Travelling has always been a bit of a nightmare for me. Thanks to motion sickness, childhood trips always began with a ceremonial loading-up of the car with plastic bags, water and kitchen roll, and continued as stop-start affairs, as my parents repeatedly and frantically swerved into lay-bys so I could run out and vomit into a hedge. There’s no end to the exotic and far-flung locations in which I’ve tried to find a bin for a sick bag. In adulthood, things have improved. Boats are still a gamble, but I can usually make it through a car, plane or train journey. But that’s only if I sit perfectl…