T
en years ago, almost to the day, my father
died without warning. He was getting
off a plane in Sydney. I was 22 and living
in the south of Spain at the time, a place
where my biggest qualms were whether
the orange juice was pre-squeezed, or if my breakfast
bodega was being stingy with the jamón. I woke in
Seville to a missed call from my mother. She rang
again. And that time I didn’t miss it.
The pain of losing him so suddenly, and of being
on the other side of the world when it happened,
is still there. But like me over the years, it’s changed
shape – the grief morphing from heart-piercing attacks
on all senses to dull aches and pains, skittering shadows
or light fogginess, depending on the day. Now there
are two distinct time-markers in my life: “before Dad
died” and “after Dad died”. And those chapters
continuetoframemyrelationships,newandold,
whetherwithfamily,loversorfriends.
I’vefeltthosebeforeandafterchaptersmost
dramaticallywithmymum,Penny.Mytwosiblings
andI didn’tdomuchinternationaltravelwithour
parentsgrowingup.Theytooka two-weekholiday
togethereverycoupleofyearsandreturnedwithtales
ofcrossingtheAlpsontheVeniceSimplon-Orient-
Express,orofwhite-waterraftingdowntheZambeziRiver. The adventures we had together as a family
took place on the far south coast of New South
Wales every January instead. No need for passports
or even suitcases at Pambula Beach; just our togs,
fishing rod and boogie board along with the promise
of hot cinnamon doughnuts from the caravan park
and riding the toboggan at Magic Mountain.
It wasn’t until after Dad died that I became
something of a “regular” travel companion to Mum.
And we’ve had some memorable rides. We’ve held
hands (and breath) going under the Verrazzano-
Narrows Bridge on the Queen Mary 2, scared of
whether or not we’d fit, and sung with the London
Philharmonic Orchestra as we crossed the Atlantic.
We’ve danced until dawn in a taverna on Symi island
in Greece, linking arms and clinking glasses with
locals who greeted us like family the next day. And,
alongsidemybrotherandsister,wescatteredmy
dad’sashesunderbridgesinSevilleandParis,from
thedizzyingheightsoftheLlangollenCanal,and
acrossthesilk-likewatersofBoraBora.
OurfirstmajortriptogethercamewhenI wasliving
inLondon.Pen-Pen,as wecallher,invitedmeona
small-grouptourfor 10 daysona 26-metreketchgulet
yachtinTurkey.Thetwoofushadneverdonesuch
a longstintoverseastogetherbefore,andbeganour➤GOURMET TRAVELLER 73ILLUSTRATIONS LAURA JACOBS.