And so, we’re underway for 2026 – The Year of the Horse, the Commonwealth Games, the World Cup footie, four-day solar eclipse party on Snæfellsnes Peninsula, Iceland and the final throws of the Bazball era Down Under.
It’s well-known in the travel industry that January is the month in which the highest percentage of holidaymakers book their trips. Spurred on by the post-Christmas blues and attractive early-bird discounts, opting for the azure skies of the Caribbean feels like a no-brainer.
Which got me thinking…remember guidebooks?
Not that long ago (although it feels pre-industrial), you could travel the world with nothing but a passport, a slightly suspicious stomach and a Lonely Planet. Or, if you were marginally cooler and possibly owned a woven bracelet, The Rough Guide. These weren’t just books. They were first-hand, beautifully constructed oracles; encyclopaedias of low-budget wisdom. They smelled faintly of mildew and airport coffee and they opened up the world in the most gloriously inefficient way possible.
I had one – The Rough Guide to the Middle East – which I carried like a holy text whilst adventuring through Egypt, Jordan and Israel in the late 90s. In fact, I also carried a small bible to visit some of the places named. By the end of my trip, it looked as though it had been used to prop up a camel. The cover was gone, whilst entire pages had dislodged themselves and taken up residency in other chapters. There were notes in the margins that I’m fairly certain weren’t mine, including on page 218, which inexplicably reads “don’t trust the juice.”
But it worked. That book got me through Cairo’s intoxicating maze of noise and diesel fumes. It led me to a guesthouse in Amman where the plumbing was largely theoretical, but the sugary, mint tea was free-flowing. It told me how to find falafels in Jerusalem that could reduce you to tears and where to stand on the side of the road to flag down a minibus that (in theory) went to Wadi Musa, but in practice wandered off in the general direction of Petra.
I miss the guides. Pages of recommendations from those who had trodden the same paths (and dodged the same mopeds) were invaluable. Now, everything is digital, translated and geo-tagged. You can sit on your sofa in Odiham and do a 360 virtual tour of the Pyramids. You don’t need to ask people for directions anymore, because your smartphone has the answers. You don’t get hopelessly lost and end up at a stranger’s cousin’s wedding in Luxor singing Hi-Ho Silver Lining. You follow a blue dot on a screen with efficiency and accuracy. But let’s be honest, it’s also a bit dull.
The battered guidebook marks a time of genuine discovery. The indecipherable bus timetables, the street food we should have given a wide berth to. It also gently nudged you in the direction of places that you might never have stumbled upon otherwise – all thanks to someone who journeyed some time before you.
There’s still much to be said for this approach, a recommendation means the world and we’re always grateful for the positive word of mouth generated by our community at LWC.
We’re also delighted to have received an excellent review from Talk Education, who visited us last term. Together with The Good Schools Guide, they have managed to reflect life at LWC in all its guises and present an insightful guide for those considering joining us in the 1200. You can find both reviews here.
We start this term in the depths of winter and will finish with spring all around us.
That’s a journey we don’t need a guidebook for, and we can’t wait.
Yours,
Adam
