I AM far too young for a midlife crisis, but during the summer I got a very strong urge to leave it all behind me and take off backpacking. I have traveled a great deal over the years, but always in what you might call a very 'controlled' way - staying in bland identikit hotels in towns that seem to consist of just a main street and an airport. So for some time now I have been feeling that I might be missing out on one of life's very real experiences. Never having done that gap year thing - where you stuff three pairs of socks and one pair of underpants into a bag, purchase a month-long rail pass and live on a totally implausible daily budget - I decided it was high time I rectified the situation. So I went out and bought a rucksack. Not having a 'plan' as such, I started with a flight to Sarajevo. I arrived in the evening, with the rain pouring down, and found myself without anywhere to stay. After all, the central tenet of backpacking is that you have to stay too 'in the moment' to even think about such basic human needs as accommodation. I hitched a free ride from the airport to the city centre in a minibus owned by a local hostel, pretending that I was planning to stay in their fine residence. But once in town, I made a run for it, managing to avoid skidding under the steely wheels of a passing tram. I was rescued from my wet and homeless state by a young guy playing cards in the foyer of his tiny B&B. He took me in, gave me a room (€30 a night) and tried to convince me that the sun would come out the next day. And in fact it did. So, with the sun splitting the roofs, I went to investigate Sarajevo. Mosques in abundance sit next to Catholic churches on Austro-Hungarian boulevards that might either lead to a grey Soviet-era tower block or just as easily to an Ottoman bazaar. Sarajevo is like a rich and dense vegetable soup, where all the ingredients combine to create an exotic flavour uniquely its own. After a few days there, eating such local delicacies as spiced sausages (cevapcici) and plum brandy (sljivovica), I continued my travels to the Bosnian town of Mostar. I arrived late at the bus station - with, of course, nowhere to stay - so once all the backpackers got off the bus it was survival of the fittest. However, I was lucky enough to be immediately approached by one of the ladies who wait there each evening to offer accommodation to travellers. I stayed two nights in her home, a large flat in a housing block of communist origin. It cost just €10 per night and, though we couldn't speak a word of each other's language, her kindness and trust in inviting a stranger into her home made a lasting impression on me. The first morning, I walked down to the cobbled Ottoman quarter of the old town which is now an UNESCO World Heritage Site. The area is dominated by the glorious Stari Most (old bridge), which in fact is quite new, only having been opened in 2004 after it was rebuilt according to the exact specifications of the famous original. That genuinely old old bridge (it dated from 1566) was destroyed in 1993 by Bosnian Croat artillery during the civil war. As I arrived at the bridge, the divers of Mostar, a team of local dare-devils, were whipping up the crowd and passing around the hat to encourage their fearless leader to take the plunge into the 7°C waters of the Neretva River some 28m below the parapet. Next, I made my way by a combination of train and bus up the coast and finally arrived in Ljubljana, the quaint little capital of Slovenia. My guidebook had enthused breathlessly about the Celica Hostel (it's near the railway station), so I decided to stay there, though I hadn't booked. The Celica is actually a converted prison and still has cells - complete with bars on the doors. However, it's also right next to a hippy commune which came alive at night, so sleep was out of the question. And, at a relatively expensive €22 per night, it seemed the Celica was trying too hard and ended up too cool for school. After a quick visit to the castle of Ljubljana, I took the short train journey up to the much-talked-about Lake Bled. Idyllically situated high in the Julian Alps, it has a genteel, almost Victorian feel to it. With its picture-postcard lake, overlooked by a castle crag and further enhanced by a baroque church sitting on its own private island, it is a perfect romantic setting. No wonder so many couples get married here. I looked around for a potential bride, but they all seemed to be taken. I decided to end my journey in Salzburg; again, in a hostel - a €14 per night sort of place in a room shared with seven other people. One of my room-mates had ingeniously hung his freshly laundered underpants to dry across the window. Now, why didn't I think of doing that? Another of my roomies smuggled in his girlfriend during the night - so when we awoke, there were in fact nine of us in the room. I couldn't decide between visiting Mozart's birthplace or joining the 'Sound of Music' bus tour (because of budget constraints, a backpacker can't do both), so I tossed a coin. Thankfully, Mozart won. Dignity intact, I pressed play on my iPod and wandered into town humming Climb Every Mountain. Alas, Salzburg has cruelly exploited her most famous son for commercial gain - disappointing, especially since the city didn't look after him that well when he was alive. He was buried a pauper, so the whereabouts of his grave still remains unknown. But these days, Mozart is everywhere: on chocolates, ceramic mugs, tea cloths and T-shirts. I visited his birthplace and was moved to see his humble origins. The entire Mozart family lived and slept in just three small rooms. The short visit suddenly put things into perspective for me. The greatest composer who ever lived had died at the age of 35 - not old enough to even plan for his midlife crisis. I decided it was time to return home and write an opera.