Certain travellers give the impression that they keep moving

Hear the keen and restless words of Ella Maillart: “Certain travellers give the impression that they keep moving because only then do they feel fully alive.” In this simple yet stirring phrase, she reveals the heart of the wanderer, that ancient soul who cannot rest in one place, whose blood quickens only when the horizon stretches before them. Such a life is not about idle wandering, nor the desire for novelty alone—it is the recognition that to move, to seek, to explore is to awaken the spirit, and that stillness can sometimes feel like death itself.

The traveller here is not every man or woman who takes a journey, but a certain kind: those born with fire in their veins, who find suffocation in routine and revival in the open road. For them, home is not four walls but the endless sky; their stability is not in staying but in moving. These are the souls who, when they pause too long, feel the weight of rest pressing upon them like chains, but when they stride into the unknown, they breathe as if for the first time. Such are the eternal nomads, the seekers of worlds.

The ancients knew this spirit. The Scythians, who roamed the steppes, were said to carry their homes upon their carts, never dwelling long in one place, yet fierce and alive in their freedom. The Bedouins crossed the deserts, guided by stars and instinct, always in motion, bound not to cities but to the vast rhythms of sand and wind. Even the Vikings, those sea-rovers of the North, found their strength in perpetual movement; to them, the voyage was life itself, and the shore was but a pause between waves. In each of these, Maillart’s words find their echo: motion as the breath of life.

We may also remember the story of Ibn Battuta, the Moroccan traveller who journeyed for thirty years across Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. He confessed that when he returned home, he soon longed for the road again, for it was in motion that his spirit soared. To remain still was to diminish; to keep moving was to expand. Like Maillart herself, he embodied the truth that some are born not for walls but for winds.

Yet her words carry not only admiration but also a quiet caution. For to live only in motion is to dwell forever on the threshold, never rooted, never anchored. The traveller who is only alive when moving risks becoming a ghost when still, restless forever, unable to belong. It is a noble fate, yet also a tragic one. Still, Maillart sees it clearly: for some souls, there is no other way. Better to burn in constant movement than to wither in stillness.

The lesson, then, is twofold. First, honor those who live in motion, for they remind us of the vitality of seeking, of never ceasing to grow. Their lives inspire us to resist the dullness of complacency, to stretch beyond the familiar, to embrace change as the essence of life. Second, recognize within yourself the balance between motion and stillness. Some of us are called to be wanderers, some to be settlers, but all of us must occasionally stir from comfort, for in movement we rediscover what it means to be alive.

Practically, this means: do not fear change, do not cling too tightly to safety. Take journeys of your own—whether across oceans or into new skills, new friendships, new thoughts. Keep moving in spirit, even when your body must stay still. And if you are among those who feel truly alive only when wandering, embrace it without shame. The road is your teacher, the horizon your companion, the motion itself your life-blood.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, let Maillart’s words kindle your heart. Some will live rooted, others will live roving, yet all of us must taste the power of motion. For the river that flows remains fresh, but the pool that stagnates grows foul. Remember this truth: certain travellers are only alive in their moving—and in their restless stride, they show us that life itself is a journey, never meant to be still.