Month: Jun 2022

Man with the big broom

The first time I went abroad I was 5 months old. So for storytelling purposes it is null and void.

But oh, the third time abroad. Well, I was 10 and it was Halkidiki, Greece. My first ever time on a plane. (We were driven to Spain when I was a baby.) It’s funny when I think of the trip I don’t remember the airport. The luggage. The hotel reception. I’ve always thought that I have a weird memory. Ask me who that guy was in that film that one time and I’ll tell you his name, his dog’s name and where he’s from. But ask me about my childhood before the age 11 or 12 and I’m pretty clueless. Maybe when senior school started my brain had to make room and sent in a little man with a big broom and swept most of my childhood memories away!

I remember a lovely evening meal we had. More of the feeling it gave me. It was on an outside terrace with big pagodas on the side of a residential street. The voices were loud. But happy. The streets were musical with the swallows flying overhead. The night was warm in the pathway of the setting sun. All considered I don’t remember being at a table or what I ate, I just remember the huge sense of family and community that I felt. The loveliest part of the memory isn’t what food it was or the view, it was the feeling that has stayed with me all these years.

Thinking about this today has made me realise that you can plan and plan a trip to better your chances to see as much as possible and weaken your anxieties. However you can’t plan for those moments that stick out. That made the whole trip.

In 2019 we rented a villa in Majorca with my dad and his partner. It was planned to be a completely relaxing trip with possible short day trips thrown in. We had meals of simple salads and chicken that everyone had a part in making and serving. Days off were spent by the pool, reading and snoozing. There were a few trips out in the car but mainly it was about a sedentary life with the odd swim and alot of snoozing. And yet in those often viewed as mundane activities the magic happened.

I woke Mr W at 6am one morning and we went up to the rooftop terrace as the sun was coming over the mountains. The whole landscape came alive as the night turned into day. Mr W had complained initially about being woken up. But soon enough we were arm in arm, watching the island wake up. A nearby farm dog started barking, a cockerel crowed and the haze over the fields lifted like a veil.

We took a very brief drive up to Cala San Vicente and had a walk along the small roads that lined the frequent coves. As we approached the top of one road the sea was crashing against the cliffs’ rocks with such force that it sent a huge wall of water droplets 20 or so feet in the air. Being particularly windy here the droplets were caught by the ferocious wind and sent in our direction. It was a brief vacation from the heat of the Spanish sun and it was hysterical. It wasn’t planned. The day trip of course was decided but how do you plan for waves, rocks and wind that work together so succinctly in order to make four people cackle so witch-like? I remember the chill that flooded my body for the briefest of seconds. And the laughter. And the feeling of freedom. That I could jump off that cliff and fly away on the wind and water. It’s something about moments like that that make a trip.

Later that week, Mr W and I introduced Dad and Pat to a drinking game. It involves cards and a lot of drinks. You get drunk very fast. And
gets messy. Was that the plan? No. Did it happen? Yes. But pray tell, can you plan to have someone spit their drink across the table in laughter? Absolutely not. Is it a stand out memory. Abso-freaking-lutely.

I like to think of the beautiful places we are yet to travel to in the world. Of places far and wide on our list. What we’ll see and do. What’s more important lately is how those components become almost secondary memories. It’s the pieces of magic in-between that I treasure.

The time my mum ordered a ‘dirty granny’ cider in Melbourne.

When I cut my brother’s hair in Bulgaria and was doing fine until I had no idea how to frame his face. He was stuck that way for a fortnight.

When Mr W had me splitting firewood on our first camping trip.

When my brothers and I snuck out of our rooms at 2am in Egypt to go swimming. The competitions in the pool and the hilarity that ensued.

If the man in my brain with the broom returns I’d ask him to take out the memories of the Vatican and the Empire state building and leave all the jewels I so treasure.

Through the fire and the rain

Well we survived.

Our first fertility appointment is done. There were some expected moments. Weight, BMI etc. Other unexpected moments, like the explaining of certain things with diagrams and having read my history which the last guy didn’t bother doing. I’m having a procedure which I was not expecting but am taking it as another ruling out of any unseen problems. There were two moments that upset me. Or maybe, angered me, I’m not sure.  The Doctor asked me a question and while I was talking his mobile phone rang and he answered it. I continued talking to the nurse and when the Doctor had told the person on the phone he would call back later, he asked me to repeat what I’d said. No! How about you not take a personal call while your patient is in the room, talking and answering your question. But no obviously I didn’t say that, I just repeated myself. All he had to do was say, sorry excuse me one moment, answer the phone, tell them he would call them back. But he said nothing of the sort. To be honest, it is things like that I don’t accept from anyone so me feeling anxious and nervous about the appointment didn’t add to it. It’s just plain rude. I’m a person. Not a number on a sheet. ANYWAY! The other was when I asked for weight loss advice and he said I don’t know. Nice and blunt. Thanks buddy. So I’ve taken to the internet again and will call my GP because trying for 20 years has got me nowhere. 

But ya know what, I’d fed up with having all the research in the world and it still does not get me anywhere with the NHS. They have their criteria and I can either like it or lump it. I’m not a naturally rebellious person but it does feel like the criteria is old and unbefitting of the fertility problems people face. Especially those with PCOS. The thing is, I can sit, stand, stomp my foot screaming and shouting the actual facts of PCOS and it won’t make a difference. I’m one voice. The government does not care. The top dogs in the NHS who govern fertility funding do not care. And I’ve reached the point that its time to jump through their hoops. I have no fight left in me. I have to prepare for the fight of losing a substantial amount of weight if I ever have a chance of getting help. It may happen naturally if I lose weight. Who knows. There’s a chance. But if I dont fall naturally I still fit their stupid criteria and have a chance of ovulation and hormone drugs. Some would liken it to blackmail. We’ll do ‘this’ if you do ‘that’. It’s sad when you really think about it. Because PCOS isn’t caused by weight. If they treated the causes, treated what I’m deficient in I could be a happy, healthy curvy mum. Rather than unhappy, unhealthy, skinny tick on the criteria. 

Jumping through the hoop is the only way. Time to bite the bullet and play their game. 

And I’m coming to peace with it. It was driving home today in the rain when I looked in the mirror and saw the most beautiful colours in the sun setting sky. On the mirror were droplets from the weather, but in the mirror were the reds and purples that glowed between the rain clouds. I often look to the sky for guidance and a sense of calming. It’s my place of perspective. 

The sky tonight was no different. It told me that though the rain may be hard and make you want to turn back, scream or shout, wondering if you can carry on, it can also mean that something beautiful is waiting on the other side. That giving it time, to be cold and rough and tough to face, rain can also be what’s needed to make a better tomorrow. So I’m taking solace in the rain and the sunset tonight. Sometimes the journey will experience hard times, rain does that. Sometimes it’ll make things blurry and shift the focus. But it’s not forever. The appointment was hard, the journey seems harder but at least I’m on my journey now, with Mr W, and it’s on the way to something beautiful.

Pink hair do care

Tomorrow is a big day. 

Our first appointment with the fertility clinic after a 14 month wait. It’s been a long wait and after a rollercoaster of a week in terms of cancellations and getting a last minute appointment for tomorrow, I’m in a bit of shock. I feel sick with anxiety. I feel I already know what’s coming. I’ll be offered the tests I have already had and I’ll be told to lose weight. Doctors petrify me at the best of times but when it comes to my weight I’m really sensitive and know I’ll sit there like a child being told off. I almost feel the need to impress this Doctor to be treated like a human. It’s true, I’ve spoken to other people who are overweight recently and they feel like second rate humans because of their size. I used to think it was all in my head. 

Today I had a baby shower to go to. After yesterday’s 30+ degrees of hot weather and a rough night’s sleep I knew I needed to feel good about myself so I could relax and put on my happy face. Baby showers aren’t the hardest thing to deal with when you are struggling with your own fertility, usually it’s the baby announcements, but I can’t estimate how I’ll feel on the day. So getting ready today I wanted to wear something to keep cool but also not feel like this huge beast. I love a new pair of trousers I bought recently, but they are wide legged and therefore make me look bigger. Not good for confidence at all! They are so lightweight that I put them on and said to the mirror, you deserve to feel cooler like everyone else. I went to the wardrobe to get a cardigan and realised it was my go to ‘cover-up’. Not because the temperature may have changed during the day, but because it covered my arms, back, bum and body. I use it to hide away. I closed the cupboard door and left the house before I could change my mind. No safety cardigan in sight. I deserve to be cool on a hot day!

I also reasoned that having recently dyed my hair pink the focus would be on that and not on my chubby arms. Ironically, I did have a brief thought that this day was going to be about the mummy-to-be and no one would pay me a bit of attention! It’s funny, I’ve had pink hair for two weeks and as I’ve been out and about I get a few looks and I automatically think they’re staring at me for my weight. Or something else. It’s only when I catch my hair swishing around my face that I remember its pink. I forget all about it. Does it make me uglier? Prettier? I have had to remind myself recently that what I wear and how I look is the least interesting thing about me. It’s a mantra I’m really trying to live by. 

‘The way you look is the least interesting thing about you.’ 

A recent,  little quote I have acquired from the ‘Go Love Yourself’ podcast by the lovely Laura Adlington and Lauren Smith. If you need a boost, a different perspective on weight, appearance and everything in between, I highly recommend it! 

Go Love Yourself

As much as I’ve fought for this appointment I am so nervous and going back to my pink hair I’m actually wondering if it is going to work against me. These are the worries that plague my mind. Is this why I couldn’t sleep last night? Or was it really the incredible heat and hayfever symptoms? Maybe I won’t sleep tonight instead. The rain has taken away the pollen and the temperature has more than halved since this morning. So there’s only my anxieties left. Yay! What if they see me, my hair and write me off before even talking? I feel as if this will be an interview. That I’ll have ticks and crosses against my name. I have to remind myself over and over that I deserve the same as everyone else. 

Why should I regret the hair? It has been a shake up and a bit of fun. Something to mix things up a bit. Life has been a bit static recently for sure. My hayfever does prevent me from getting a full night’s sleep and therein lies the problem I believe. My anxiety gets a lot worse when I’m tired. And then I can’t sleep because I’m anxious. Hello, vicious circle! 

Isn’t this a fun post? 

As we are home now and my appointment is in 13 hours I feel my stomach tying itself in knots and my need to keep busy is ridiculously strong. I knew that keeping busy today would help. However going to a baby shower when you yourself are going to a fertility appointment isn’t the easiest thing to deal with. Usually, as I said, baby showers aren’t too hard to deal with. I think it’s because you have time to prepare. You know when the baby announcement is made, like the birth, a baby shower is part and parcel. I just think today caught me right in the heart. It reminded me of our journey and I did have to excuse myself for a quick cry in the toilets. These kinds of things just remind me of what we don’t have. 

Tomorrow is the first step of a journey that will be difficult. I’ve already been told that. One thing I’m glad of is Mr W. He has my back. He’s my fighter. He picks me up when I fall. He tells me to wear the trousers I love. To ditch the cardigan. And to dye my hair the colours of the rainbow if I need to. Because no matter what I wear or how I look. I am me. And that will always be enough. 

Feeling hot, hot, hot!

Why, why, why is it so much harder to cope with the summer sun in England than when we travel the world?

Today in the South-East of England temperatures have reached highs of 32°. The hottest day of the year, so far. The news keeps saying so far because a) they love the phrase, the feel of competitiveness and b) we haven’t hit the full stride of summer yet. 

So why is it so hard to keep cool here?

Are our homes built differently?

I know when I visit Spain there is little to no worry about high temperatures. They have cool tiled houses with windows flung open being enough to cool the sweaty brow. Well here, we have an entire tiled bottom floor to our home, and even though it does feel cool, it does little to prevent the heat rising to the floors above. There’s also the fact that the last time we visited Spain we had a huge pool and once you start to feel the heat you can dive in, cool off and emerge refreshed. It’s a lovely cycle that I long for. In 2020, we had an obscenely hot spring and summer so I gave in and bought a pool. Only a big inflatable type thing, 8 feet by 4 feet I seem to remember. It took a month to arrive and I kid you not, the day it arrived on my doorstep, the rain came and the sun was not seen again for over a year. By the time 2021’s sun came around we had one week of it and then nothing once more. Said pool has remained in its box for nearly two years now and it’s only been the last two day’s worth of heat that has been longing to put it up. Forget nights in front of the television, I can see Mr W and I lounging in the pool, music playing and a class of something cool and tasty in hand. Ahhh true bliss!

There are so many times in my travels that stand out as really having felt HOT. So hot you think you are going to self combust, melt and shrivel like a prune all at the same time. 

During a Nile Cruise in 2010, we had some free time from all our excursions and decided to spend a little time on the top deck of the boat in the Egyptian Sun. As you came up the stairs to the lounging area, you came face to face with a bar. A fully stocked bar. Oh yes! We squirrelled away to two loungers at the rear of the boat so we could take in the sights while sailing. When getting drinks, we noticed a thermometer that read 50°. FIFTY! Absolutely insane and unheard of in England for sure. And yet it was manageable. I remember being under dappled shade on the boat, but one week later in a luxury hotel on the Nile I lay in the direct sun and even though it was hot I didn’t feel the creeping suffocation that heat can bring. 

Suffocating heat can be found in the rainforests of Queensland, Australia. We were visiting Patronella Park. The temperature was in the mid thirties. But it was the humidity that found its way to our skin and heads. The park is built from a vision to create gardens surrounding a castle and homes in which José Patronella would live and thrive with his family. It is an absolutely astounding place with sky reaching bamboo, lush planting, a waterfall, fountains and huge expanses of land to roam. I remember the day so clearly. We had arrived in a mist like rain. Soft but strangulating with its heat. I was enjoying the visit. It was like a secret garden for the sub-tropical world. But the humidity was unbearable. Rain in England mean’s water on skin, cooling down, moaning about your washing on the line. This rain meant sweat would be pouring off of your skin, heating up your body and creating a sticky layer of clothing that clung to you. I honestly think it is the most uncomfortable I have ever felt. It is a shame  I look back on that day wishing I had ignored the clinging of the weather. Patronella Park is stunning and should I return I will prepare better. There is something to be said though, that the lushness of the gardens would not be without the warm, wet conditions. 

A week later in Uluru, I found a different kind of heat. Dry! At 45° it was crazy to feel more comfortable than in Queensland. It was hot for sure, but an air conditioned coach or taking a moment in the shade was all the relief I needed. For the first time since arriving in Australia two weeks prior,  we found an afternoon to sit and relax. Our accommodation had a pool and shade. It was definitely time to stop. Much needed! The pool was small, with only 8-10 loungers surrounding it and there was a huge water dispenser, the kind you usually see in offices, just behind my bed. Paradise! Out of nowhere a humongous gust of wind swept across us, upending loungers with their towels into the pool. The wind felt as though someone had turned on a hair dryer. The intense heat was over as fast as it had arrived. In England, the wind usually means cool relief. There it brought only more temperature. I still don’t know how you would prepare to challenge that kind of weather. I guess it would have served me better to jump in the pool. To emerse myself in the cool water. 

Maybe water is the cure, Spain certainly has it right. In fact, José Patronella built his park around Mena creek with its cascading waterfall and flowing river. His Spanish mind knew the cooling waters would be key to keeping sane in the Queensland temperatures. We found sanctuary from the heat in the afternoon rains in the Dominican Republic. The temperature was not too hot in relation to Australia and Egypt, but it was definitely a sweaty heat. It clung to you. It makes body lotion sit on your skin and not be absorbed. Looking back on photos, I have a constant sheen on my face. Beautiful! It was easy to avoid the rains when at the hotel, a quick sprint from the pool to the covered restaurants or back to the air conditioned rooms was all it took. However, one afternoon, we decided to go to a local bar for food. It was made of dark wood and glass with a huge fish tank in the middle. It was a cooling place. A real bolthole from the weather. From heat and rain. Looking outside it was as though all the water on this green earth had started leaking from the sky. The landscape had blurred with his downpour. And then the leak was patched. Gone as if nothing had happened. It was a 15 minute walk back to the hotel and the sky was formidable. The grey clouds above, pushed the humidity down on us mere earthlings and were steaming us slowly. We came to the edge of a pathway at one of the very deep curbs you will find in the Caribbean. The roads had become temporary rivers from the recent downpour while the pavements promoted security from above. It was only when a splashing game erupted between us that we realised its true potential. Fun and refreshing. It was only when we walked through the hotel’s entrance and everyone turned to stare that I noticed that there were leaves and specks of dirt over our bodies. A present from the puddles that had proven their worth tenfold. 

So there we have it, water! It can both be a curse with its hot clinging nature and a giver of life. A cooler, refreshed life. In the most recent years where heat is absorbed by our bedroom carpet and in turn, turns the room into an oven we have taken to setting up a floor fan, having a late night cold shower, rushing to stand in front of the fan and letting it freeze the water droplets on our skin. Last night I lay in the dark feeling the familiar lethargy of the English summer. The ceiling fan wasn’t doing much to help and we hadn’t yet got the floor fan out of his lofty prison. Mr W turned to me in the darkness and said ‘Don’t you have a spray bottle up here?’ Why, yes I do. It is for the succulents I have. I asked him why, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘why don’t you spray it up above us and the fan will do the rest.’

Game. Changer!

For 10 minutes I sent the mist up to the dark ceiling and felt the cooling embrace of the water as it fell. Absolute bliss! When Mr W returned home from work, we fled to the bedroom once more and continued misting the room. The relief was instantaneous. Obviously, once cooled there was a tug of war over the spray bottle, itchy trigger fingers and much laughter. 

If I’ve learned anything from looking back at the experiences of extreme heat on my travels, it is to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. Much like the phrase, ‘learn to dance in the rain’, I think to complain is fruitless, we need to jump into the pool, puddles and cold showers. Make the most of it. Laugh and enjoy. 

Whale of a time

One thing you need to know about me before this short tale is: I’m petrified of ice. Not ice cubes in my drink or the feeling of being cold. But ice on the ground. Ice I have to cross. Ice under my feet. If Disney ever re-made Bambi and before his first experience on the icy pond he drank a bottle of rum I’d be perfect for the casting call. I’m not sure if clumsy is the word. It’s the fact I don’t trust it and therefore my ability to walk well fails. I’ve had two nasty falls on icy pavements, one ending up in hospital, and I’ve never regained my confidence. 

Here starts my story.

In late 2015, Mr W and I were closing in on buying our first home. We had a New York trip coming up and yet felt the absolute need to book a trip for Spring 2016. Why not? It’s not like we needed the money. Or at that precise time we would be signing paperwork for said new home. I think, ultimately, it was our last trip before sh*t got real! 

As ever, I hunted down the best possible deal and booked half the trip including one excursion, hotel and flights with Icelandair and then other excursions via Viator including airport transfers. I seem to remember the pre-booking costs came to roughly £800 per person. 

March came around weekly and we hopped on the flight. We had so much leg room on the flight that it felt like the lap of luxury. We were seated in the seats just inside the airplane door, which meant other than the stewardess sitting in front of us, we had room to stretch our legs straight out. Just amazing. Especially for Mr W,he is 6ft+ and really struggles on planes. Above us the cabin lights were soft pinks, blues and greens. It was an amazing mimic of the northern lights. 

The flight from London to Reykjavik was short and sweet and it made for the smoothest flight I’d known. That is,until we landed. As we were taxiing along the runway, the plane turned so we could pull in at the terminal. There came an almighty juddering sensation and if the look on the seated stewardess’s face was anything to go by, this was not normal. Voices from the rear seats told us that our plane’s wing had hit another plane’s tail-end. With a quick nervous smile, the stewardess was called into action and the plane started reversing. It was over within minutes, but it’s definitely a birthday story I enjoy repeating to this day. Yep, it was my birthday!

The journey from the airport to our hotel was met with grey skies and a very soft falling of snow. I’m going to admit now, my heart sunk, this girl didn’t think about the land of fire and ice and the implications of the weather! Silly me. The snow was very light and it soon went unnoticed as the Icelandic landscape came into view. The fields of volcanic rock with their odd mossy patches amongst the ragged terrain was like nothing else we both had ever seen. I felt as if we had landed on another planet. How is this place 3 hours from London?

It continued to snow as we arrived at our hotel. With the grey skies it was hard to make out the snow. With our bodies enveloped in so many layers it was hard to feel the icy weather that the snow was promoting. The odd snowflake landed on the tip of my nose as my eyes darted around the Old Harbour. I could see the boats that we would travel on while here and the navy blue waters they sat in. Wow. This place! 

Night crept in as we relaxed in our hotel and our 10pm sail approached quickly. 3 pairs of socks, leggings, trousers, a couple of jumpers, a fluffy gilet, scarf and thick winter coat and this michelin man was ready for the Icelandic night-time. 

That is, until I stepped outside. The pavements were slick with ice from the earlier snow and sleet. It was clearly going to be a night filled with fear. Clinging with an iron grip to Mr W’s arm we waddled to the moored up boat. Leading to the boat was a long, heavily iced (think an extremely thickly iced cupcake) ramp to slip and slide down. It took MR W and another two sailor types to coax me down to the floating jetty. The fear was very real. Once aboard, and I say once aboard with the memory in mind that it took me at least 20 minutes to navigate the 100 metres from door to boat, I fixed my arse in place on the top deck of the boat. How did I fix my arse I hear you ask? Well the sleet and snow from earlier had settled on the chairs and was now firmly freezing between the chair and my trousers. It was cold but it was static. I like static when it comes to icy conditions! 

The boat heads out into the dark night, bouncing over the navy waves to escape the light pollution of the city. It’s cold enough to have our breath exposed in front of our faces but the lack of light needed for our adventures means we cannot see the icy vapour. We are moving for over 30 minutes until the boat stops. There are some clouds but other than that the night is clear. All we need to do now is wait. The night is still. Everything and everyone is quiet. Cameras are ready and waiting in frozen hands. The stage is set. 

As if blown from a cigarette a wisp of smoke like movement streaks across the sky. It is faint but most definitely green. It bends and twists in the night sky. Rippling like oil on water. It dances in the inky sky and all frozen fingers move rapidly to catch it forever with a click. The colours aren’t as strong as I imagine they would be and when I look later my camera has picked up the colour much clearer. It seems the human eye is not to be relied on in these circumstances. The pale green I see above me is almost neon on my camera. It is both strange and amazing. Mr W and I swear to come back to Iceland again just to spend more time with the Northern Lights. We treat this as a taster session in which we have had a nibble. The next bite will be much bigger. We’ll make sure of it. 

As fast as they appeared they fled the night sky and all passengers on board headed to the covered seating area inside. Here the seats were not fixed in place, in fact they were the white plastic garden chairs popular at BBQs around the world, and every wave the boat hit sent all of us flailing around. As we continued on our way the waves became more violent and we were quite literally thrown from window to wall. It was easier to sit on the floor and clamp my arms around the handrails. By 1am we were back at our hotel and ready for sleep. 

The next morning the biggest reason we came to this mysterious country would begin. 

Waking early to blue skies was a relief for the day’s activities. But first. Breakfast! It wasn’t included in our booking so we had to pay for the buffet style offering. Now, I’m not a big breakfast person, but with the long day ahead I know I need to eat. We charge the £16 per person breakfast charge to our room and head on in. The breakfast room arches around the buffet in a semicircle with lovely high windows that look out over the old harbour. 

Mr W cannot believe his eyes. The food here is unlike any other buffet we’ve encountered. There are boiled eggs, granola, bread, skyr yogurts, cheeses, meats and… boiled potatoes, salads and tuna mayonnaise. Hand down one of the most impressive and eclectic breakfast spreads I’ve ever seen. We fill our boots and head to the harbour. 

It is a simple 5 minute walk which is glorious in the morning light. Today’s boat is different from last night’s, although in the daytime light I can’t be sure. It floats, that’s all that concerns me. 

Something I’ve noticed in our brief time here is how very, very friendly the local people are. They say hello and ask how you are and then wait for you to respond. Friendly, polite and as we are about to find out, exceptionally passionate about their country and it’s finned visitors. 

We set off on the rolling waves again, this time chasing the sun. We want the best views for today and the top deck calls us once again. Last night’s sleet and snow has frozen solid and appears like its own rocky landscape. My fear returns. These boots are wonderful for ankle support but not so much on Bambi’s feet on an icy pond. One hand gripping Mr W’s and the other on the handrail, I make it upstairs. 

The sea is the deepest of blues and the sun is taking the bite out of the wind. All the same I am glad for my many layers. Today is a big event. A lifelong dream. We move away from the harbour and leave Reykjavik behind for the second time in 12 hours. There is a morning haze that sits on the horizon but otherwise last night’s clouds have moved on. 

Underfoot is icy but my heart doesn’t notice as the first call is heard. ‘Whale ahead.’ We rush across the deck in anticipation and there they are. Not just one. Not just two. A whole pod of Orca. I cannot believe it. As the tears stream out of my eyes I swear they freeze on my smiling cheeks. Their appearance as they glide up and out of the water makes my breath catch in my throat. After years of waiting I’m actually witnessing this. Right here. I can see the water undulate down their bodies as they arc their bodies to enter the waves again and again. They are moving fast and yet all so slowly all at the same time. I have forgotten to breathe.

When I booked this tour, it came with a disclaimer. Should we not see any whales, we would be invited back another day to try again. With time so sparse on this trip, it was now or never. It was also advised that there were no guarantees to which wildlife we would see. 

Puffins, seabirds. Possible. 

Minke whales. Likely. 

Humpbacks. Maybe. 

Orca. Once in a while. 

Here was that while. Before us. 5 or 6, at least, swimming as though in a murmuration. So graceful and powerful in the water. I urge the captain to stay on their trail as my eyes are transfixed. From here their black and white bodies seem grey and blue in the sun’s reflective light. It cascades down their bodies, no competitor for their strength. They sliced through the water like a blade through warm butter. I know this is a moment I will never forget in my entire life. My cheeks hurt with their salty dew and everlasting smile. Before we know it the pod has moved on. I stand in awe of being a witness to them and this place. 

‘We have a Humpback whale!’, everybody gasps as a large body breaks the surface of the navy waters. In comparison to the Orca this is a big beast and yet its fin is tiny. Its body blends in with the colours of the waters it rises out of until its large fluke with patches of white breaks the surface. We hope it is not diving deep as we are already addicted to its sight. We are gifted again with its presence and tears, once again, spring from my eyes. This cannot be real. This whale does not stay long and I know I want to do this again. Be here, living out a dream of over 25 years and chasing the next.

Beside us in the distance are snow capped mountains and I am once again reminded that this place is oh so foreign to me. Throughout my extensive travelling I have not witnessed a place like this. I am exceptionally lucky to be here. There is more to come on this adventure and I am here for it. 

The ice under my feet has not yet melted and I smile as I look down. My fear was blasted away once the call came across the tannoy. I ran back and forth across the deck without a second thought. No slips. No trips. And no hesitation. This Bambi just needed her whale friend to break the surface. 

The tears dry on my face as I hear ‘Oh my GOD! We have a Fin Whale straight ahead.’

Thirty faux Birthday

34 years old hit me like a tonne of bricks this year. As the last two birthdays were spent in lockdown I didn’t have much to do with numbers or the age related conversations. It would have been nice if we had all got together and agreed that as the last two years most celebrations were put on hold, an age delay would be appropriate. 32 sounds much better than 34 in my opinion. Especially as it wasn’t acknowledged the first time around. 

It was up to Mr W to plan my birthday this year and it was time to travel again. It was simpler for all concerned to keep in the Uk and there’s a big ol’ list of things for us to see that we really should be cracking on with. 

High up on that list, for quite some time, has been Durdle Door. The plan was set and from our accommodation we set out for the coast. It was 6:53am to be precise as we clambered into the car, to be precise, and I am not a morning person. Or wasn’t a morning person before I met Mr W. It has taken a long while for me to adjust to his ‘up early’ mantra and I dare say I still struggle now and again, but when it works logically I’m pretty good at jumping on board. A vanilla soy latte will most certainly sweeten the deal. 

The sun in the sky was already warm and I thanked my lucky stars that the day was looking clear and blue. March is always so unpredictable and usually you can shrug it off. But while on a cliff? I think not!

We arrived at the Durdle Door car park at a little after 8:15am and I once again found myself in awe of the sea. With the fresh morning sun beating down upon its surface it glittered in such a way that fixed me to the spot. It’s an image that will never grow old. It was quickly apparent that we were very high above sea level. We could not see any waves breaking. Just how far from the car would we find the infamous site? 

We hoisted our behinds into the boot of Mr W’s new SUV hybrid and changed our footwear into something more sturdy. With the sun bearing down on us I felt silly donning a coat, jumper, hiking boots and a woolly hat but what is life if not a little silly. The car park was all but deserted and I took a moment to drink in the birdsong. I felt a million miles away from England. I’ll never truly believe that places like the Jurassic coast actually belong to the UK. The turquoise waters surely belong somewhere else. 

Hopping out of the car, we donned our backpacks and headed down the shingle pathway. Oh wow, this first part of the walk was quite steep, and with loose shingles underfoot, my semi conscious brain was not working in line with my body. What’s interesting about the wander down the cliff front is it gives nothing away. No far off view of the famous door itself. And then BAM, there it is, below you. 

You reach the end of the well-trodden path and arrive at the top of some pretty precarious looking stairs. To the left of this is Man O’War Beach which overlooks one of the most beautiful coves I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. The horseshoe shape allows the very edges of the sand meeting the water to glow in its most fantastic turquoise colour whilst the sun practically blurs out the sea in its midst. The whole scene just glowed in such a spectacular fashion that the reason we had come here was all but forgotten. 

But it wasn’t, there were stairs to be introduced to. Time for the brain to engage with the legs on this one. Sturdy enough the stairs weren’t the issue, but looking down was. I am not scared of heights. I am not scared of heights. I really am not scared of heights, but it would seem, little to no handrail, morning legs and so much to keep turning to see equals the oh my goodness feeling of I’m going to die!

Reaching the bottom felt amazing, I pushed away the thought of the ascend later on, and marched out onto a shingle beach. Shingle so deep that I was quite literally ankle deep in places. Fear not, I think, continue on, for soon you will be sitting and staring and loving the view. Across the beach I trek until I find my own little mountain of pebbles to lay my coat. I think, stupidly, that it has taken me 34 years to get here, so a little thing like cold water shouldnt stop me from letting my feet have their moment in the sea. I release them from their boots and socks and stand on the shingle. Ouch! I stagger forward into the water only to rapidly sink. What is happening? I’m losing height. I can’t move. The water is moving the stones around my feet and I’m ankle deep. And it is freezing! Mr W to the rescue.  

I am yanked out of my trap and plonked on to my waiting coat. My feet are sunburn red and I cannot feel my toes. That was clever. I sit in the rising sun willing it to thaw my feet and I take in the scene. Durdle door is in shadow. The sun has not yet cast its light upon it and yet I find it doesn’t need the sun to highlight its already striking presence. It is magnificent. It rises from the water and frames the horizon beyond it. I feel as though if I could reach the door, I’d find it a gateway to another world. I could be transported to anywhere I wish as long as I made the leap and trusted it. 

The sea is gently lapping against the pebbles of doom and I am lost in its persistence. The water is so clear here. Beautiful. 

A kestrel flies past and breaks me from my reverie. He is flying over the cliffs and lands on the monument itself. He has chosen to nest in one of the most famous landmarks in the world. I’m unsure I would choose it as a place to live myself, all he can see from up there is me and the beach. Wouldn’t it be better to live on the cliff and overlook this spectacle? 

It is not long before the time to leave is upon us, feet dry and shoved back into their cotton prison, we head away from the lapping waves. The hour we have spent on the shoreline has seen a great change into the once deserted beach. People are arriving by the camper van load and our moment alone has passed. We reach the bottom of the stairs and take a moment to turn and face Mr Durdle. From here it feels as though you could reach out and touch it. It is huge in stature and looms over the space entirely. We are in his shadow and its company. It feels intimate and secretive. It takes a while for me to turn away. 

Up, up, up we climb. Admitting, again, that we’ve been outwitted by the typical tourist spot. It’s up in the must-do lists for a reason. And if you will drag your sorry ass out of bed early enough, you’ll have it all to yourself. You, the sea and the sun.  

7 billion reasons

One of the very first memories I have of travelling is looking out at the landscape of Europe from the plane window. I was flying to Greece. I was 10 years old. I had never seen something so beautiful before. Mountain pathways strewn through rocky scenes like arteries and pockets of forests dotted around as if dropped by the heavens above. Every time I have flown since, I try to wrangle the window seat. Ignoring the fact I am too shy to make small talk with strangers and don’t like to invade or have anyone invade my personal space, HELLO ANXIETY! I secretly covet this window into a world where you can see a scene that cannot be replicated. Each time you fly over the world it changes depending on season, time or frame of mind. The colours, the feelings, the awe. It has soothed me in times of great anxiousness and taken me out of my body to the pathways below. At times I feel like I am a fly on the wall of the tiny villages scattered below. How do those people live? Do they have worries like me? Are our worries different entirely?

The villages are so tiny, and accessed by the smallest of roads and highest of mountains, where do they go for their food? What happens if they fall ill? Does that make the worries I have trivial to these people?  

There is something about soaring above the world that makes me calm enough to let go of my worries, it opens up my eyes to the 7 billion people on the planet and the simple fact that I can’t be the only person with worries and anxieties. That in itself makes me realise I can handle it, because everyone else is. With love, friendship and a step outside my own anxieties once in a while. A lot of the time anxiety is described as being something you ‘suffer’ but it often strikes me that by changing our mindset to anxiety being something we ‘live with’ means we take control. We can stumble along our own mountain roads without too much fear and become used to the steep drops that appear along the way.

To the moon my friend. Imagine how much our eyes would see from there!

This is a relaunch of Framework Travel. A relaunch of who I can be. Who I want to be. What this blog can do to reach, help and inspire people.

Recently my anxiety has taken over my life. And something needs to change. More than ever I’ve felt my flight or fight kick in and for the first time ever I can’t fly. I can’t look down from that window and ignore my issues. The only thing I can do is come at it from a different perspective. If not from above, from within. 

So along with my very skilled photographer husband, we are relaunching Framework Travel as something personal, in which we will discuss our anxieties over covid, struggles with our health and fitness, fertility matters and ALOT of travel. 

We have in the last 18 months experienced a whole other way of travelling. And this year will involve more of that. We’ve embraced sustainable practices even more recently in and outside our home, and will be incorporating as much of this into our future travels. First up is a long weekend break in Northumberland in June, somewhere we’ve been twice before (both in 2021), but absolutely adore! Next up, *breathe* is a 16 day trip to the Scottish highlands along the NC500. We will be driving the entire route in our hybrid car and seeing how far we can stretch the almighty english pound. This will include extreme budgeting when it comes to accommodation, food and activities. With a very few luxuries thrown in for good measure, we are celebrating our wedding anniversary after all, we will be sharing everything we do and spend with you. Including what we pack! 

There are over 7 billion people in this world and if I can inspire and help others, my anxieties will seemingly melt away. I’ll be able to climb those mountains and traverse the highest, steepest paths home and maybe someone, up in the clouds, watching out of their plane window will feel some kind of respite from their own demons.

Pcos and the feelings of failure

Living with PCOS will always be challenging. 

There are the physical and mental effects that I’ve discussed in depth. The anxieties around both are often strangulating. One of my biggest anxieties in life is letting others down. So it is only natural when it comes to my health and having children that I feel a great sense of failure when it comes to other people. 

Since July 2021, I have been VERY open about my life with PCOS. I want the people in my life to feel comfortable asking me questions about the condition and how it affects me, Mr W and our life together. I also want to get to the point where I am comfortable enough to say, ‘Thank you for asking, but I am not in the frame of mind today to discuss that, can we talk about it when I am?’. I think that helps give me a mental  break from it all on particularly challenging days and also tells the other person their questioning is valid and welcome for another time. I am really trying to focus on boundaries. Before I met Mr W, I had boundaries often built on sarcasm and avoidance. Since he came along I am more open, probably too open. I often thought it was all or nothing. Now I know you can choose what walls to build. Ones with barbed wire and others with doors that can give others an insight at your choosing. It is liberating to have this control. It’s not easy. And it starts with one discussion at a time. One strong step at a time. Knowing you aren’t being rude but knowing your own limits and protecting how far you’ve come. 

The main part of feeling like a failure for me is when I’m surrounded by children. They could be my beautiful nieces, all 4 of them, kids at the park or children of my friends. Seeing children sets off this yearning inside my heart and when I see other people play out their parental role I can’t help but feel like my body has failed me. And I it. How is it that the most natural thing in the world is not coming natural to me? It’s hardest when I’m spending time with my nieces and cooking them dinner, tucking them into bed or cuddling up to me on the sofa. I never pull them in for a hug, I let them do what they want, so the cuddles they clamber onto my lap for are some of the most precious moments in my life so far. It’s a real bond that tugs at my heart strings. It’s when I’ve heard, ‘Oh, you’re so good with the girls.’ that I feel like I’ve failed my family the most. Please don’t get me wrong, it’s the most loveliest of compliments, but in my head I translate it to ‘You’d be a good mum.’ and it hurts my heart. 

Two of my nieces had a sleepover at our home last year. They are early birds, especially the youngest, and as they had slept a few more hours than us, I plonked the youngest down in our bed between Mr W and I, and snoozed the early morning hours away. It was a moment I could see happening if we have a baby. Gentle snores as the sky outside turned from night to day. Later that day, they had bathtime, fresh clothes and then ‘wrestling playtime’ with the giant panda in the bedroom. The perfect Sunday’s I dream of with our own children. Mr W took the lead and the room was filled with laughter and racing legs. Seeing him with the girls, so natural in the role, is so beautiful and yet a reminder of what my body is depriving him of. Failure shines like a beacon so strong at times it feels blinding. When we have my nieces here, any of the beautiful 4, I am their Auntie, the adult in charge, their protector and friend, I feel as though I’m playing the part of mum that is quickly taken away when they leave. To play pretend is not enough. It is fake and quite frankly painful when it ends.

In my 8 years of being an Auntie I have had many moments like this. From the beautiful laughter to the nasty stinking nappies, all add up to the memories I want with my own children. I often hate my body for its failures. 

Lately, I’ve learned more about PCOS and how my body is indeed in a state of disarray but there are ways to improve, fight back and repair. It isn’t easy, but if I don’t help my body I am failing it in turn. A big example of this can be found in my tears on a park bench 6 days ago. My evening run had ended abruptly when my body would not cooperate as I would have liked. Having completed the NHS Couch to 5k before, I honestly thought our reintroduction to it would be easier. And yet I have found it so much harder. Why, I do not know. But the end of week four has seen me stumbling along in absolute agony. Again, why is my body failing me? So as we sat there, Mr W said if this wasn’t working for me, we would find something that would work. Just because running was a failed attempt at getting healthy, didn’t mean every physical exercise would be. It’s a change in mindset, to stop being so derogatory to oneself and challenge your mindset everyday, but it really changes that ‘failure’ narrative.    

Something I am yet to do is challenge my PCOS so I can be physically healthy and that means not JUST to have a baby, but to live stronger, longer and feel better than I did the days and years before. Maybe this is a new failure on my part. It’s only lately that I’ve come to terms with the fact that this condition is not just problematic in terms of fertility but in how it affects my body as a whole. My body deserves more. Failing to recognise this is brought about by the learnings around the condition. The lack of learning that was and is available unless you go looking yourself. That is a failing of the education and health systems in place in this country. It is a success of mine to now look beyond this and learn for myself.

Only briefly, I will touch on this most mentally challenging failure I feel from time to time. I know they will read this and I hope it comes as no shock to them that I feel I am failing my parents. Mr W’s too. My family. His family. Our family as a whole. But it is mostly my parents, who I see as amazing grandparents to my nieces, that I feel a huge pang of failure. I want to provide them with more grandchildren and to stop them worrying for me. I feel worry as a wife, a friend, a daughter and I can only imagine that the worry you have for your child is more than any other worry. I wish I could stop their worries for me. I do not like the idea of them being sad or concerned. Do I want to have children to make them happy? Yes, is it the sole reason? Heck no! It’s just part and parcel of the gift of having a child. I see in my mind my dad giving our child their first book. Maybe teaching them to read. I see my mum sneaking her grandchild a Cadbury button despite our pleas for no more sugar. There is a glint in her eye. Mr W’s mum holds her grandchild in her arms and exclaims that they look like her son. They have his eyes. I see all this in a loop in my head. How can I not feel like failure when I can’t bring this into existence? 

As I said before, having a child is one of the most natural things in the world, and I feel like I’m failing everyone around me who wants that for me. They see my sadness and want it to end. We all know how it ends. A baby. What I need to try and dismiss are the feelings of failure. They only add to what is already a pretty stressed out body. This body is coping with anxieties because of the physical effects, the mental health conditions that are tied to it and the very real physical stress in every cell of my body. It does not need any more. So I need to come to an agreement with myself. 

I am only failing if I give up. Some days it feels like a closer option than other days. It is like I am balancing on my toes on the failure line and a slight breeze will push me over. I just have to keep pushing back. Weakly or strongly. Whatever I have at the time. 

I do feel pride in how open I am about my life with PCOS because I no longer feel like I am hiding away and almost feel like I am spreading the word. The more people know, the less stigma other women out there may feel. This isn’t something we asked for. It is in our very make up. It’s not pretty. It’s not easy. Acknowledging this recently has changed how I feel when it comes to failing. There will always be harder days when I’m at my worst and I want to crawl into bed. I admit that does happen. I also admit that at this point, I just let it happen. I’m listening to what my body and head needs. Time to shut down to restart again the next day. Not failing, but learning. 

Please visit these blogs to find out more:

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/11/pcos-and-me/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/19/pcos-fertility-and-me/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/06/02/when-i-was-19-and-it-was-first-hinted-that-i-had-pcos-i-knew-nothing-of-the-condition-being-put-on-the-pill-by-a-doctor-made-me-think-it-was-going-to-help-i-trusted-it-was-for-the-best-it-was-when/

Photo by Dave Watson

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

Christmas wanderings in London

The sky is icy blue. It’s bright and sunny. But when the breeze comes and it does, it cuts you across the face with a freezing swipe, fast and cutting.

It is Sunday 28th November 2021 and this is our first visit to London since 2019. The pandemic halted us in our tracks and jumping on a train where once so easy is now fraught with anxieties.

Traditionally we try to come into London at Christmas to see lights, lights, lights! Today we have lots of walking to do and even more morsels to cram into our waiting mouths. Our chattering teeth can be put to use! We’ve done the South Bank Christmas market and have found it less and less charming as the years pass. The Hyde Park Winter Wonderland is great for families but we need something a tad… well a lot more authentic and less in your face. We want to take it easy and see what happens today. We’ve been coming into town for 8 years, barring the 2020 Christmas lockdown, and we are excited to be returning.

Our first stop is Covent Garden. Seven Dials to be exact. I do love cobbled streets and the decorations this year are simple and delicate. A halo of white branches, neé twigs, are suspended high above the Seven Dials roundabout with pale blue, pink and gold baubles dotted around.

We wander to Chinatown, it’s my day to surprise Mr W, and despite both of us working in, visiting and living in London on and off throughout our lives we’ve never been. Red and gold Chinese lanterns criss cross across the street and I am mesmerised by the vibrancy of the red against the winter sky. We are early and find ourselves two of only a few people here. Most restaurants open at 12pm. There are no smells yet to tempt us in. We take an unbelievably small detour to Leicester Square to kill time and find it full of the ol’ hustle and bustle that covid has made me so anxious of. The tourist traps of the M&M and Lego stores offer no real appeal to us and yet queues have formed from the doors down the street. I’m so used to travelling abroad to tourist traps that I often forget we live adjacent to one of the most visited capital cities on the planet. We certainly take London for granted in this respect. It’s days like these that open our eyes to all that is on offer.

We briefly walk around the Christmas stalls in Leicester Square, glance up at the Capital FM windows and pause at the infamous cinemas that host premieres and red carpet events.

It is minutes away from midday and we are practically salivating at treats waiting behind the closed doors of Chinatown. Our first stop is at Bun House. Freshly steamed buns with various fillings to take away in a folded up cardboard box with chopsticks used as the handle. It is £10 for four buns. Chicken, pig, beef and lamb for us. The menu is on the door and we are second in line waiting for the click of the door being unlocked.

Hello! Feed me please! Our order is paid for and oh my the room is full of steam. The amount of bamboo steamers is crazy and I am excited with a capital ooooo!

We smuggle our purchases like thieves in the night to a small metal bench in the heart of Chinatown. Each bun has been branded with a red symbol on top. What it says we do not know. What it matters… we do not know. With great interest we slowly hold the bun in hand and bend it down so it opens softly revealing the filling inside. We each have a half. And groan with the deliciousness. Must have another bite! But if we do, that’s one less note left. Surely by finishing it, there are no more bites, but if we take no more bites we can’t enjoy the beautiful bun! The conundrum is very real. And before long all buns are gone and Mr W’s face is passive. He won’t yet let on how much he enjoyed that. He is a sly one.

Time for something sweet!

There is a plan to follow and yet as I walk past a serving hatch I-Spy a very tiny fish. The sign above the door says Chinatown Bakery and I want to know about the cuties on offer. They are Taiyaki and are made of soft waffle dough and are filled with custard. Served fresh and hot in a paper bag I am again struck at how tourist-like I feel in our home country. We buy four and have to wander for a while to allow them to cool. Before long temptation takes over cautiousness and we break open the delight to reveal the gooeyness inside. It is piping hot and silky smooth. The groaning comes back. It is simple and yet absolutely delicious. We have really let ourselves down by neglecting this place for so long.

We make a promise there and then to return and wander around London more often.

For now, it is onwards with our plans for the day…

Sit with me a while

There is a river my family is fond of. We know it well. The River Thurne ebbs and flows much like our return to it. So far three generations of our family have continued their summer visits here and it is a tradition that is beautiful.

The River Thurne runs through Potter Heigham beneath an old medieval bridge. When the water level of the river rises with the tide, the space below the bridge is so tight that nervous boats turn around to find other passages. It makes for an interesting spectacle from the banks with an ice cream or cone of chips.

I remember my first visits here, I was maybe 4 or 5 and my parents would bring us for a week’s summer holiday. There would be a boat hired for the week to go exploring the broads. Its first job was to take a week’s worth of luggage and food down the river to our rented bungalow. The car would be pulled up next to the staithe, our suitcases, boxes of food and teddy bears would be unloaded onto the gravel path and we with it. One parent would hoist the boxes from the ground to the other parent in the boat. All the while we sat, good little children, watching the ducks. Like the game tetris our belongings would be loaded methodically into the boat and we would then fit into the gaps for the short journey down river. The green and white bungalow had a huge green lawn dotted with daisies and a beaten up old tree that welcomed you to your week long stay. I look out for it, even now. It has one double room and a twin room that my brothers and I shared. The boxes that the food was brought in would be flattened and placed up against the window to try and bar the room from the morning sunlight. It would stream through the windows at 5am and wake us kids for the day. The flattened box meant my parents got an extra 2-3 hours sleep. However there was the odd duck call from the water outside that would have me bending back the cardboard to peek at the river, flooding the room with daylight and beginning the day. It is a sound now that returns my mind to that time and place no matter where I am in the world.

I learned to fish here. I learned to drive a boat. And just today I learned not to be the one holding a big ice cream on a sunny day whilst someone runs to the toilet. As I stood there waiting, cream running down my forearm, I heard my grandad laughing in my head. It would have amused him to no end.

He loved it here. He would get up before the sun and set up his fishing rod. Sitting with the river before anyone else was awake, watching the rod for its slightest movement indicating a bite from a passing fish. Nodding off in his chair with the river lapping against the bank. His return meant that breakfast was ready and after breakfast the day’s plans were decided. Usually it was a boat trip along the river to a pub for lunch. There are no white water rafting experiences or rapids on this river, it slowly moves on and gives you peace away from the hustle and bustle that life generally throws at you. You’ll find a leisurely paced trip on a spluttering old boat making you question, why? But the truth is, spending three hours on the peaceful waters, watching the wind in the reeds and the birds in the sky, is just the break you didn’t know you needed. As kids, we would sit in the boat awaiting the call of ‘ducks ahead’ and spring into action with our pre-bought duck food. If you ever saw an enormously overweight duck in the late 90’s waddling around the Norfolk Broads it is highly likely my family were the cause. A pub lunch was a quick pit stop with lunch favourites of sausage and mash or fish and chips. Cries of ‘Mum, can we have some 2p’s, Dad got any change?’ so us kids could play the old arcade game in the corner. Then back to the boat to beat the sun returning to the horizon. It seems so simple now. A whole day spent on a journey and a meal but it was what my childhood was made of. The sounds of the river. The smells in the wind.

Even today, as I sit on the wooden riverside porch, I am beckoned to the water to see the ‘omg, look at the ducklings! 13!’ It’s taken me 15 minutes to come back to my spot and continue on. Yes they are tiny. Yes she is clever for having 13 (!). And yes, despite my grumbles I will race around with a camera for the hundredth time in my 34 years to take photos, coo over them and share the disbelief. This is what this place does. It repeats the experience but it never grows old.

There is a photo somewhere of my dad taken here. He stretches up towards the sky with a piece of bread between his finger and thumb. A swan next to him, reaches up at full height, stretching its neck long, wings spread for balance. I remember it every time a swan passes.

Photos of cousins crammed into a boat.

My brother catching a pike, a first for the family.

Maggot races on paving slabs while the adults fished.

Being slimed by an eel, wriggling on a hook.

Mid-day chip shop runs to the best chippy known to man.

This place is steeped into my history. Ingrained in our story.

A rainstorm that made a boat journey across a deep broad unforgettable. Barn owls flying over the field as you prepared dinner. Countless tips of the hat as families passed you on their day cruisers. Silent cups of tea at 7am taken outside, in the chill of the morning, just to say hello and good morning to the river. The ducks quacking. The seagulls screeching. The far flung fields of cows throwing up the odd moo. The ever present lap of water against an aged wooden bank. The ‘eeeee’ of a fishing line as it is cast across the water and the plonk as it lands, disappearing into the depths.The sounds that anywhere else are just background noise but here are moments of history popping up to say ‘remember me.’

Three generations that return like the flowing river to carry on the tradition started by a man who chose this as his place to escape and remember what was important. I like to think that even though we move from the same path at times, we come back together in important times and share laughter once more. Our journeys are changing everyday, branching out like tributaries finding their way and yet always remembering where we came from and how to go back.

The River Thurne has a new neighbour. An oiled, cared for bench bearing a tribute to a man who once sat at the head of this family. His name is engraved on the metal plaque that sums up his life and this place. When it comes to describing this place and why we return it is hard to put into words. We come. We sit. We drink and eat. Simple pleasures, with wordless actions and to ‘Sit with me a while’.


Photo by Dave Watson

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