that’s often more limiting than any external danger: the belief that we shouldn’t be doing this at all, that wanting to explore the world independently is somehow selfish or foolish or dangerous beyond reason.

Through my storytelling circles, I’ve heard women share the internal arguments they had with themselves before booking their first solo trip. The guilt about leaving families. The worry about what others would think. The fear of appearing selfish for prioritising their own desires. The concern about seeming like they’re having a midlife crisis or running away from something.

Very rarely does anyone think they’re running towards something, which is usually far closer to the truth.

The Role of Storytelling in Processing Experience

This is why storytelling circles have become such a vital component of my retreats. Sharing our stories – our fears, our failures, our small victories – is how we make sense of experience. It’s how we transform events into meaning.

In our circles, I provide prompts: “Tell us about a time you surprised yourself.” “Share a moment when you felt completely lost.” “Describe your first solo meal in a restaurant.” The stories that emerge are always more honest, funnier, and more moving than anyone expects.

There’s something about the combination of the Camino, the horses, and the circle itself that creates psychological safety. People share things they’ve never told anyone. They laugh until they cry. They cry until they laugh. They discover that their struggles are universal, not unique failures. They hear echoes of their own journey in others’ stories.

This communal processing of individual experience is ancient and powerful. It’s how humans have made sense of their lives for millennia, sitting around fires sharing stories. In our modern, isolated lives, we’ve lost much of this. My circles attempt to reclaim it.

The Unexpected Gift of Animal Presence

My Friesian horses – Twiss, Kashkin, and Zorie – and my Falabellas – Loki and Lito – aren’t just attractive backdrop elements for Instagram photos (though they do photograph magnificently). Their presence serves a deeper purpose.

Horses are prey animals, which means they’re exquisitely attuned to emotional energy. They respond to what you’re actually feeling, not what you’re pretending to feel. You can’t fake calm around a horse. You can’t pretend confidence you don’t possess. They’ll sense the truth and respond accordingly.

This makes them remarkable teachers for solo travel preparation. If you can learn to regulate your emotions enough to be calm around a thousand-pound animal, navigating a foreign train station suddenly seems rather manageable.

But beyond that, horses offer non-judgmental presence. They don’t care about your career, your appearance, your social status, or any of the things humans often judge each other on. They care whether you’re present, genuine, and calm. It’s remarkably refreshing.

I’ve watched countless retreat participants have breakthroughs simply by spending quiet time with the horses, grooming them, walking with them, or just sitting in their presence. There’s something about being truly seen by a creature that wants nothing from you except authenticity that cracks open defences we didn’t even realise we were carrying.

Further Reading: 5 Unconventional Books for Solo Travellers

Most solo travel book lists recommend the same predictable titles – “Eat Pray Love,” “Wild,” “The Art of Travel.” Those are lovely books, but I’d rather share five less obvious choices that offer genuine wisdom for the internal journey solo travel represents.

1. “Wanderlust: A History of Walking” by Rebecca Solnit

This isn’t a travel guide; it’s a philosophical exploration of what happens when we move through landscapes at walking pace. Solnit examines walking as a form of thinking, of being, of processing the world. For anyone embarking on the Camino or any walking-focused journey, this book illuminates why something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other can be so profoundly transformative. It’s scholarly without being pretentious, and it will change how you think about the simple act of walking.

2. “The Adventure Gap: Changing the Face of the Outdoors” by James Edward Mills

This book tackles an uncomfortable truth: the outdoor adventure and solo travel worlds have been predominantly white spaces, often unwelcoming to people of colour. Mills combines memoir with historical examination, exploring why this matters and how it’s changing. I include it because truly understanding solo travel requires acknowledging that the experience isn’t identical for everyone. Your race, gender, sexuality, and ability all affect how you navigate the world, and pretending otherwise is naive. This book expands perspective magnificently.

3. “Women Who Travel: A Memoir in Passages” edited by Lavinia Spalding

This anthology collects short pieces from women travellers across different eras and cultures. What makes it valuable isn’t just the diversity of voices but the honesty. These aren’t sanitised “everything was magical” travel essays. They include fear, failure, awkwardness, and all the messy bits that travel actually involves. Reading it feels like sitting in one of my storytelling circles, hearing real experiences from real women.

4. “The Snow Leopard” by Peter Matthiessen

Ostensibly, this is about a naturalist’s journey to the Himalayas searching for the rare snow leopard. Actually, it’s about grief, Buddhism, and what we’re really searching for when we travel. Matthiessen wrote it after his wife’s death, and it’s suffused with the kind of raw honesty that comes from having nothing left to lose. It’s not an easy read, but it’s a profound one. If you’re traveling solo to process something difficult – grief, divorce, illness, life transitions – this book will speak to those depths.

5. “Lab Girl” by Hope Jahren

This might seem an odd inclusion on a solo travel list, as it’s actually a memoir by a geobiologist about her life in science. But Jahren writes about the natural world with such intimate wonder, such careful attention, that it transforms how you see everything. Solo travel is partly about developing the capacity to truly notice your surroundings, to be present to detail and beauty. This book is a masterclass in that kind of attention.

P.S. About My Own Book

I’d be remiss not to mention my own book, “You ARE Good Enough,” which addresses the fundamental doubt that stops many people from pursuing solo travel in the first place. The book isn’t specifically about travel; it’s about the pervasive belief so many of us carry that we’re not quite enough – not brave enough, not interesting enough, not capable enough, not deserving enough.

This belief becomes particularly loud when we contemplate solo travel. It whispers that we need more experience before we can possibly do this, that we should wait until we’re thinner/richer/braver/younger/older, that other people manage solo travel because they’re inherently different from us in some fundamental way.

The book challenges those assumptions systematically, offering both practical strategies and philosophical reframing for recognising your own sufficiency. Because until you believe you’re enough exactly as you are right now, you’ll keep postponing the life you want to be living.

Real Voices: Testimonials from the Journey

From Sarah M., First-Time Solo Camino Walker

“I arrived at Margaretha’s retreat convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. At 56, having never travelled alone, having barely left my hometown except for family holidays, I was certain I was too old, too inexperienced, too everything to be attempting the Camino. The first night, during the storytelling circle, I couldn’t even speak without crying. I felt ridiculous.

But Margaretha didn’t rush me or try to fix me. She just let me be exactly where I was. Over the next week, walking the Camino stages at my own pace, sitting with the horses (Kashkin particularly seemed to understand my anxiety), and hearing other women’s stories in the evening circles, something shifted.

I realised I’d spent my entire adult life waiting for permission – from my parents, my husband, my children, my colleagues – to do what I wanted. And the remarkable truth was that the only person who could give me that permission was me.

The last night, I shared my story again in the circle. This time, I didn’t cry. I laughed. And the next morning, I started planning my next solo adventure. I’m heading to Scotland in the spring. By myself. And I’m not scared anymore. Well, I’m a bit scared. But it’s the exciting kind of scared now, not the paralysing kind.”

From Jennifer L., Storytelling Circle Member

“I’d been attending Margaretha’s storytelling circles for about six months before I finally worked up the courage to book my first solo trip – just a long weekend in Paris, nothing dramatic. But for someone who’d always travelled with friends or my ex-husband, it felt monumental.

What the circles taught me was that everyone’s internal narrative is far more dramatic and catastrophic than reality usually turns out to be. Hearing other women share their travel stories – including the mishaps and the moments of doubt – normalised the fear I was feeling. It made me realise that feeling scared doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do something; it just means you’re doing something that matters.

The circle also gave me a framework for processing my experience. I knew I’d be sharing my story when I returned, which somehow made me pay more attention whilst I was away. I noticed more. I was more present. I collected moments specifically because I wanted to share them.

When I did share my Paris story – including the bit where I got hopelessly lost in Montmartre and ended up having the most magnificent accidental lunch at a tiny bistro I’d never have found otherwise – the group’s response was so warm and enthusiastic. They celebrated my small victories with genuine joy. It made me realise that solo travel isn’t about being a fearless adventurer; it’s about being brave enough to be uncertain and doing it anyway.

I’ve now done four solo trips, and I’m planning my fifth. Each one gets easier, but more importantly, each one reveals more of who I actually am when nobody else’s expectations are shaping me. The storytelling circles gave me the courage to start, and they give me a community to process and celebrate with afterwards. It’s been genuinely life-changing.”

Frequently Asked Questions About Solo Travel

Q: I’m terrified of being lonely. How do I handle solo meals, especially dinners?

A: Loneliness during meals is probably the number one fear I hear, and here’s what I’ve learned: the anticipation is always worse than the reality. Start with lunch, which feels less emotionally loaded than dinner. Bring a book or journal if you need a security blanket initially, but try to wean yourself off.

The secret technique? Sit at the bar rather than a table. It feels more natural to be alone, the bartender usually chats with you, and you’re positioned to people-watch or strike up conversations with neighbours. Also, remember that most people dining around you aren’t thinking about you at all – they’re absorbed in their own lives. And the few who do notice you solo? They’re typically thinking, “Good for her,” not “Poor thing.”

Finally, reframe it: you’re not eating alone; you’re dining independently. You’re free to eat when you want, order exactly what you fancy, linger or leave as you please, and actually taste your food without distraction. It’s a luxury once you adjust to it.

Q: Is solo travel safe for women? My family is convinced I’ll be kidnapped or worse.

A: Let’s be honest: there are specific safety considerations for women travelling alone. But there’s a vast difference between being sensible and being paralysed by fear. The world isn’t nearly as dangerous as 24-hour news cycles would have you believe.

Practical safety measures: Share your itinerary with someone at home. Stay in well-reviewed accommodation. Don’t advertise that you’re alone to strangers (wearing a fake wedding ring is a choice some women make). Trust your instincts about people and situations. Avoid excessive alcohol in unfamiliar places. Don’t wander unfamiliar neighbourhoods at night.

But here’s the thing: millions of women travel solo every single year without incident. You’re statistically more likely to be harmed by someone you know than by a stranger in a foreign country. Being cautious and sensible is smart. Letting fear prevent you from living your life is not.

Also, tell your family that their fears, whilst coming from love, are often rooted in cultural messaging about women needing protection and not being capable of navigating the world independently. That messaging is outdated and limiting. You’re not a helpless damsel; you’re a competent adult making informed choices.

Q: I don’t speak any foreign languages. Can I still solo travel?

A: Absolutely. I’ve guided English-only speakers through the French Camino countless times. Here’s the truth: you can navigate most situations with ten basic phrases, hand gestures, and a friendly smile. Translation apps have made this even easier.

Learn hello, thank you, please, excuse me, and “Do you speak English?” in the local language. The effort matters more than accuracy. Even butchered attempts at local phrases signal respect and openness, which typically results in patient, helpful responses.

Also, remember that humans have been communicating across language barriers for millennia. A combination of pointing, miming, showing pictures on your phone, and good humour will get you remarkably far. Some of my most memorable travel interactions have been with people I shared no common language with – laughter and kindness translate universally.

Q: I’m over 50/60/70. Am I too old for solo travel?

A: Absolutely not. In fact, many of my retreat participants are in their 50s, 60s, and beyond, often embarking on their first solo adventures. You’re not too old; you’re finally old enough – old enough to know yourself, to have the confidence and resources to travel, to be done living according to others’ expectations.

The only adjustment might be in trip style. Choose accommodation and activities that suit your energy levels and physical capabilities. But age brings advantages: patience, perspective, confidence, and often more time and financial freedom than younger travellers possess.

I’ve watched women in their 70s walk the Camino with more grace and presence than anxious 30-year-olds. Age isn’t a barrier; it’s often an asset. The only thing you’re too old for is letting fear and “shoulds” dictate your choices.

Q: How do I deal with well-meaning friends and family who think I’m having a crisis or being selfish?

A: This is surprisingly common, particularly for women. When we step outside expected roles – when we prioritise our own desires, when we choose adventure over obligation – people often respond with concern or judgment.

Remember: their discomfort is about them, not you. Often, they’re projecting their own fears or regrets. Your solo travel might highlight paths they didn’t take, freedoms they didn’t claim, and that can trigger defensive responses.

You don’t need anyone’s permission or approval. You’re an adult making considered choices about your own life. Share your plans with those who’ll be genuinely supportive. Don’t waste energy trying to convince naysayers. Simply say, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve thought this through and I’m excited about it,” then change the subject.

And after your trip, when you return glowing with confidence and stories? Many of those doubters will suddenly be asking how you did it and whether you think they could possibly… That’s when you smile and say, “Absolutely you can. Let me tell you what I learned.”

Conclusion: Homeward Bound

Here’s what nobody tells you about solo travel until you’ve experienced it: it’s not really about the places at all.

Yes, you’ll see stunning landscapes and taste extraordinary food and experience different cultures. Those things are wonderful. But the real journey – the one that stays with you long after you’ve unpacked your bag and returned to ordinary life – is the journey back to yourself.

We spend so much of our lives being shaped by others’ expectations. We mould ourselves to fit relationships, careers, families, and societal norms. We become so practised at considering what everyone else needs and wants that we lose track of our own desires. Sometimes we lose track of who we actually are underneath all those roles and responsibilities.

Solo travel creates space for that self to re-emerge. When you’re alone in a foreign place where nobody knows you, you’re free to shed all those accumulated identities. You’re not anyone’s partner, parent, child, colleague, or friend. You’re just… you. And if you’ve been playing roles for long enough, that can feel both terrifying and intoxicatingly free.

The woman who arrives at my retreat centre on that first day – anxious, over-packed, convinced she’s made a terrible mistake – is never the same woman who leaves. The transformation isn’t about suddenly becoming fearless or enlightened. It’s subtler and more profound than that.

It’s about discovering that you can navigate uncertainty. That you’re resourceful and capable. That you can trust your own judgment. That you can enjoy your own company. That the world is both bigger and more welcoming than you imagined. That you contain multitudes you never knew existed.

Every problem you solve independently – even tiny ones like working out the bus system or ordering breakfast in broken French – builds a small fortress of self-belief that nobody can take away from you. You’re collecting evidence, experience by experience, that you’re enough. That you always were.

This is why I’ve dedicated over twenty years to guiding people, particularly women, through transformational experiences on the Camino. Because I’ve witnessed many times what happens when people give themselves permission to take up space, to prioritise their own desires, to step into uncertainty with courage.

They don’t just discover France or Spain or wherever they’re travelling. They discover themselves. And that discovery changes everything.

So if you’re reading this whilst simultaneously talking yourself out of that trip you’ve been dreaming about, please stop. Stop waiting for the perfect time, the perfect circumstances, the perfect version of yourself. Stop letting fear or other people’s opinions or your own doubts hold you back from the life you actually want to be living.

Book the ticket. Pack the bag (but not too much). Take the first step. And then the next one. And the next.

The world is waiting for you.

Invitation: Walk the Camino in Southwest France

If reading this article has stirred something in you – a longing for space, for transformation, for the chance to rediscover your natural rhythm away from life’s relentless demands – I’d love to welcome you to one of my Camino de Santiago retreats.

Nestled in the rolling hills of southwest France near Eauze, my Camino Crossroads retreats offer something rare and precious: time. Time to walk ancient paths at your own pace. Time to sit in silence or share stories around the circle. Time to breathe deeply and remember who you are when nobody else’s needs are clamouring for your attention.

Our days follow a gentle rhythm designed to soothe frazzled nervous systems and reconnect you with what matters.

You walk sections of the Camino, but this isn’t about endurance or reaching destinations. It’s about the meditative quality of placing one foot in front of the other, about landscapes that invite contemplation, about conversations that unfold naturally when walking side by side rather than face to face.

The horses – my beloved Friesians Twiss, Kashkin, and Zorie, along with Loki and Lito, my spirited Falabellas – offer their own form of therapy. Their presence is grounding, their non-judgment complete. Whether you’re grooming them, walking with them, or simply sitting in their company, they teach presence and authenticity in ways humans often can’t.

Evening storytelling circles create the kind of genuine connection we’re all craving but rarely find. Prompted by questions designed to evoke authentic sharing, participants discover they’re not alone in their struggles, fears, or dreams. Stories are witnessed with compassion. Laughter and tears flow freely. Bonds form that often last far beyond the retreat itself.

The retreats specifically incorporate stress management techniques because I understand that many women arrive carrying the accumulated tension of lives spent caring for everyone else. We practise breathwork for anxiety. We learn meditation techniques you can take home and use daily. We explore how movement – whether walking the Camino or spending time with horses – naturally regulates our nervous systems in ways our modern, sedentary lives often prevent.

This isn’t about escaping your life; it’s about returning to it with renewed clarity, energy, and sense of self. It’s about remembering that you’re not just a collection of roles and responsibilities. You’re a whole, complex, fascinating human being who deserves time, attention, and care – from yourself most of all.

Group sizes are intentionally small to maintain the intimate, safe atmosphere where genuine transformation happens. The pace is gentle, honouring that we’re here to restore, not to prove anything. All fitness levels are welcome – the Camino adapts to you, not the other way around.

If your soul is whispering that it’s time – time to pause, to reflect, to reconnect, to rediscover – you’ll find more information about retreat dates, what’s included, and how to book HERE.

The Camino de Santiago Crossroads Retreat

The Camino has been calling pilgrims for over a thousand years. Perhaps now it’s calling you. And perhaps you’re finally ready.