There are a number of ways to cope with a recession. You could slash your outgoings, get a second job, keep the head down and hope things pick up, or get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. Guess which one I’m doing?

I could pretend I decided to leave Ireland because I knew the economy, the country and the entire global financial system, were going to hell in a handcart. In truth, the recession wasn’t why I booked my one-way ticket.

By now I should be a younger version of Nigella Lawson, with a beautiful home, adorable family, thriving career and a knack for whisking up delicious cakes in five minutes. However, I’m 31, single, freelancing and mortgage-less. Mind you, things didn’t go entirely awry: I can bake, sort of.

When life doesn’t turn out as expected, you have to reconsider. I figured I could be responsible, knuckle down and save for a shoebox apartment of my own, or I could get the hell out of Dodge. It didn’t take long to decide.

I called into the office to say good-bye to the editors. “I’m away off travelling,” I told them. “I don’t know when I’m coming back.”

“No problem,” said one editor amicably, “I’m sure you’ll find things to write about.” The other editor nodded in agreement. I had been nervous about this meeting, but it was going remarkably well.

“So you’re going to Asia?” the second editor said. “You could eat dog — you’d definitely get a good column out of that. ‘Kathy Foley eats dog’!” I winced, partly at the thought of tucking into boiled terrier. Maybe this whole travelling-and-writing plan wasn't as clever as it had seemed. I smiled. “Sure we’ll see how it goes,” I said. “Play it by ear, you know yourself.”

So that’s what I’m going to do: play it by ear. Go where the road takes me. Not only will I see at least some of the world, but I’m escaping the economic gloom, the Doomsday budget and the endless parade of sombre faces on the news. For months, maybe longer, I won’t have to discuss Cowen, Kenny, Harney, the HSE, benchmarking, the National Development Plan or which Irish bank is about to collapse.

And after spending the boom like most people — engaging in spectacular but mindless conspicuous consumption — I’ve been spending the start of the recession sorting my belongings into four piles: stuff to be chucked; stuff for the charity shop; stuff I love too much to relinquish and stuff to take with me.

My belongings once filled most of a house. Now I’m down to the contents of one 40-litre backpack and one small rucksack. I’m bringing few clothes and no designer shoes, expensive jewellery or handbags. I’ll admit to squeezing in mascara, eyeliner and lipstick — some things are sacrosanct.

I’m looking forward to bare-bones living. Hitherto, my idea of hardship was staying in a three-star hotel with no spa. Now I’ve romantic notions of shedding my pampered Western sensibilities and escaping the trap of being defined by what I buy, rather than who I am. One well-travelled friend says that’s what’s happened to her in Vietnam. “Mind you,” she added, “I was only home about two weeks, before I was all ‘I want, I want, I want’ again.”

Other seasoned travellers are equally free with advice. “Avoid Louang Prabang in Laos,” counselled one Asian expert. “It’s full of stoned backpackers watching Friends.” Another friend just back from South America solemnly warned: “You will definitely get the shits.”

Duly alerted, I’ve packed appropriate medication for that and every other traveller’s ailment imaginable. I’m also carrying an awful lot of batteries, chargers and cables. I may manage without much I had once considered vital, but I can’t become a roving reporter-cum-backpacker without a mini-laptop, a phone, a Dictaphone and a camera.

I’m bringing an iPod with 73.8 days of music on it — if I make no friends between now and Christmas, no sweat. Still, who won’t want to be friends with the Irish woman toting the superglue, travel washing line and portable solar panel?

What will I miss? Friends and family, of course, especially my brand-new nephew who will just have to muddle through his early life without the close attention of a well-meaning but slightly clueless aunt. I’m hoping we can bond via Skype, meaning my mother’s cheery prediction (“He won’t know you at all when you come back — he’ll just run away crying whenever he sees you”) won’t come true.

I’ll miss the crisp, sunny mornings typical of Dublin in the winter, but not the sodden, dreary, endless afternoons that often follow. I’ll miss my home comforts, but not utility bills and paying rent. I’ll miss my books, most of which are wedged into my father’s shed, apart from a few hundred seconded to friends’ attics and bookshelves.

But the world awaits. First stop Singapore. I’ll let you know how it goes.

kathy.foley@sunday-times.ie

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