Seven months on the road have now passed, and I have been thinking a lot about what that's meant. In some respects, the RTW trip has been as I expected, but it's mostly far exceeded anything I could have foreseen. It's been far from smooth sailing, though, and 'far exceeding' my expectations refers to negative things as well as the good.

Before now, the longest period of time I'd ever travelled for was three months in South East Asia. I remember that at the end of that time I felt exhausted.

But at the three month mark of this trip, we had barely even begun. So what do you do about the inevitable bone-weariness that settles upon you?

I think our response to that question partly explains why we are semi-settled in Bangkok right now. It's a city that we know pretty well, and a place where we both feel comfortable. Most importantly, it offers a kind of space where we can switch off from the information overload that is travel. It's nice knowing, once in a while, where you'll be sleeping tomorrow night and where you'll be eating dinner today. It's nice to be able to stroll down the street and to take things in as 'regular', 'usual' and 'expected' rather than as strange and wonderous and out-of-the-blue. Even though actively courting those feelings is maybe the reason why we travel, I discovered that after seven ceaseless months, those feelings can start to overwhelm you instead of inspiring you. There needs to be quiet space, space that's not mentally taxing, before you can jump back out into the fray again.

The kind of tiredness that you get from long-term backpacking is twofold, I think. The first element has to do with what I described above; it's a kind of culture shock that sets in after a long, long time of having no fixed point of reference. Something internal begins to beg for the certainty of knowing where you are when you open your eyes in the morning.

The second form of tiredness is a kind of mental/physical mix. It stems from the sheer amount of energy you expend each day looking for food that's affordable, or safe to eat, accommodation to spend the night in, tranport to your next stop, and a secure place to leave your things. The security of your belongings is always running through the back of your mind, on endless loop, almost without you noticing that it's going on. This is always brought home to me when I arrive back in Sydney. I'm in the airport at Mascot and I suddenly think - 'Wow. I'm walking around with my backpack unlocked, and I'm not constantly thinking camera-wallet-moneybelt-camera-wallet-moneybelt-have-I-got-them?-Is-everything-here?'

The reality is that I could get ripped off in Sydney, but at the same time, I am not quite so vulnerable as in a city that I've never visited, or where I don't speak the language, or where I'm wondering about how best to change money, or where to catch transport from. It gives you space to let your guard down, and that space is very, very hard to come by when you're travelling.

One of the unexpectedly positive things that has blindsided me during this trip is the sheer amount of time that it has afforded both of us to think about what it is we want to do with our lives when we get back. Freed from the daily routine of eat-work-socialise-sleep, you begin to realise that you have a lot of time on your hands to consider what your life is like. All of this takes place in a context where you're seeing daily the reality of other people's lives (in the developing world especially) and you're forced to acknowledge how hugely fortunate and option-ridden your own life is.

This introspective jolt ('What do I want to do with my life?') was a shock to both of us. It had never occurred on our shorter travels, and it was very difficult to shake. All the things you use at home as daily diversions from dealing with the 'big issues' were suddenly absent - no TV, no work, no hanging out with friends, no family. The sudden time and space allocated for thinking was terrifying. It made me feel like the first two months of the trip were a bit akin to going to a yoga retreat where you cannot speak to anyone. I've heard these retreats described in tones of fear and awe as 'enemas for the mind' - and although our experience was less intense, it had a similar effect.

Having come out the other side of that experience, I can say that it has been an amazing, and unexpected, benefit of this trip. Interestingly, neither of us is completely settled on WHAT we will do when we return to Oz, but our core priorities and interests have emerged much more clearly. That feels good.