I IMAGINE most parents are thrilled when their children return from their gap years, but I wasn’t. Sure, I was pleased for Christopher, but the more he went on about his amazing travels, the more irritated I became. It’s pathetic, I know, but his casual ticking off of Bangkok, Sydney, remote Pacific islands and the West Coast of America made my own life seem even more grey and miserable than usual.

I was recently divorced from my husband of 30 years and I’d just turned 50: a double whammy that left nothing to look forward to but Alzheimer’s and blue rinses. I was certainly never going to see the world the way Christopher had.

He must have sensed my lack of enthusiasm, because, about a week after his return, he said something like: “Mum, you should do it. Grown-up gapping is all the rage.” Initially, I laughed off the suggestion. Ridiculous in a woman my age: I just couldn’t picture myself lying on a Thai beach, the only backpacker sporting grey highlights. But Chris got the bit between his teeth, and within a month he had convinced me that I wasn’t too old to travel.

Between us, we mapped out my journey. I was going to follow most of the same route he had done, staying in the hostels he could remember liking and avoiding the ones he didn’t. Every time I suggested that a hotel might be better, he explained that if I were going backpacking, I should do it properly. More fun, more chance of meeting like-minded travellers and so forth.

Two months later, I was in the Woolpack bar in Cairns with a cool beer, a deep tan and a new-found joie de vivre. It’s hard to be depressed when you’ve just dived the Great Barrier Reef.

“This one’s on the house,” said the guy behind the bar, with a big smile.

“How’s that?” I asked, a little taken aback.

“For being the prettiest customer in here for a while.”

His name was Alex. He was English, travelling the world, and he was far too young to be chatting up an old divorcee like me. Especially with cheesy lines like that.

“How old are you?” I asked, disparagingly.

“Twenty-five. You?” “Thirty-nine,” I replied, surprised by his cockiness into a ridiculous on-the-spot rejuvenation. “And don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman’s age?” I should have just left, but for the first time in 33 years, I was single and being hit on. So I stayed. And had some more to drink. And met Alex after his shift. And went for a walk on the beach. And kissed him. And spent the night making passionate love in the hotel, not hostel, I had had the foresight to treat myself to.

The next day, I left. Reality arrived with dawn — I gathered my things and checked out.

A few months later, I was back in England, Christopher was back from university for a week, and I was joyously seeking revenge with my own traveller’s tales and interminable photo collection. There’s the Barrier Reef, and Milford Sound, and my new friends in the Woolpack... “Hang on, mum — is that old Alex the barman in the background? God, he was a tart — pulled every girl in the bar, I bet!”

You’re never too old to travel — or to learn.