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Man on the move: Stuart Heritage with his two children.
Man on the move: Stuart Heritage with his two children. Photograph: Jean Goldsmith/The Observer
Man on the move: Stuart Heritage with his two children. Photograph: Jean Goldsmith/The Observer

Leaders of the pack: an expert guide to what to take on holiday

This article is more than 5 years old

Large suitcase in the hold? Or just a change of underwear and a scarf that doubles as a hat? As the holiday season begins, five intrepid travellers reveal their packing secrets

Horatio Clare: ‘A cotton scarf has been my hat, sunshade, eye-mask, pillow and towel’

My grandmother, Ludmilla, once disembarked in New York accompanied by two children and 32 suitcases. Taxi drivers on the quay cursed with wild amazement, but what looked to them like reckless extravagance turned out to be natural and understandable. In how we pack is who we are.

Ludmilla had been a child refugee, a White Russian whose mother took her by circuitous routes to Shanghai, where they were poor and stateless. Marriage brought more wealth than happiness. Internment during the war reduced her to the corner of a hut and few possessions. Her packing regime in subsequent years of plenty suggests Ludmilla’s things were her security; suitcases were defences against uncertainty that began in a childhood on the road.

“Our things can become imbued with our essence,” says the psychologist Dr Christian Jarrett, “and associated with strong personal memories. We use them to convey our identity. With packing there is the mundane aspect of not wanting to forget anything practical, but there is also sometimes a deeper anxiety around more meaningful possessions.”

Ludmilla idolised America. No wonder apprehension about her status and her reception there drove her to pack pretty much everything.

Jarrett goes further: “For particularly cherished items there may even be the anxiety over whether it is better to take it with you (and risk losing or damaging it) or to reluctantly leave it behind, thereby temporarily letting go of a part of ourselves in the process.”

To my grandmother, it seems, the idea of having things, or not having them, was more important than their use. As suitcases come out all over the country, there is something of Ludmilla in many of us. The anxiety of packing, for those who find it stressful, would seem to come partly from a pressure to divide a self which is represented by possessions. At some level we are selecting those aspects of ourselves that will not only serve us in Scarborough or the Seychelles, but which will also define us there.

“Huh!” I hear you snort. “Check the weather, take something comfy, something smart and a costume for the beach.” But then there are toiletries, outfits, chargers, electronics, shoes for different activities, coat or not, books, hat, the luggage allowance to consider, and you haven’t even thought about the children’s stuff yet. Or, more likely, you have sorted them out and left your packing until last. How many hold bags are you checking in? Are you going to trust they all get there, or divide essentials between them? As allowances have shrunk, security increased, travel exploded and possessions multiplied, to pack a bag in 2018 is now a fine art. We need an expert.

“Packing is one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living,” says the narrator of Jerome K Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat, who was spared those mean little measuring cages and airlines devoted to wringing cash out of every kilo. After much mishap he concludes: “It is lumber, man – all lumber! Throw it overboard.” This is the philosophy of the accomplished packer who resides within, squabbling with our inner Ludmilla.

For men: “One good shirt with a collar, and a really good toothbrush” is your baseline, according to a man I met who once rowed a boat around Spitsbergen. For women: the novelist Louisa Young recommends one silk dress: “Rolls up tiny, in case an ambassador invites you to tea.” She took the tip from her sister, who went around the world on a motorbike.

Frequent travellers and female flight attendants recommend a shawl or pashmina, for the same reason Buddha got by on a sarong – what garment is more versatile? During years of travel writing, a cotton scarf has been my hat, sunshade, eye-mask, pillow and towel. In common with the millions of fans of Lee Child’s Reacher novels, part of me yearns to roam the world toting only a toothbrush, free of clutter, master of my own fate, or of my possessions, at least.

The luggage industry understands this yearning for control and has helped us to overcomplicate things in the name of simplification. Enter the packing cube, plastic wallets that fit inside a suitcase – bags to go inside bags, extra packing for the neurotic packer, and environmental lunacy, but they have their fans.

Experienced travellers treat shoes as packing cubes for underwear, socks, spectacles and breakables. Few recommend vacuum packing. If you find yourself kneeling on (another) plastic bag, sucking the air out of your smalls with a hoover, you may be taking too much.

For, in packing, there is also the chance of psychological liberation, an echo of leaving home or moving house. “At a key juncture, old belongings are shed like a carapace, fostering the emergence of a new identity,” as Christian Jarrett puts it. You are not just going on holiday. You are becoming another you.

So how do you do it? No doubt you are accomplished in your own method, but packing practice is a whirl of eccentricity and insight. Thom Jones, an international educationalist, travels much: “I pack a harmonica for work and pleasure. I judge a country by whether their customs staff demand that I play it,” he says.

Gina Balta, a maritime historian who finds packing stressful, starts with a suitcase, then packs “clockwise from where I’m standing, and I continue to the rest of the house, always clockwise!”

Simon Worrall, traveller and writer, provides a sensible rule: “If you hesitate, leave it at home.” Wide-travelling women counsel sticking to one colour palette. Deirdre O’Donnell, international consultant paediatrician, advises on having one set of clothes in your hand luggage, allowing your case to go on its travels without marring yours. “All my clothes go with each other (weird navy wardrobe) and only ever two pairs of footwear. Rolling definitely works. And never pack a towel.”

A sarong fan, she is one of many who insist that rolling clothes beats folding. The more often you travel the less you tend to take.

“I keep a bag ready to go,” intones the priest and presenter Richard Coles, a man constantly on the move. “Contents: change of knickers and shirt, toiletries (including hand cream), sharp knife, sleeping pills, bathplug, wet wipes.” Note the bathplug – standard kit for travellers enjoying adventurous retirements who relish transforming an imperfect hotel into a bathing spot.

My wanderings yield tips from diverse places. A Berber camel driver in the Moroccan Sahara watched me faffing and then gently intimated that packing is the art of putting like with like: plastic, paper and fabrics with their own kind. On this principle my luggage is a sports bag with toiletries collected from hotels in one end, notebook, guidebook, novel in the other, clothes in the middle, and it all goes hand luggage, weight being the enemy of pleasure.

Travelling overland from South Africa to Wales in pursuit of migrating swallows, I found the most useful item to be a paper clip. It sounds silly, but it replaced buttons, hung mosquito nets, repaired zips and excavated splinters. I met my partner on the journey. Rebecca always takes packs of cards, transforming delays into Canasta or Go Fish tournaments.

If packing for travel is essentially a reflection of a state of mind, then the best advice yet was given to me in the Kaokoveld desert, by a Namibian guide. I was about to undertake the swallow journey, following the migration route of the bird, at the end of which I would have almost nothing more than the clothes I wore. (Pilgrims and overland travellers arrive with a fraction of their initial burdens. Travel teaches the substitution of experience for possessions.)

“What should I take?” I asked.

“Go with a level head and a humble heart,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

Stuart Heritage: ‘Cramming my suitcase, I had a thought: I bet they sell nappies in Portugal’

‘My brother is getting married in Bali soon. Bali is 18 hours away…’: Stuart Heritage prepares for the worst. Photograph: Jean Goldsmith/The Observer

I took my son abroad last month. Midway through cramming my suitcase with every conceivable solution to every conceivable problem that could possibly arise during the course of a single 96-hour trip, I was struck by a sudden epiphany. ‘You know,’ I thought, bashed between the eyes by a rare thunderbolt of common sense, ‘I bet they sell nappies in Portugal.’

They do. And medicine. And sun cream. And most of the other stuff I was trying to crush into luggage for the benefit of an uninterested toddler. I’d been going mad with anticipatory panic, deluded into thinking that the UK was the only developed country on Earth, but it was all for nothing.

This, I think, is a remnant of how we used to travel; when every journey was a blind leap into the unknown. That uncertainty has gone. Google Maps exists now. You can locate every supermarket in a 10-mile radius before you leave home. You can trace the route there on Streetview. You can find their website to see if they stock the things you want to take. There are very few surprises with modern travel.

Going anywhere with young children is stressful. They tire easily. When they want something, they want it now. Buy most of what you need when you arrive. You travel lighter. In the end we just took four changes of clothing, a day’s worth of nappies and an iPad for the entertainment on the flight.

This only works to a degree, however. My brother is getting married in Bali soon. Bali is 18 hours away. I have two children under the age of four. Please forgive me for ignoring my own advice and packing a giant suitcase rammed with Ambien and gin. Something tells me I’ll need it.

Stuart Heritage writes about film, music and TV

Lucy Yeomans: ‘I overpack on accessories and shoes – handy for taking a look from day to night’

‘I’m pretty low maintenance when it comes to a beach holiday. I’ll take five bikinis, two pairs of sunglasses and two hats’: Lucy Yeomans. Photograph: Martin Godwin/The Guardian

I’m a night-before packer, and chaotic. I throw everything in. I’m pretty relaxed about it, and I have a separate wardrobe in a different room for my holiday clothes.

I’ve been caught out by technology in the past. I now leave all my global adaptors, a couple of chargers, a hairbrush and spare hair tongs in my suitcase. I have a separate beauty bag – moisturiser, night cream, foundation, and I sometimes take a travel iron with me.

I overpack on accessories. Jewellery can be a game-changer, especially for work. If you need to take a look from day to night, a statement earring or cuff can transform a look. For the shows, I take 15 pairs of shoes for about six days, but probably only wear five pairs. My styling represents two sides of myself: there’s the riot of colour, and a real-life wardrobe of white, black and gold.

Packing for children is a joy. My daughter is six and we share a suitcase. She will end up with 10 unworn summer dresses and I’ll always be a few items short.

I’m pretty low maintenance when it comes to a beach holiday. I’ll take five bikinis (I’ll usually pick up another, and get a new bikini before I go), two pairs of sunglasses and two hats (put underwear inside to keep their shape) – one straw Panama style, and one wide-brimmed – and a gorgeous old kaftan I’ve had forever. Something evening-appropriate, too.

I get a spray tan. I don’t want to go in the sun and I don’t want to look white. I have a routine: spray tan, mani, pedi, then you are beach-ready and all those clothes instantly look better and you are in the zone. It’s a ritual, like adding the bikini and the kaftan.

I get pleasure from fitting everything in. Packing for a holiday is all about the dream of what’s to come, though the reality might be different. It’s like dress-up.

Wherever you go in the world, you can buy what you need. As long as you’ve got your passport and credit card and enough clothing to get through your first day, you’ll be all right.

Lucy Yeomans is editor- in-chief of Net-a-Porter

Gemma Cairney: ‘Bright colours and prints seem to make more sense when you’re abroad’

‘There are all these rules about packing, but when I go on holiday I want to look like me’: Gemma Cairney. Photograph: Jean Goldsmith/The Observer

I have a super-romantic relationship with travel. I love to explore the planet and it’s an intrinsic part of who I am. So far this year I’ve been to Nicaragua on a backpacking holiday with two friends; to Ghana, Lebanon and Colombia, working on my Radio 4 documentary series The Sound Odyssey, which is about musical collaboration; on a beach holiday to the Dominican Republic; and to the Hay Festival.

When I went to Nicaragua I was travelling around with this filthy backpack, that was really heavy and difficult to pack and unpack. My friends saw me lugging it around and for my birthday they staged an intervention and bought me a fancy suitcase. It’s changed my life. There are all these rules about what you are supposed to pack, but when I go on holiday I want to look like me. I have lots of vintage stuff, sequins, big knitted jumpers – and I definitely keep that in mind when packing. If anything, I try to experiment even more on holiday. Bright colours and prints seem to make more sense when you’re abroad. The key is to take loads of spangly, exciting accessories and make-up. I’ll take some giant feather earrings or an iridescent eyeshadow, and several scarves you can turn into a sarong or a head wrap.

My other essential items are a notepad and a disposable camera or a Polaroid. If I’m on holiday I like the idea of disconnecting. If you don’t take your phone out, you feel much calmer and you capture memories in a different way. I really like to take books on holiday that are about sheer escapism and I’ll always take headphones so I can listen to albums if I’m feeling anxious.

I’ve got better at packing. It used to be tears at midnight, not knowing where anything is, feeling panicked and out of sorts. It’s still madness, but there’s some method in it now. My mum’s got this thing called TPM, as long as you’ve got your tickets, passport and money you can go anywhere. So I have this mantra that everything will be OK, regardless of what I’ve got or haven’t got.

Gemma Cairney is a writer and broadcaster

Emma Graham-Harrison: ‘If I don’t need a first aid kit and a flak jacket, I pack everything into my carry-on’

‘There is usually one smart outfit, a couple of changes of clothes and trainers in the hope I can get out on the streets for a run’: Emma Graham-Harrison. Photograph: The Observer

I am a hoarder by nature, but years of being separated from suitcases by airport (mis)handling, and occasionally by nosy or malign authorities, have forced discipline on me. Two days in Dublin, or three weeks in Latin America, it makes no difference. If I don’t need a first aid kit and a flak jacket, everything has to fit into my battered carry-on.

There is usually one smart outfit, a couple of changes of clothes and trainers in the hope I can get out on the streets for a run, which I’ve managed in some unlikely places, including Iran, Iraq and North Korea (I’m just waiting to be commissioned for a piece on ‘jogging the axis of evil’). I also pack a sweater even for hot countries, as air conditioning can be fierce.

Because I go to such a variety of places, often in fast succession, I inevitably leave something important behind, but the many missing suitcases taught me that as long as I have my passport, credit card, glasses and phone, I can probably salvage the trip. I usually tell myself this on the way to the airport, as I try to work out what I’ve forgotten.

For wars and natural disasters, my packing calculation is different: it’s mostly about protection. I have to think about what the risks are and what might help manage them, from guns and bombs (helmet and body armour) to tear gas (masks), contaminated water (purification tablets), power failures (battery packs and solar or car chargers) or ordinary crime (an alarmed door wedge).

The limit is what I can carry myself, usually in a backpack, so I start with a large first aid kit and work back from there. And always lots of snacks.

Emma Graham-Harrison is an international affairs correspondent for the Observer and the Guardian

How to pack: Sophie Heawood discovers 5 easy tips for perfect packing

Ready to go: ‘Be realistic, says Hitha Palepu. ‘If it doesn’t work at home, it won’t work there.’ Photograph: Nick Veasey/Getty Images

When I saw the price of flights to Greece this summer, on an airline formerly known as budget, I realised I’d have to learn to travel light. Having already paid extra for that great luxury known as a reserved seat, I refused to cough up for suitcases – so it’s hand luggage only. I spoke to the packing expert Hitha Palepu of hithaonthego.com about how to pack less stuff, and to pack smarter.

1. Toiletries: “I know we’re all trying to use less plastic,” says Palepu, “but I succumb to those travel-sized toiletries and then make environmental decisions elsewhere.” She keeps a permanent set of small toiletries, under 100ml each, in a clear washbag that can go through security in hand luggage, and takes it on every trip, no fuss. I’m in awe. “I have one each for my husband and son, too. In summer I put in sun cream, in winter it’s coconut oil. If I’m going to need a lot of sun cream I buy more at the destination. Don’t travel with it.”

2. Packing cubes: Palepu recommends packing cubes for compression – her favourites are by Gonex – so everything inside your luggage is compartmentalised. Pack like with like. Put all your chargers and wires in a pouch. Pick and choose between rolling and folding items: Palepu rolls most trousers, jeans, skirts individually – and then secures each item with a hair band – but tends to folds shirts, because they have a collar. “But there is absolutely no wrinkle-free method for packing. It’s fabric! So I prioritise space in my luggage for a hand-held steamer, which works with an adapter. I have one that can adapt to every country’s sockets and also includes three USB ports. I bought it in some random airport years ago and haven’t blown anything up yet.”

3. Power and fantasy: “Power pieces” (all the stuff you wear a lot) should account for 80% of your packing, and allow 20% for “fantasy pieces” – the romantic white linen dress you want to wear in Santorini and look at in the photos is your fantasy piece. It is a holiday, so bring some magic. But be realistic. If it doesn’t work at home, it won’t work there. Shoes won’t suddenly fit, your body won’t change size. “If you bring three swimsuits, but there’s one you’re not sure about, you are never going to wear it. Why would you, with two other options? It won’t suddenly work because you’re on holiday. Know thyself.”

4. Get kids involved: “The sooner you get them helping you pack, the better. I never want to set an expectation that their mother does all of it,” says Palepu. I protest that involving my daughter means she will insist on bringing a full mermaid costume. “Say that you know she has to have the mermaid costume, but her swimming costume is more important, so we’ll pack all the things we need first, and then if we have room, we can add that one thing. Kids have fantasy pieces, too, and it’s good to honour that wish. It’s going to give them a little confidence about the holiday.” She recommends a CabinZero backpack that my child might be able to wear on her back.

5. Underwear: Hitha’s formula is 1.5 x the number of days spent there for pants – so that’s 12 pairs for an eight-day trip. I’m confused – isn’t that too many? “If you’re going somewhere hot,” she says, “you might want to shower twice a day and put on a clean pair afterwards.”

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