In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.
‘‘I was thinking of going to Panjim’’ I said, slurping on a fruit shake, ‘‘you know, just to mix things up, I’m getting a bit twitchy’’. We’d been in the Goan village of Benaulim for around ten days; maybe longer, I’d lost count. It had been the ultimate chill out, just what the doctor ordered, but now I’d finished my book, swam as much as I could swim and put away enough sleep for a lifetime. I had to get out for a night or two, enjoy a change of scenery; I needed to do something.