A Year in the Life of a Tour Leader – January

Or: The Month Everyone Thinks We’re on Holiday

It’s early February.

The first genuinely sunny day of the year. I’m sitting on my terrace in the South of France with a coffee that’s gone lukewarm because I’ve forgotten to drink it. My dog is glued to my leg, making up for six months of absence. Somewhere inside the house, my husband is swearing creatively at a plumbing problem.

I’m supposed to be “off.”

In reality, I’m blocked business-wise, waiting for the French administration to wake up from its winter hibernation, so I’m using the pause to look back on January—because this month, more than any other, perfectly illustrates how misunderstood this job is.

January is winter.

January is off-season.

January is when people confidently tell me, “Oh, you must be on holiday now.”

In Southern Europe, tourists are skiing. Coaches are parked. Hotels are quiet. No one needs a tour leader to explain a cathedral when it’s four degrees and raining sideways. So yes—there are no groups to wrangle, no microphones to fight with, no daily reminders that we are, in fact, meeting at 9 a.m. sharp. From the outside, it looks like nothing is happening.

January is when the real work starts.

I finished my last tour at the end of November. December was swallowed whole by an unpaid training seminar—because in this job, training is essential, constant, and mysteriously never paid.

My first tour of the new season starts in early March. February is already booked with pre-season kick-offs and seminars. Also unpaid. Of course.

So the only thing truly on holiday right now is my bank account.

What pushed me to start this series was a conversation with someone I’d just met. I mentioned I was unusually flexible at the moment—it being winter—and they asked me, genuinely confused, what kind of job I could possibly be doing.

That’s when it hit me: people have absolutely no idea what tour leading is.

So here it is. A year. Month by month. No filters.

January is calendar month.

I sit down, open my planner, and reality sets in. This year, I’ll be working on eight itineraries, three of them brand new to me. I’m also launching my own touring company—meaning tours to design, price, write, test, and sell.

So January and February become a careful juggling act between:

* Researching new regions, churches, cloisters, towns, hills

* Diving deep into whole periods of history (the Hundred Years’ War, WWII, resistance movements)

* Keeping up with current events I’ll need to contextualise on tour (hello, mayoral elections)

* Reviewing itineraries for tour operators

* Creating my own as a DMC

* Dealing with accountants, paperwork, exams, and administrative joy

All with three goals in mind:

1. Know everything possible before the inevitable crisis hits

2. Prepare enough to still sleep during high season

3. Spend time with loved ones so they don’t forget what I look like by May

For every day I guide, there are at least three days spent in preparation.

January is also when I repair the damage.

Physically: gym sessions every other day, because leading tours is an endurance sport. Dentist. Ophthalmologist. All the appointments you can’t squeeze in when you live out of a suitcase.

Mentally: books, documentaries, films, podcats—many of them recommendations from last season’s passengers and colleagues that I promised (and genuinely meant) to watch, read or listen to. I take time to walk, do nothing (yeah, right), and paint.

Administratively: taxes, home maintenance, paperwork piled up during the season, and the great winter ritual known among tour leaders as “The Spring Clean We Do in January".

I also decided to do Dry January, because let’s be honest: tour leaders and alcohol have a complicated relationship. January is detox. Reset. Catch-up.

And cuddles. So many cuddles from the dog and family members I abandon every spring.

This January has been heavier than most.

International politics are… bleak. Like everyone else, I’m worried—humanly, morally, and financially. Tourism is fragile. Borders close fast. Fear travels faster than planes.

So I made a decision: diversify.

I’m not just a tour leader. I’m also a registered guide and a former travel agency manager. So I started reshaping the business, creating my own tours, accepting that this means more work now—but more freedom later.

Which also means exams to sit. New tours to test. Studying again.

I add more to my plate. Naturally.

January is quiet—but not silent.

Colleagues check in. We exchange ideas, itineraries, and improvements. Tour operators call for ground truth, context, last-minute expertise. I answer emails. I help. I advise.

Unpaid. Again.

Suppliers reach out too—drivers, guides, partners—because they’re stuck in the same limbo. They’re waiting on information. On confirmations. On payments. They call me because they know I care, because relationships matter.

So I pick up the phone. I reassure. I chase answers. I smooth things over.

Free of charge. Because this industry only works if we remember we’re humans first, professionals second, spreadsheets last.

It’s January.

My first tour starts in March.

I’m already booking train tickets. Planning logistics. Anticipating issues. Mentally rehearsing situations that may never happen—but might.

That’s the job.

Being present today while preparing for tomorrow, next week, and next month (and even next year)—at the same time.

By the end of January, my company still isn’t officially open (bonjour, French administration), but I’ve gained something else:

I now know far more about Aliénor of Aquitaine, Romanesque architecture, the Resistance, the Éclaireurs Israélites de France during WWII, and—unexpectedly—the history of mathematics through the ages.

I finished 2025 exhausted and ready to quit.

After one month off, I’m ready to go back out.

Because this job doesn’t stop when the buses do.

It just gets quieter, deeper, and heavier with preparation.

January is when tour leaders sharpen their knives, mend their suitcases, and remember why they do this in the first place.

In March, I’ll do it all over again.

But for now I’ll finish my coffee watching the view from my terrasse with my dog.