Mark Twain famously said that travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.

It skyrockets us out of our comfort zone and makes us realise that in a great big world, our way of being is just one tiny way.

I long prided myself on being a traveller. Until a year or two ago, I couldn’t go a few months without cabin fever setting in. Usually I’d hop on a plane, but a short road trip out of town would suffice. Travel and momentum had always been in my DNA. It started, perhaps, with long car trips to and from boarding school since the age of 6. And was cemented by a deep restlessness in my young adult life, to see the world, and make sense of who I was relative to the rest of humanity.

I prided myself not just on being a traveller, but an intrepid, gritty one. I worked hard at ticking off the list of experiences any good backpacker worth their salt ought to have had:

A severe case of Delhi belly. Ripped off by a carpet trader in Goa. Backpack stolen off an overnight train somewhere in Eastern Europe (my girlfriend and I were also, as an aside, flashed twice in the space of 24 hours in Prague, and both times the flasher treated himself to a happy ending). I woke with a crick in my neck after a night spent on a slab of rock on Mount Sinai. Spent 3 days sailing down the Nile on a felucca, hopping overboard to wash, hoping not to be taken under by a Nile croc. I strolled the Champs-Elysees with my fiancé. Hiked the Great Wall of China. Spent the night on a bench in Heathrow so I could catch the red-eye flight.

But can I come right out and say that I’m a little over travelling and I really just want to stay put. Not absolutely put. Just a little bit put. The thought of far-flung destinations that involve airports and long haul flights and stopovers piques my anxiety rather than my wanderlust.

Can I blame my kids? Old age crankiness?

I still adore the idea of travel, it’s just that I’ve become quite lousy at it. I get thrown by the inevitable curveballs, and I like to be assured of a good nights sleep. Travel can be arresting and confronting, and hence, quite exhausting.

What thrills me now is chucking a few bags in the boot of the car and finding a spot close to home. Preferably a beach, but in the Cape we’re terribly spoilt and have mountains and rivers and winelands. Few places are as astoundingly beautiful and diverse as South Africa; there is so much wonder on our doorstep.

I love the idea of discovering a local gem, then returning to it again and again, to experience it in a different light, a different season, a different mood. To discover the rhythm of a place that is not your home but has come to feel comfortingly familiar through the holiday rituals that become part of each trip you make.

Maybe the bug will bite again. Hopefully—as I want my boys to see the world. And there are still places on my bucket list! Walking the Camino de Santiago, Buenos Aires, a retreat at a remote monastery. I used to dream of packing my boys into a caravan and road-tripping across the States, a country I haven’t seen much of…

I just need to reconnect with my inner wanderer. I know she’s in there, she’s just taking a sabbatical, and she shan’t be rushed.