You see, this always happens when the date of my next big adventure transforms from a grey smudge on the horizon into a wall of rock and ice to be surmounted imminently. On this occasion it is a week away, a bit of work, a bit of play, with a couple of sleeper trains and five different hotels thrown in for good measure, all things, quite frankly, which one would be forgiven for thinking that a Robert would be entirely comfortable with, if not relishing actively.
If my pre trip anxiety seems rather contradictory to you then I can assure you that it is downright baffling to me. As any reader of this blog will have realized, I really love to travel. Indeed, I love to dream, and scheme, to anticipate and dream some more, before departing on a new adventure, to visit unfamiliar places, meet new people, eat and drink and even learn a new thing or to. It is the thing that keeps me going in the long days of winter or on late nights in the office, yet it frequently renders me frozen with fear, overcome by the enormity of what is to come. Of course, I could just stay at home and spare myself the stress, but then that travel bug would start nibbling at me anew and the whole cycle would start once more.
So, here I I am, stuffing the kitchen sink into my holdall, worrying that my luggage is suitable neither for a business trip to the Scottish capital, nor a jaunt through the highlands, but somehow having to make it work for both.