Month: May 2022

This life. This organised chaos.

An organised chaos. A tidy mess. Life without living. To dream of no wishes. Life is organised. Chaos is life. Choose both. It is thrust upon us without our permission. Do we deny its existence? Mourn life’s uncertainty and die before the final beat? Wish for nothing and get nothing, hope for everything and find everything is all you ever had. The choice. Love is for you, not them. Laugh wholeheartedly. Cry, you are human. You are not the person people see you as; your life is not reflected in their eyes. Their laughs say you are alive. Their hugs feel your heart. But you possess yourself, wrong choices are yours. Possessions cannot be bought, you have no price. You can be the richest person and feel cheap. Depends how you measure wealth. Life is yours. Take it with you: don’t leave it in the empty vase wilting. Feed yourself with the love of the world; create the world you take it from. People make the world; we each view it differently and therefore expectations, views and choices are our own, we choose our life, our world, our existence. See with your mind, not your eyes. Love with your soul, not your heart. Dance with your childhood and never laugh without yourself. Choose your family in your friends and your family in the mirror. They live in you, embrace them, embrace life or you will be the fallen petal in the dark. Live your life, what other way is there but this?

The dipper and me

The stars are vivid and I can see the ‘Big Dipper’ constellation. It’s like the familiar face in the crowd that you search for it takes a while but when your eyes connect the smile is instantaneous. It’s the only group of stars I know and the only ones I need. It’s a trigger that ignites a memory that is 12 years old. My dad introduced Dip and I, we’re old friends. When I’m alone I look for the comforting ‘face’, the trigger. The memory is within and in the sky whenever I choose to cast a look. And so is he, my dad, guiding my way. Not telling me how to live, but guiding me with his constant light, his confidence that even on the rockier roads I’ll find my way. The decisions I make are not always understood but accepted. Everyone has their own star, leading them without pushing, guiding them without judgement, shining on us in the darkest of times. Find yours and believe in them because as I’ve learnt they burn bright for you. The coldest of mornings may it mean when the sky is clearest but the stars appear when your life needs their beauty.

Animals

For power.

For religion.

For right. For wrong.

So much killing that no other animal in the kingdom subjects their own species to for reasons that even on ones deathbed won’t matter.

Whether you are making the gun or pulling the trigger; you feel you have the divine right to kill someone. Whether you are building the bomb or pushing the detonator; you feel you have the divine right to take away someone’s mother. Whether you are the one ordering the cull or the one acting on the order; you are murdering a generation.

After thousands of years of murder and passing the blame when will humanity stop killing their own brothers and sisters. When will the efficiency of the human brain, which produces the thought to gain power and follow religion, realise that we all come from the same place. We have the same genetic make up; we all have people we love and we would all be devastated when that person is deemed collateral damage.

Since when did anyone have the right to kill? Does sitting behind a desk give you a moral high ground as you bang that gavel and sentence someone to death? A child’s life in the crosshairs of your rifle is simply snuffed out because the pinch of the trigger takes a second in a lifetime of a hundred thousand hours. Does the ease take away the guilt? Do you feel any?

Everyone has a mother. A father. Someone in this world who loves them. That person who gives them their daily smile. A face etched with joy and a lifetime branded with happiness. Wiped away in another persons second of stupidity. Wiped like a tear falling on a cheek or a bloodstain on a cold wooden floor.

Males quarrel in competition. The weaker fall behind and fall victim to a hungry alpha. The smaller get trampled and forgotten. Funny how this can so easily be mistaken for humans that none take the time to see that we don’t need to kill to survive. For love. For food. For nothing. We can survive enough on our intellect and preserve what we have without resorting to ‘this is mine, not yours’. It is the pure ‘want’ of something, like land or proving someone/thing wrong, that propels us into this forbidden and shameful territory where death is second nature.

Animals need to kill in order to survive.

We ‘need’ to kill in order to grasp onto something more. Something unearned. Some unnatural desire to better a life that at birth was so pure and perfect already. Our hunger for the perfect life reveals our fangs; it reveals our bloodthirsty nature and blinds us to what was already pristine and beautiful.

If you ask me, we are the real animals. They use their instincts to hunt and kill to survive. We use our intelligence to maim, murder, massacre until surviving becomes the biggest challenge we face.

Kill or be killed.

Our instincts have been swallowed by our greed.

We are the deadliest animal. And it’s time to cage the kind that deserve its boundaries.

Photo by Dave Watson 

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com

Hotel room for one

Today’s blog is coming to you from the sofa and from the arms of a very tired person. It’s been 13 hours since I woke up and we’ve been on the go for about 12 of those. Nothing pleases me more than ticking jobs off a to-do list, the only thing is as soon as we ticked something off something else was added. You have to laugh, you really do. This will be short and sweet. It’s a thought that has been flitting through my mind, keeping me company while potting up hanging baskets and veggies. Yes, I am a geeky gardener and I love it.

I have a friend of over 20 years who has honestly had the kind of year that would see me put in an asylum. Everything that could change has or is very soon. A marriage is ending, finances are stretching beyond belief and she may have to give up her home. Add covid and a personal hope that has been shattered and, quite frankly, I’m astounded. 

Don’t get me wrong there have been wobbles, lots of tears and anger but today she is going on her first solo mini break. I can picture her now. Unsmiling, but looking out to the sea, and taking the first proper deep breath she’s taken in over a year. She is not unhappy but bracing for the next chapter in her life. I imagine what has happened to be like a book being written that had all the chapters named before the writing began. Half way through, a plot twist renders the next chapter futile. And the one after that. And after that. 

She takes another deep breath and feels pain, relief, loss and hope all at once. She is amazing. My friend is amazing.

Tonight she will lay in a strange bed looking at the ceiling. Trying to switch off her mind but inevitably thinking of the future. She is methodical but still human. There will be lots of thoughts. 

Mr W said today it’s that he feels sorry for her, not in a pitying way, but in the kind of way that someone so lovely and caring and devoted to her family and friends should never feel how she has felt in the last year. It’s the kind of sorry that makes you want to take every ounce of pain away because they could never even dream of causing that pain to others. Ever.

She is the kind of person who is there day and night. The kind of person who helps you with an emergency, She is there. Even now she is there for me. Listening to me cry and moan and scream.

Wholeheartedly, I am in awe of her. At 34 years old I thought I’d grown out of having heroes but rather than flying with a cape kind, she is the epitome of bravery. I am in complete awe of my beautiful friend. She is not letting her past define her. Her circumstance does not define her. Our choices define us. Her choice is to not give up. She can’t control her world. But she can control her reaction. She is the definition of staggeringly awe-inspiring. 

And I am so proud of her. To know her. To be a part of her story.

Photo by Dave Watson 

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com


Food and fretting in Florence

We are a couple who love a bargain, so when I heard of the best value sandwiches in Florence, I knew I had to check it out. And these weren’t any kind of sandwiches. These were GIANT focaccia bread marvels, loaded with Italian delicacies, and reviews in their thousands. There were warnings online to get there as soon as it opens to avoid the crowds and that was the plan. Boy, was there a queue, 100+ people deep. We love a bargain, but for the time spent in the queue we knew we’d rather enjoy the city. See you next time, Osteria All’antico Vinaio!

Our next stop was a hop on hop off tour bus. We spent some time wandering along the banks of the Arno river and meandered across the Ponte Vecchio. With the arched walkway of the Lungarno Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici on the lead up to one of the most famous bridges in the world it was a very surreal moment. And sunny! The bridge itself is absolutely stunning and so unassuming. Its very nature of standing out is in direct juxtaposition to its very modest structure and shops that are strewn across it. The Bridge is famous due to the shops that line its length. Other than the waters that flow beneath it, you do not see the river past the bridge itself. The buildings upon it dominate the expanse of the river. It is a special place and one of the icons of Florence. 

Back to the bus tour. It is the usual experience. Jump on board, see all the sights, get off if and when you please. If we are in a city long enough, I like to use these buses to get a lay of the land and also to use as transport. If you plan it correctly you can get to the far flung places without paying any extra for trains and taxis. Like I said, we like a bargain. This particular bus company had proven difficult to date, there weren’t any clear maps on the website and I’d had to hunt down a map online. 

Herein started the most anxious part of the trip for me. I pinpointed a ‘hop on point’ on the map I’d found and we headed across the Ponte Vecchio to reach it. Although, ‘it’ wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I asked the friendly locals, the ice cream shop owners and yet no one could point me in the right direction. It was here I gave in and called the bus company and couldn’t get through. After emailing and leaving some messages I was called back. If you can picture an anxious mess retracing her steps back and forth across the Ponte Santa Trinita speaking loudly down the phone wondering what to do next, maybe even pulling her hair out, that was me. Poor Mr W stood by seeing my meltdown in real time and waiting to jump in should I need a timeout. After exchanging numbers with a lovely lady, we were soon texting on whatsapp to get to the right place. The day felt lost. And us with it.  

After a calm down walk to the new location, we gratefully hopped on our bus and headed onto the real-life map of Florence. Masks were mandatory and the bright day called for sunglasses. If I thought for a second of the strange tanlines my face would get it was a very quick thought indeed. The city was wrapped around us as we drove along and the information was packed into our brains via the onboard headphone sets. Mr W does like a tour bus and I felt the familiar calm that travel brings wash over me. We passed grand arches and beautiful churches. I’m sure I could google what they were and how you could find them, but understand this. At that time, I felt happy enough to be looking with my eyes and feeling free in my mind. Free from the worries of covid and back where I belonged. 

The bus climbs up the gently sloping road that is the Viale Machiavelli, a tree lined winding road that is absolutely breathtaking. I spot a few Italian cypress trees dotted here and there and am transported back to Rome. I am mesmerised. We jumped off the bus only once at the Piazzale Michelangelo. From here you have the most perfect view of Florence. Perfect to sit and watch. Perfect for photos. Perfect to watch the clouds roll in and block out the sun. Yes, it started raining. Big fat droplets fell down on us with nary an umbrella or shelter in sight. What could we do? Nothing. What did we do? Nothing! It rains, you get wet and sometime after you’ll be dry again. This is pandemic travelling. Rain does not ruin this day. 

The rain spent a few minutes prancing off the cobbles and then continued over the city. We spent time until the next bus grabbing a drink, taking photos and staring up at the bronze replica of Michelangelos ‘David’. For the second time we saw how the Duomo transformed the skyline of Florence and even though it dominates the space it feels in tune with its surroundings. It is places like this that remind me of the importance of travelling. How it is a privilege and should never be taken for granted.

Another rain cloud bursts above us as the bus pulls up and we leap on board. No top deck for us! It is not long before we are back by the river and our original pick up point. We alight, hungry and tired. I’ve heard of a small panini place next to the Duomo that makes another cheap sandwich for the budget conscious traveller. 

Panini Toscani, is the first place I’ve been given a taste test ever. The man behind the counter is surrounded by huge hanging salami, trays upon trays of antipasti and piles of loaves of bread. With a flick of his knife, he slices three meats and holds them out for me. This is a hard challenge. Once I’ve eaten, he asks me, ‘A, B or C’. I feel like a contestant on a game show, I choose my answer. He nods. Another flick of the knife, another food. Cheese. ‘A, B, C.’ This game is fun. Out comes a bigger knife. Bread this time. ‘A,B,C’. My choices are made, my panini is crafted. Mr W is given the same challenge. And let me be clear. It is a challenge. Every mouthful has been fantastic. I want all meats, all cheeses, all breads. Our winnings have wrapped in paper and we head back into the shadow of the Duomo. If I was to tell you that when the sandwich was finished that I wanted to cry, it would be a fair evaluation of the incredible taste I experienced. The whole process to be honest was just brilliant. A tiny 2 metre tall doorway leading to a food filled hall of wonder next to the 114 metres of the Duomo and I’m unsure of which one is the top contender. I just eat and let my heart, and stomach, decide.

A rejuvenating shower and outfit change is on the cards. Maybe a cheeky nap. 

We head out for dinner. It is a 10 minute walk and we are eager for food. Raviolo and Raviolo is a small haunt that makes, you guessed it, Ravioli, I have pre-booked a table to be sure of a seat. The booking felt prudent for April 2020, when booking the trip before the pandemic began. Now, we are one of two couples eating in the restaurant and the stark reality of the pandemic is hard to forget. Mr W is not a big pasta fan and I hope that the reviews on this place have set me on the right path. I order a cheese medley and Mr W orders the butter and sage. From the first bite, I see his eyes light up, this place is good. It is more than good, it is a revelation. Hand made ravioli with beautiful flavours and texture. The restaurant is small and I imagine if you didn’t know it was here, you could quite easily walk past it. But that would be a shame. 

The day has had its ups and downs. The fretting that made me so forlorn is long gone and the food that lines my stomach is making me sleepy. The walk back to the apartment is a slow one, we look into the windows of ice cream parlours and wonder… should we?

Faith in Florence

Having only been to Italy once before I had no real expectations of Florence. The only interaction I had had with the city was through a book by Dan Brown which had been turned into a movie starring the god that is Tom Hanks. That is where my knowledge started and ended. Even then the film darted from city to city and country to country. It doesn’t do much to whet the appetite. 

Mr W had always said he wanted to go and as we were to be celebrating his birthday, it was an easy decision. Bookings made, postponed due to covid and re-booked for September 2020 and here we were. 

Florence! We arrive in the city not long before 10pm and make our way from Santa Maria Novella Station to our apartment. It is a 10 minute walk to Via de Brunelleschi and the city is dark. Only a few businesses are open, mostly food on offer and we are both tired. We have to pick up our key for the apartment in another complex and my arse drops out when the man at the reception desk can’t find our key. After triple checking every drawer, lockbox and reading all instructions he finally finds it. I scoop my arse up off the floor and we continue on our way. We glimpse the Duomo as we emerge from Via Martelli. It appears ghostly in the dark night with only a few lights shining on the green, pink and white marble facade. It doesn’t feel real. We’ve been travelling for over 7 hours, travelling during covid is different enough to make the hours longer, and we are ready to rest our backpacks. The city is falling to sleep and we aren’t far behind. 

We fall into the most amazing apartment and sleep soundly. Mr W in particular wonders what the morning will bring!

The following morning feels like a dream. We aren’t used to arriving so late into a city and so waking up here this morning is like arriving all over again. Before we found the apartment the night before we grabbed a breaded chicken panini and half of it is waiting for us in the fridge. Our day begins at 8am and I find myself praising the huge shower. I need to wash the previous day off my body and out of my mind. It is a luxury I do not want to leave. The sun is gleaming outside and I am wondering whether my choice of jeans and a jumper is appropriate.

Our first port of call this morning is the Palazzo Vecchio and Arnolfo’s Tower. It’s only a 6 minute walk and there aren’t many distractions, the city is still waking up. There are street cleaners whirring by and only a few other people going about their morning. Piazza della Signoria is enormous. The sun engulfs the entire space. Arnolfo tower makes a statement both against the blue sky and with its shadow on the ground. We have arrived. Welcome. Hiding in the shadow we can see how the space is blindingly lit from above and many of the restaurants around the square are slowly opening their doors to the new day. We are early for the Palazzo Vecchio guided tour to the Tower and Mr W requires coffee. 

We wander all of 30 seconds and find a small eatery. Caffe San Firenze will sit roughly 10 people, but as we soon learn, the counter is where the action happens. As we sit and sip our coffees, people walk in, order, drink their coffees and pay in less than five minutes. This is a quick stop place and we are here to witness it all. This is the Italy I love. The intimate moments here, that in England are both boring and forgotten. Caffeine gloriously flooding our veins, we head back to the Palazzo. Our tour isn’t a typical talking tour, the only reason we have a guide is to see the tower. That’s the only way to see it. By being led, I imagine it’s safer and numbers can be monitored. And by safer i mean, it’s a long way up and therefore a long way down! To maintain the integrity and beauty of the tower there are no guide or safety rails. Hence the guide or dare I say chaperone.

We are in the main entrance of the Palazzo and are sent up to the most awe-inspiring spectacle I am yet to witness. The hall of the five hundred, the Salone dei Cinquecento, is absolutely stunning. It’s paintings are vast and are actually hard to comprehend. The sheer size and detail stops you in your tracks. The only thing in the room that tears away your gawking eyes is the panelled ceiling. It. Is. A. Wonder. 

We have to leave to start our tour. So we, a group of ten, start our ascent. We are taken through the winding maze of staircases, rooms and corridors. Mr W and I are nervous about the walk up the tower. I have a fear of spiral staircases, I thank the Sacre Coeur for that, and Mr W worries about his asthma. Ignoring the stairs we have already climbed up into rooms, and then down again, before turning corners and heading up more, we have 233 steps up inside the tower. I am praying for normal staircases. And there they are. Not a spiral in sight. Dark stone stairs that just keep going.  As our group is small and the only ones permitted in the tower the nerves have subsided. We don’t feel hurried at all. Unlike other stone staircases I have climbed, this one is warm and I am glad for the ascent to end. The breeze at the top of the tower is glorious but pales in comparison to the view. 

Having seen rooftops of Italy only once before in Rome I have forgotten the earthy red tones of the roof tiles. The view stretches for miles like a red carpet. I could sit up here all day. The bells of the tower are above us held up by old wooden beams. I think for a second about the weight of the bells and the strength of the aged structure. What if they should fall? If it is my time I am happy to be doing what I love to do. With the person I love to do it with. 

The view from here is the perfect introduction to the city. You could say it was planned with this in mind. Wink wink. From up here we see the Arno river. Almost green in the sunlight. It creates a natural divide on the map of the city. From this lofty space we see the Duomo in all her glory. Rising 114 metres from street level it dominates the skyline. The surrounding buildings bow to its presence. I am strangely drawn to its immense stature. 

As always, I am reminded of why the Duomo is here in the first place. Faith. As an atheist I often find myself wondering how blind faith can lead to something so substantial being built. And yet I am drawn to them. I don’t mean to kneel at their gates and alters and utter silent words to a god. I am drawn to the blind faith and how it guides people everyday. It may not be my path but the more I see these cities the more I respect the faith people have. 

The faith the world has lost sight of in the past 6 months is on my mind. Covid has ravaged the world. Horrors unseen on such a scale in my lifetime have dominated the headlines and inch by inch taken our confidence in the world and the future. 

Up above this new city, I feel like myself. I’m exploring again. I’m believing again. Possibilities are creeping back. My faith is getting ready to return. 

Walk like an Egyptian. To and Fro. To and Fro.

The very first time I paid for someone else to travel was a big birthday celebration. 

My mum was turning 40 and had always wanted to go to Egypt. It was both of our first time in the country and I picked the Sharm El Sheikh Red Sea resort. We spent a week in the intense sun, cooling down in the huge pool and exploring the area. The area was built for tourism, it was not a cultural trip. Therefore we spent all but one day at the hotel. But it is one of my fondest memories. Times were simpler. 

Nowadays I long for the trips where I used to do nothing but people-watch and my movements were based on the sun’s position in the sky. I’m in no way saying I don’t enjoy the travelling I do now. It’s amazing. Just vastly different.

A trip now begins with a plan and long days filled with exploring and discoveries. It’s rewarding and beautiful and I wouldn’t change it. 

Even when Mr W and I have booked the quiet, relaxing holidays, we’ve each felt the ‘itch’ to get up and move around. Is it anxiety fuelled? Is it the need to see the world? I’m no longer sure. 

What I do know is when the time comes to sit still, we’ll be able to do it. 

My first time in Egypt was as unplanned as they come. When booking the trip I was given flight information, but told my hotel would be allocated on arrival. There were two 4 star hotels and one 5 star hotel in the possibilities and I counted my lucky stars that we were given the 5 star choice. I remember it so vaguely, a small all inclusive hotel with two pools. The smaller of the two was heated and therefore drew in my mum like a moth to a flame. She’s not good with cold water and when attempting to get into the bigger, colder pool one day decided slower was better and retreated down the pool stairs one tiny step at a time. I sat hidden by my book, laughing and watching everyone else laugh too. The noises, well shrieks, bounced all the walls of the surrounding accommodation and am sure drowned out the call to prayer that sounded nearby. 

That’s how we spent our days, until the sun fell behind the nearby mountains. When you are that close to the equator you can reach up, block the sun from view behind your thumb and literally trace it moving towards the horizon. It’s incredible. 

A mile from the resort we found the tourist nighttime hotspot. Restaurants, shops and a few clubs. It was the main hub for the entire hotel complex and came alive at night. There was so much going on you could not turn your head fast enough to take it in.  Shisha bars with all types of flavoured tobacco to try. Souvenirs of Egyptian cotton and drawings on papyrus. The locals offer you 12 camels for your hand in marriage. The open air was still warm, the lights glowed orange and allowed the night to darken to their deepest black. We spent hours wandering until it was time to leave. The last stall sold hand painted canvases. Large expanses of bright colours showcasing the wonders of Egypt; sand dunes, pyramids and camels in abundance. We each bought one, which we rolled securely and placed inside a sturdy cardboard tube. They both still hang in our homes.

As we left, waving away the throng of taxi drivers who called to us for ‘cheap taxi, cheap taxi’, we spoke of the lion painting that had caught my mum’s eye. She’d loved it but didn’t know where to hang it at home. We walked the mile back to our hotel, made it all the way back to our room, sat down and she gave me the look. The look that said, ‘I know where I would put the picture’. 10 minutes later we were on our way back to the market. Ignoring the taxi drivers and the calls from the bars to ‘please come in for a drink’, we head back to that last stall. Where she bought the picture and we walked the mile home. 

That picture still hangs in my mum’s home. My childhood home. Every time I see it, I remember the four miles of walking it took to buy it. I remember the laughter. The to and fro and to and fro. 

It’s when these memories pop into my head that my longings for the ‘simple holidays’ return. Sitting still, under the sun’s glare and a simple night-time walk can have even more impact on my life than I’ll understand at the time. 

A piece of Pisa

There are 37 people on this aircraft. It’s September 2020. 

Restrictions have lifted enough in the Uk for us to travel to countries on the green list. Every Thursday brings amendments to the list and so far Italy is go go go!

We land at Pisa airport and it is empty. It is 5pm local time and all services are closed. This is strange. Following the signs, we head to the Pisa mover that’ll take us into the heart of the city. Masks are on, backpacks strapped up and feet are eager. This is the kind of transport I like. Just EUR2.70 each and 5 minutes to the destination! Next stop: Pisa Centrale.

It is a 25 minute march to our only stop in the city. The daylight is fading and we must get back for our train to Florence. We cross the Arno river, so still in the evening sun and I have to pinch myself to believe that our postponed Italy trip has finally begun. We weave our way through old apartment buildings, where the restaurants underneath are just starting their terrace table service and the sounds of humanity grow louder.

And then, there she is. The leaning tower of Pisa. We emerge onto Piazza del Duomo and the setting sun streams its light upon this architectural wonder. It is illuminating. The whole scene is. There are more people here than in both the airports we have passed through today and they are smiling. Covid feels like a bad dream that we have now woken from. There are families taking selfies, couples arm in arm strolling and the army around the base of the tower. All life is here. 

The sky is various shades and shapes of mottled grey. But underneath the Cathedral and Tower of Pisa glow in the most magnificent light. It is the most spectacular welcome to any vacation we’ve had. We enter the Piazza and head left towards the Porta Nuova. The sun continues its journey towards the horizon and the intensity makes the scene dance before us. We stop every couple of metres to pick out the extraordinary details of the tower. It is a picture that will never need a filter. A memory that will never be replaced. A piece of life slotted into the dread of 2020.

The grass of the Piazza is the greenest grass we’ve seen. The light is the brightest. The smiles are wider. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve experienced something like a pandemic.  The good times are magnified. They boom out of the silence.

We follow the square around to the Battistero di San Giovanni. A huge circular building that is currently playing peekaboo with the sun. The detail on the facade is breathtaking and reminds me why Italy is one of the top destinations in the world. Italy’s unassuming nature to have these structures sitting just a stone’s throw away from regular life. Restaurants, stations and homes. It’s like this place just sprung up one day. And life just carried on without fuss or bother. 

The shadows grow long on the grass as we walk alongside the Cathedral, which in its own right dominates the space. With the light fading the marble turns from orange to a light grey. It is disappearing into the night’s sky. 

Up ahead the tower is alive burning orange in the sunset and the details are darkening by the second. It is transforming before us. I am so glad we came.

The initial plan was to use Pisa for its airport and head straight to Florence. Tourist traps are not my guide when planning city breaks. They’re all good and well dotted here and there in a day’s plan, but I find myself more and more drawn to the life of cities than the lines of citizens of the world, elbowing each other for photos and the best vantage point. But the fact of the matter this time was the proximity to something that I couldn’t pass by. An hour’s grace and detour meant it was done and dusted. Been there, done that. And yet it became so much more than that. It was the gateway of the whole trip. It started as it would then go on. Fulfilling every promise. Healing the fears of 2020 and soothing the worries for the future. Pisa encapsulated the feeling that life would move on. That people could come together again, smiling, laughing and enjoying the simplicity of existing.

Slow and steady, what’s that?

Nearly 9 years ago I was hired for my dream job. It involved itinerary planning for UK and European travel. As I had been creating itineraries for myself for over 7 years prior to this I had the skills needed to get a good head start. The job gave me the opportunity to expand on this and introduced me to places I’d not yet been to. At times I felt I could walk around cities like Rome and Paris blind and still know what was around me. It was methodical. Fast paced. Very detailed and specific work. Since leaving the job behind and coming to terms with living with anxiety, I’ve come to accept my need for itineraries when travelling. It means there are no hidden surprises and I can relax along the way. I won’t get lost because I’ve mapped out the route. I’ll have the postcode for the hidden car parks. Hotels are booked in advance so I can keep an eye on the budget. Food stops and supplies are planned so I don’t get stuck with a manky sandwich and a half rotten apple (this happened to Mr W, not me!). 

In the last couple of years Framework Travel has highlighted these skills to other people. I’ve created a huge number of New York itineraries for clients as well as trips to Berlin, Paris, Barcelona and London. In a strange way, by creating an itinerary I’m travelling in my mind’s eye. I’m walking the cobbled streets of Rome and watching the sun set over the Seine in Paris. It’s actually amazing to hear back how much my planning can help other people. 

Everything I’ve ever planned has been fast paced. 18 hour days in New York. A 72 hour itinerary in Paris squeezed into 1 day. 6 days in Italy to see 3 cities. Every single detail is researched and cut and pasted together with minute details slotted in. 

And then there’s Scotland. 

When I used to plan a weeks trip in London for 30 American students it would roughly be 6-7 pages long. This would include transfers, hotel details and addresses for places like the Tower of London and The British Museum. With our NC500 trip, the itinerary for 16 days is currently at 30 pages. THIRTY. The transfers are: car. But there are 14 hotels all with different check in details. And addresses for places to visit are more grid reference based than actual postcodes. It is so strange. And exciting! 

There will be places we visit on this big tour that have no ‘specific location’. It’s more a stream, or in some cases, a trickle of information found in the depths of the internet. Park at ‘such n such’  layby, 200 metres from ‘this’ pub, walk west for 1 mile, veer left at the fork in the path… and it goes on. We may not be able to rely on our phones due to phone reception and the weather is going to change from one minute to the next. And for the first time in my life, I can’t plan everything. There will be moments technology will fail us. There will be times the weather will test us, this is no beach holiday (although, ha, there are a few we will visit, dressed in jumpers and hiking boots). The food will be dried and revived by hot water from our car kettle. And there will be one, maybe two, occasions where my face will be scrubbed up for a nice meal on an actual plate. This is not going to be a vacation to relax. This is going to be a journey to explore, find and return back to basics. Well, as basic as it can get with an itinerary. 

So far it has taken 5 months of planning, researching and slotting this trip together and the more it builds the more my excitement grows and my anxiety weakens. For the first time I don’t know what to expect and that’s the exciting part. This isn’t the Colosseum in Rome, where you can stand and nod that all knowing yes, it matches the image you’ve transferred from the internet, magazines and tv shows to your travel bank in your brain. Scotland is rural. It changes every day. Different sunlights, seasons and vegetation. But it’s something bigger than what you see. That’s why since our first hiking trip in 2020, my travel mind has changed so vastly. It’s the effect hiking has on you. The setting out to new pastures, the long slogs up hills, the speedy trails down the other side and the beautiful end point. Even if it’s not beautiful, you have reached your destination and made yourself proud! No car, no taxi, just you and your feet. 

One of the more enlightening aspects of this planning stage is how much slower it is. As I mentioned, there aren’t websites based on some of the walks and it’s just the ‘word of mouth’ I can track down online. I’ve stumbled upon some snags here and there where my fast-paced style does not suit the lifestyle of the Scottish businesses. When trying to reach someone about some axe-throwing, it took two emails and a phone call. Spread out over 3 weeks. In London, you’d have an answer within an hour. It’s not that Scotland doesn’t want the business or tourists, but they seem to take it all at a slower pace. I may have realised to avoid stumbling, I just needed to slow down. Take it steady.

This trip is so much more than the end destination, hell it needs to be with over 500 miles to cover, it’s about the journey. Yes, there will be an itinerary. We still need hotel information and addresses, but when it comes to activities and the driving, it’s more about looking around than ahead. I’m starting to wonder whether my anxieties will be left at home. And whether my mind can finally have its deep breath. Slow and steady. 

Tending and Teaching

Gardening is a great hobby. It’s been said that more people than ever before started gardening during the covid lockdowns. It’s great to be outside. You get to be imaginative, creative and see something grow from seed to wow. When you stand back and see the fruits of your labour, with a nod to ‘I did that’, it’s one of the most rewarding past times there is.

For over 15 years I had dabbled in gardening jobs. Part time here. Part time there. When we bought our home the garden was a sea of gravel, with cliffs of wooden decking and a huge greenhouse whose occupants were dirty, big eight legged things.

There was no end vision, just an aim to create a little slice of our own heaven. We had small ideas in the beginning. Bye bye to the gravel, the slabs and some of the decking. Farewell to the thousands of empty, plastic pots. And toodooloo to the buried pond with its submerged junk of old furniture and a random computer.

As the years have gone by, I’ve learned more and more about how to cultivate and care for our small patch of green. There is a fresh lawn, flowerbeds, a vegetable garden and entertaining spaces. We have a pond and an aviary. It’s taking years to get to this stage. But it’s ours. I’m proud to be a daughter of a great gardener and to have been taught what she knows. I’m also proclaiming to be proud of how much I have learned by myself just by tending to my garden. It’s not often that I’ll be proud.

Today I was hired to overhaul a garden of one of my closest friends mum’s. It wasn’t in bad shape. It just needed a quick revamp, some maintenance tips and advice. What happened was so much more than I ever expected.

I’ve met ‘Nanny’ three times. Once at her daughter’s engagement, the wedding and again at a baby shower. Each and every time, ‘Nanny’ has been one of the most warm and welcoming people I have ever met. As one of the last couples to leave the wedding chapel, the day her daughter got married, she walked up to us, looped her arm through mine and talked to me like we’d known each other for years. She asked about me, and only me, despite being the biggest day of her daughter’s life. The same happened at the baby shower, the shower she was hosting, she sat specifically with me to talk. To me. When she talks to you, you feel like the only person in the room. You have her whole attention. It shocks me to realise how very little time I’ve spent with ‘Nanny’ and how high in my regard she sits.

Today, I was the only person in the room. And it was my turn to listen. We discussed anxieties that she had. I won’t lie, I never ever would have thought it was possible for this ray of utter sunshine to live with anxiety. She’s open about it. She caught me off guard. It was like meeting her for the first time. We talked like old friends.

After a good cuppa, we got to talking about the garden. What was needed help wise, what she would like to achieve and what I could teach her. It makes me nervous to ‘teach’ because gardening is an infinite education. You literally learn something new every time you step outside. No gardener can ever claim to know everything. After a few surprises hidden beneath laurels and a few pesky weeds, we found a steady rhythm and talked our way through the hot day.

‘Nanny’ called me Plant Doctor and I forgot I was even there to work. We took a small break to neck a glass of water and eat our snack bananas and as she spoke I realised how strange this situation was. I have, since first meeting this lady, spent all of 15 or so hours in her company. At parties, in big rooms, mainly drunk on my part. This was a first. It was strange and yet oddly calming. Comfortable. Sitting and talking so easily. The strangest part is, it didn’t feel strange at all.

I inherently overcompensate around new people because subconsciously I don’t want them to see my nerves. So I’m loud and weird and OVER. THE. TOP.

And yet today I was just me. Talking about plants. Geeking out about soil. And trading insider tips on pruning hydrangeas.

This morning I felt nervous to be a teacher. However as I left this afternoon I felt as if I was the one who had learned a valuable lesson. Nothing is as it seems on the outside. We have to peel back the layers of overgrown grasses, the odd self seeded flower and the struggling rose to see all that beauty underneath.

Be you. Be kind. Tend to others. Live with your eccentricities, don’t hide them away. Talk, talk, talk to everyone who makes up the garden of your life. It’s only then that you’ll realise how many truly vibrant colours there are planted into its borders. It’ll make you proud and very, very humble.