When I left Ireland to go travelling in 2006, Ireland’s property boom was at its giddy height. People were shitting themselves that if they didn’t buy now, they’d never own a house and end up living under a bridge or, worse yet, with their parents. They were racing each other to get on the property ladder, outbidding the next dupe for grab-bag cardboard box houses in satellite towns a poxy commute from Dublin. (You can see these developments now in Guardian features on Ireland’s ghost-towns – bus tours are imminent). I had no money, and no intention of trying to stretch what I had to buy a malodorous little hutch on the fringe of society, valued at its weight in gold.

So I filled my backpack, my girlfriend did the same, and we headed for South America. Of course, we couldn’t resist the lure of the ladder for long. In Bariloche, Argentina, we did the numbers. And we bought a tent (pictured). Here’s an edited version of our bitchy little missive home.

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After two months on the road, we were beginning to feel like escape artists. Our friends are back home, joining Ireland´s fastest-growing club, Club Property Ladder, and we are off here with nothing to our name but two backpacks so full they are screaming for mercy. But we got nervous.

So we did the mature thing. We invested in a home. Nothing flash, you understand; with the market being the way it is we first-time buyers can´t be choosy. We just reckoned that now is the time to get our foot on the ladder, so that in three years’ time we can trade up for an extra three square feet, three feet nearer Dublin´s city centre, and feel really smug, and maybe even rub it in the noses of people who were a few months later than us and can´t afford to make the jump just yet. Peasants.

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