Inspired by the annual beach holiday that was the bright spot in her family life, Jo Gregory grew up itching to travel, a trait she now shares with her young son.

Like George Costanza, the neurotic Seinfeld character, I am the product of two people staying together who probably shouldn't have. Back in the 1960s, before no-fault divorce, marriage was forever. It could be very hard on the kids.

Trapped in an unhappy marriage, my mother had few escape routes. Yet somehow, every year, by scraping together the crumbs of her meagre housekeeping allowance, she conjured up an annual beach holiday just for her and us kids (and the dog). It saved our sanity.

Memories of those times - lugging giant balsa wood surfboards down to the beach, paddling our hysterically yapping dog out to sea so he could see Mum, exploring old cemeteries shrouded in mist - are some of the happiest of my childhood.

These carefree, light-hearted moments provided a stark contrast to the stress of our usual family life and a welcome relief from the bland landscape of the suburbs.

Unwittingly, my mother planted the seed of a desire to travel that's stayed with me for my entire life. Before I had my son I was an inveterate traveller, spending years backpacking. Every time my job bored me or I wanted to break up with someone, my solution was to buy an airline ticket.

Having a child forced me to stay put. When my son was little I did not see the point of travelling just to spend time in different playgrounds, and as a single mum, holidaying alone with a toddler did not seem like much fun.

But my itchy feet desperately needed scratching. By not travelling I felt I had lost part of my identity. Motherhood requires many sacrifices but this, for me, was the one that sank the boat.

By the time my boy was three, I could no longer deny myself the thrill of departure. The trusty backpack was hauled down and dusted off. On the road again...

At first we went on communal holidays with a single parents' group. With them, we managed our first trip to the snow, a stay on a working farm and many beach-side holidays where I had adult company and there was a group of children for my son to play with.

Feeling more confident as my son got older, I bought a cheap tent to throw in the back of the car for occasional camping expeditions. (Not my usual genre.) Only during a torrential downpour did I realise I had not packed the flap that covered the roof. We still talk about how the inflatable mattress served as a decent raft in the inundated tent.

As a mother, one of my happiest memories is of seeing my son hold on to the side of a punt and swim with a load of kids across a muddy river. It was a true 'Huck Finn' moment that he could not have experienced in the city.

Since the early days we have travelled further afield and become more adventurous. Our usual accommodation is youth hostels or backpackers where we can tap into the convivial atmosphere and communal kitchens.

We have stayed in a railway carriage converted into a room, taken the overnight train from Sydney to Melbourne and backpacked through the South Pacific.

As my son gets older, physical activities must be part of the trip - whether borrowing bikes from a hostel, nearby bush-walking tracks or cross-country skiing (a cheaper alternative to down-hill).

During these holidays my son has encountered different modes of transport, climates, environments and cultures. He has had to adapt to different foods, ways of doing things and a different pace of life.

He has even had to spend time away from the computer.

Our travels have taken us to places that now no longer exist due to bushfires and tsunamis. When pictures of those tragedies hit the television screens they mean real places and people to him. If nothing else, exploring our world has given him a true understanding of the transience of life.

Planning our holidays is now a combined effort. He researches and gives his opinion on accommodation. When the grey days of winter and the school term seem interminable, thoughts of our future travels glow like a welcoming campfire on a starry night.

For many years I was angry at my mother for enduring her miserable marriage. Now I have more understanding. She had no money, limited education, religious beliefs, kids. She was stuck.

But her 'Huckleberry-spirited' determination to escape every year, no matter what, has proved one of the most joyful life-skills she could have passed on.
'Onya Mum.