I belong to a new subculture in Ireland that I've christened SANE (single-again-nest-empty). My child is 20 and striding towards independence. I live, work and socialise happily and contentedly for most of the year by myself and I have a wonderful network of supportive friends. So what's my problem? It's that anxiety-inducing word - holidays.

At 47, I can safely presume that more than half my life is over, and I don't want to waste time any more idly soaking up the sun on contrived holidays, picked from brochures showing idyllically happy families frolicking on the beach. I don't want to spend my evenings eating and drinking homogenised "typical local cuisine" with a plane-load of fellow sun-seekers or viewing local sights through the sanitising viewfinder of an air- conditioned coach window. And, most importantly, I don't want to have to trawl through my list of friends in the hope of railroading one of them into dropping everything to accompany me, because the multi-billion euro holiday industry seems to think we are boarding an ark rather than an aircraft. Single travellers get loaded; supplemented and penalised every step of the way.

So what do I want from a holiday, I asked myself last January. After years of happily putting my family's wishes first, I want the chance to see and experience a different culture - safely and carefully but pushing the boundaries. I want exhilaration and exploration and maybe even a little uncertainty. I want to feel the sun on my limbs, eat food without brand names and never be offered a chip with anything. And, I want to do it by myself.

My exhaustive list of "wants" led me inexorably towards India, and Goa in particular. My two weeks passed in a blur of totally self-indulgent sensations. With no one else to consider I could choose what to do and when to do it; stay where I wanted for as long as I wanted, and all without even a pang of guilt - that's luxury! I swam every morning in the tepid waters of the Arabian Sea and gaped each evening at the ludicrously extravagant dying sun. In between, I meandered along the coastline on my moped discovering deserted, unspoilt coves and strange plant and animal life.

Gracious families provided me with simple, pristine accommodation and friendly fellow travellers joined me for a nightcap in one of the laid-back beach shacks dotted along the coast.

For a little more than the price of a two-week holiday in the Canaries, I travelled the length of this fascinating state. I never once felt unsafe, insecure or lonely. I stayed in fantastic accommodation and ate like a Maharajah. With a little planning and research we "loners" can ignore the package industry and have a much more rewarding and interesting experience. And without bringing with us the contamination, destruction and pollution that mindless mass-tourism inflicts. Next year I'm thinking South America or Vietnam . . . maybe.