The Bricklayer’s Odyssey
By Tommy Kennedy IV

Chapter One: Departure
London was bleeding cold that morning. Sky the colour of dirty tin, air sharp enough to split skin. I’d been up since five, couldn’t sleep. The wind howled down Ladbroke Grove like it had a grudge, and I stood there watching it rip through the estate, hands jammed in my jacket, thinking —

“If I don’t go now, I never will.”

Eighteen years old, half a man, half a mess. My boots caked in mortar, my rucksack still smelling of cement and sweat. I’d been laying bricks since I left school — rain, frost, the grind. Every site felt the same: same shouted orders, same flasks of tea gone cold, same backs breaking for someone else’s dream.

London had its hooks in me, but I was done being dragged.

I was boxing down at the gym in White City then. Amateur level. Nothing fancy — just sweat, blood, and noise. I’d train after shifts, knuckles split, ribs bruised, pushing through that dull pain that tells you you’re still alive.

The lads on site said I was mad.

“You’re what? Flying to Sydney? On your own?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a job lined up?”
“Not yet. I’ll find one.”
“Jesus, you’re off your head.”

Maybe I was. But if you wait for permission, you’ll never leave.

I booked a one-way ticket to Sydney. No plan, no safety net. Just stopovers in Delhi, Bangkok, Phnom Penh, and Ho Chi Minh. I’d work where I could, live cheap, and make it stretch.

Eighteen months round the world. Bricks, sweat, and luck.

The night before I left, I sat on the edge of my bed in that damp little flat in Shepherd’s Bush, staring at the cracked wallpaper. My old man used to say,

“A wall’s only as good as its foundation.”

I figured I’d build a new one — somewhere else.

Chapter Two: India
Delhi hit like a left hook I didn’t see coming. Heat, noise, horns, the smell of spice and diesel. The air shimmered. I’d swapped gloves for grit and landed right in the middle of chaos.

When my cash started thinning, I found a half-built hostel on the edge of Paharganj and offered my hands. The foreman laughed at the pale lad with calloused knuckles, but once he saw me set a clean line, his tune changed.

Brick is brick — doesn’t matter where you stand.

The crew fed me chai and dal, showed me how to curse in Hindi, and told stories that needed no translation. At night, I’d climb up on the roof, watch the city glow, and write:

“The world’s heavy, but it balances if you keep moving.”

Chapter Three: Thailand & Cambodia
From Delhi, I flew and took trains south to Bangkok. Slept sitting up, head against glass, dreaming of home, girls, and fights I never had.

In Thailand, I found a small construction job on a riverside bar. Pay was light, days were hot, and nobody cared where you were from. I worked bare-chested under the sun, my skin turning copper, the river cooling me at dusk.

Evenings, I drank beer with locals, the air thick with music and smoke. There was a girl from Cork — traveller, wild eyes, no fear. She said,

“You’re the first bricklayer I’ve met who’s building his own life.”

Cambodia was chaos at the border — dust, dogs, fake visas. In Siem Reap, I helped rebuild a flood-damaged home. Payment was food, shelter, gratitude — and I took it gladly.

Brick to brick, that was our language.

Chapter Four: Vietnam & Australia
I rode a motorbike from Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Minh City — wild roads, lorries, chickens, horns, dust.

In Ho Chi Minh, I picked up work finishing a rooftop bar. The city buzzed all night. The old brickies moved fast — quicker than me — but they laughed when I caught up, called me

“boxer boy.”

Sydney hit me next — bright, clean, hard. I trained at Miller’s Boxing & Fitness, gloves cracking against bags, sweat soaking floors. Weekend fights came calling — warehouses, bars, cash in hand.

Hands bore both trowel and glove. Every punch, every brick, teaching me something different about myself.

Chapter Five: The States
Miller said,

“You’re burning out, son. You win, but you don’t smile anymore.”

He handed me a newspaper. His mate needed bricklayers in New York. I sold what I owned, said my goodbyes, and flew east.

New York was chaos and cold. Bricklaying on towers near the Hudson, nights wandering streets alive with lights, smells, and sound. Underground fights came calling — Brooklyn, warehouses, neon, blood. Snow fell soft on streets, muffling horns.

Chapter Six: Return
London looked smaller from the plane window. Grey sky, crooked houses, rain turning the world to blur. Home? Maybe. I’d left as a boy; returned as a man tested by bricks, fights, and continents.

First stop Shepherd’s Bush. Flat still there, pub still pulling pints for ghosts. Nights, I wandered Portobello Road, lights flickering off puddles, city humming.

I stopped outside the old gym. Didn’t go in. Some things are better left ghosts. Opened my notebook, pages dog-eared, stained, alive. Flipped through Delhi dust, Thai rivers, Cambodian nights, New York snow. Each page a wall I’d built.

I wrote:

“You can travel the world, but you always bring yourself with you. The trick is learning to like the bloke who arrives.”

Epilogue: The Long Way Round
I’m older now. Gloves hang in the shed, trowel too. Scars settled under the skin — quiet, part of the landscape.

You think leaving will change everything — and it does, for a while. But after a few thousand miles, the world’s not teaching you about itself. It’s teaching you about you.

The road stripped me down and built me again. Brick by brick. Hit by hit. It made me patient. Kind. Strength isn’t fists or walls; it’s showing up, even when cracked through.

If you’re reading this, cold in your room, staring at a map, thinking you’re stuck —

You’re not. The world’s waiting. Pack your bag. Go.

Work when you have to. Fight when you must. Keep your hands honest, heart open.

And when you come home, the world won’t look different. But you will.

I built this life myself.

The long way round was worth every mile.

Author’s Note
This is my journey, built brick by brick, fight by fight, mile by mile. Travel isn’t just about seeing the world — it’s about seeing yourself. I wrote this for anyone who feels the pull to leave, to move, to learn. Get up. Go. Build your life the hard way. It’s the only way it’s real.