Some years ago, at the age of 61, I quit my job, rented out my flat and flew to Australia to research my family history. It was not an easy business. In the days before Airbnb and other similar organisations made letting so much more flexible, agents insisted on a minimum of a year’s lease, with a six-month break clause, gas safety checks, inventories, fire-proofing and so on. On my part, there was the cancelling of utilities, council tax, water and phone and broadband contracts. I had to inform – and pay – my insurance and mortgage companies. And, of course, there was the packing up and storing of all my personal stuff. (Fortunately, I have a loft.) I Don’t Regard Myself as a Particularly Adventurous Person I’m a cautious soul by nature, and I like a certain predictability in…