I always have a sense that people feel uncomfortable around female solo travellers. Couples especially. It’s like they’re always thinking: what tragic thing happened to this poor woman that she’s escaping? Has she been jilted? Did she kill her boyfriend and is she on the run? People stare at you when you eat alone or — worse — insist that you eat with them. Plus, you look like a perv when you ask someone to put suncream on your back.
But I love travelling alone. Having wandered around this planet for 27 years, and spent a mere three and a half of those in serious relationships, it’s a state to which I’m well suited.
I like having a bed all to myself, reading without interruption, feeling in charge. My eyes are never as wide, nor my spirit as bold, as when I travel alone.
But where to go? I feel I’m beyond the 18-30 package-holiday years, but not quite ready to do a watercolour course with divorcees in Tuscany. Outdoorsy beach holiday feels about right — which leads me to the singleton-friendly Lodge, about an hour’s drive west of Lisbon, where they offer surfing breaks.
Here’s the chance to meet others of my kind, I think. Maybe to find a nice pair of hands to slop that factor 30 on my back.
Advertisement
I arrive on a blue-sky day and am greeted by Ralph, one of the two hunky blond German owners. But as I’m shown around the place — pool, sauna, communal kitchen, lush green garden — it becomes clear that I’m the only single person here. My fellow guests are a family and several couples from Germany, a Swedish couple on their honeymoon and two Austrian best friends.
Has there been a clerical mix-up? No — this is just the gamble you take when you book these things. The place is usually brimming with single travellers, Ralph tells me, and flings are common. But it looks like the only thing I’ll be embracing is my surfboard. No matter. I’m relishing the chance to try one of the few sports I’ve always thought I’d be rather good at.
I tell Ralph this — but mention my fear of being eaten by a shark. “No, not here,” he says to me, deadpan. “It’s more likely you drown.”
The following morning, we meet our instructors — two attractive, mahogany-tanned men with sun-frosted tips who look like they were famous in the 1980s. One is a dead ringer for Simon Le Bon, the other for a young George Michael. The class is mostly couples, one family and a solo Finnish woman, who takes an instant dislike to me because I get the hottest instructor (George Michael) and she doesn’t.
Advertisement
If there’s one thing more humiliating than suncreaming your own back, it’s getting into a wetsuit on your own. Picture that moment when you try on a pair of trousers in a shop and realise, too late, that they won’t go higher than your thighs. Then imagine a kindly German couple poking their heads through the dressing-room curtains and asking if you need a hand. Then each of them taking either side of the waistband and groaning as they try to pull it up your body. That’s what it’s like.
And that’s the easy bit. Surfing, it transpires, is really, really hard. I can’t understand how something that looks so effortless can be so physically impossible. Getting out through the waves is a sport in itself, and I can barely hoick myself up to a one-legged, wobbly kneel before I’m arse over tit into the sea. And while everyone else can laugh about it with their partners, I’m left with half the Atlantic up my nose, half my dignity on the seabed... and I do sort of wish I had someone there to tell me that it’s OK to go back to the Lodge and never get on a surfboard again.
I’m feeling better by the barbecue that night. The vibe is relaxed and fun, and the staff are considerate. (One of the ladies says to me: “Your mannerisms... I don’t know why, but it is reminding me of Bridget Jones.” Got it in one, love.) Ralph gives me a bit of a surf pep talk and I go to bed determined not to give up.
For lesson two, I’m given Simon Le Bon. He gets all academic on the problem, explaining move by move the science of how to get up. I try and try; I fail and fail. We have to go back to the sand to practise my technique. But by the end of the session, I am less scared and kneeling on the board confidently — even if the falls are still spectacular. At moments, it’s quite fun.
Advertisement
I go out for a celebratory solo dinner at a nearby beach restaurant. The thrill is momentarily marred when I realise the young German couple from my surf group are there with another couple. I feel awkward because I know they’ll feel awkward — and I really don’t want them to feel obliged to ask me to join them.
I am led to my little table next to theirs, give them a hearty (but not too hearty) hello, then sit down. And end up having the dreamiest solo-traveller evening. I eat my favourite food, clams in white wine with tomato salad; watch the sun set; read 100 pages of my book; walk back up the hill along the well-lit path to the Lodge; and sleep like a baby.
In my remaining surf lessons, I grow in confidence — if not dexterity. The lovely George Michael teaches me a tactic for spotting lulls between sets of powerful waves, during which I can paddle out like a madwoman before catching another wave, and this definitely helps.
On the last night, we all go down to a nearby beach to watch the sun set while a jazz band plays, Ralph promising me some hot single surfers. But the only number I end up swapping is with the Swedish honeymooners, who invite me to stay with them in Stockholm for crayfish season.
Advertisement
So no joy there, but I leave the Lodge feeling like I always do when I’ve gone somewhere on my own: relaxed and as if I’ve come back to myself. And this time I’m proud. Proud I stuck with surfing even when it terrified me, proud for eating by myself in restaurants and not being embarrassed about it, proud of making new friends.
When you travel on your own, you might end up getting the hots for someone — but it will most likely be for the person you came with.
Dolly Alderton was a guest of the Lodge, which has a week’s surfing package for solo travellers from £421, B&B, including accommodation in a single room, one lesson a day, packed lunches and use of all facilities (thelodgeportugal. com). Fly to Lisbon with BA, easyJet or Ryanair
Going solo: other good options for getting away by yourself
Advertisement
Painting
If, unlike Dolly, you are ready for that painting trip to Tuscany, Authentic Adventures is a good bet. It offers various special-interest holidays, with two-thirds of its clients travelling solo. A seven-night painting break based in the medieval village of San Quirico d’Orcia, near Siena, starts at £1,774 for singletons, including tuition, transfers and most meals, but not flights (01453 823328, authenticadventures.co.uk).
Walking
The soft-adventure specialist Explore, which has more than 450 tours worldwide, estimates that half its customers are solo travellers, with the majority female being. Single rooms are available for a supplement, but most people share; they’re matched by age and gender. An eight-night walking trip on the Lycian Way, in Turkey, starts at £719, including flights, transfers and most meals (01252 884723, explore.co.uk).
Touring
Specialising in classic journeys and river cruises, Voyages Jules Verne offers about 50 supplement-free trips dedicated to those travelling alone. The escorted tours cover a range of destinations, including Provence, Jordan, Burma and Iceland. The 10-night India Golden Triangle trip takes in the Taj Mahal and Delhi; from £1,195, B&B, including flights, transfers and guides (020 3131 6796, vjv.com).