Author: Zara Watson

Run free, ha!

On the 18th of April 2021, Mr W and I started the NHS couch to 5k programme.

It’s a three times a week running programme that gradually increases the time and therefore distance you run over the space of 9 weeks.

Week 1 starts with 1 minute runs interspersed with walking to get you going, by Week 9 it aims to have you running for 30 minutes non-stop.

As of July 2021 we have completed the programme. Running for the full thirty minutes without stopping (or collapsing).

We even did it the week we spent ripping out and tiling our living room floor.

I personally have never run, I was great at hand-eye coordination sports in school but running was fucking awful. And I just felt depressed every time I went to p.e. I was that kid, the one who was picked last for sports, short, chubby and easy to ignore.

The NHS programme teaches you about breathing properly when running and that half the battle is the mind over matter challenge you face. All they said at school was ‘GO’.

I can proudly say that we didn’t stop once during the NHS couch to 5k programme, even though you can repeat the podcasts should you not feel ready, and we even laughed and talked to pass the time. Mr W also morphed into my personal cheerleader, so I quite literally couldn’t have done it without him!

Do NOT get me wrong, I cried maybe three times which is the weirdest sensation when you are running. There were many times I shouted at myself to ‘Come on, keep going’ scaring a lot of strangers along the way. We both had cramps, struggled up the stairs the day after and sweat buckets upon buckets but we didn’t give up. In the beginning, Mr W even said that if I wanted to give up I could at Week 3. Three weeks seemed like a long time to give it a chance. And yet neither of us gave up. Something about challenging yourself physically is really addictive. Fuck, did I just say that?

I am extremely unfit, I’m overweight and a bag of overwhelming anxiety and insecurities. However… And I bloody hate saying this as much as I hate reading it… But if I can do this ANYONE can.

We managed to keep running for two weeks after we finished the programme. The guidance on the app which was once very annoying was suddenly missed. The cheesy music we groaned at was yearned for. Why did our music just not work as well?

An injury stopped me from running and after weeks of resting we stopped completely. It was such a shame after 9 weeks of total dedication.

I spoke out on social media about our experience and I said the following:

‘From now on we’ll be running using our own music (thank god) and trying to up the pace and speed. And it’s honestly a part of our lives now. If you had said that to me 9 weeks ago I’d have laughed. And I did say it 9 weeks ago. I said, “Can you imagine us as those people who get up early and run…” And now we do. 7am Sundays and before dinner on Tuesday and Thursdays.

We are THOSE people. And it’s not so bad after all.’

I apologize to the person who said that 11 months ago and vow to do my best to keep at it.

We are currently repeating the programme and started week four today. It’s got my legs pumping hard and as we are exceptionally busy I’m wondering how we are fitting it in. But we are. Because it is important to us. For our health, fertility chances and to turn back time and become those people from 2021. They had direction and faced the challenge head on.

The run today felt so physically draining. We’ve had one of the busiest weeks since before lockdown 2020 and it would have been easy to just cancel the run. But we didn’t. It would have been easy to stop half way through the run and give up. But we didn’t. As I ran today, in pain and numb from the waist down, I reminded myself that the last 4 minutes of running was indeed hard. But 4 minutes in a lifetime is both nothing and yet everything. The time itself is miniscule. The challenge in those four minutes represents so much more.

I do not want to give up on the run. I do not want to give up on myself. I will not give up on our health. And I will never give up on our fertility chances.

PCOS and people around me

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 we got married that we didn’t want to wait any longer for nature to take its course. Meaning we were off the pill, trying, and taking every bit of advice possible. After a year, still no baby. It was time to go back to the doctor. A new one this time. I collated my history as I knew it, what measures we had taken so far and research I had done myself. Maybe being 10 years older meant I was less naive. Maybe because I wasn’t trying to conceive at 19 I didn’t ask if PCOS would hurt my fertility chances. But I can’t look back and wonder what if. I have to deal with the present.

Help on social media is in abundance. There are several groups I’m a part of on Facebook and Instagram. There is SO much advice, that at times your brain can vibrate with information. It can be really overwhelming. There’s a particular group I had to ‘snooze’ because there was too much conflicting information and it became really difficult to deal with mentally. There are also groups that discuss all types of fertility issues and I found the abundance of problems and discussions hard to sift through. I spent a lot of time reading the stories of women trying to conceive and rather than making me feel seen, it made me feel incredibly sad, would it ever happen for us?

For a big chunk of time, I came away from the group’s, my brain needed the time off and my emotions too. Amongst the search for advice and empathy, there were also pregnancy announcements and it became too hard to see. I’ll come back to this particular difficulty later.

The most wonderful thing about the groups was being amongst people who not only understood but empathised. I stopped feeling like a freak. There were other people like me in the world. Feeling how I felt, feeling failed by their gps and hating their bodies. I felt seen.

One of the beautiful things about the group’s online is the power of anonymity. You can tell people about the symptoms you have without the fear of seeing the ‘look’ of ‘omg’ cross people’s faces. It’s only natural, I’m sure there are lots of things my expressions get me in trouble for without me meaning it to. But online I’m just my profile picture and the words I write. It was lovely.

Since returning to social media for help I have been careful to pick groups that work for me. I’m part of a PCOS only fertility struggle group and I’m also now part of a love yourself group. It’s not based on fertility, but focuses on self love no matter your size. I have a long way to go when loving how I look but it has made me realise that the least important thing about me is my appearance. I’m not my dress size. I’m my dirty cackle. I am my wit. My kindness. My caring nature. My ability to love unconditionally.

The hardest part of my self love journey is accepting that even though my size doesn’t matter when it comes to who I am it does factor in when fitting into the NHS criteria and help with fertility. There are women out in the world who are my size and fall pregnant. They have no issues and go on to have a healthy baby. My PCOS causes my weight gain. And yet when it comes to the NHS that’s the only thing they see. Lose weight and come back. It almost feels like blackmail. I have questioned it in the past. At first I asked them about how they can suggest my weight causes my PCOS when my size 6 friend also has PCOS. They’ve acknowledged the PCOS being the cause of my weight but not altering the fertility criteria to fit in with this view. I could wax lyrical in the ways this affects my opinions, mental and emotional state but I’m sure if you’ve read along so far and on my other PCOS blogs you’ll be fairly tuned in to all of that!

This blog is about how other people approach my PCOS and the medical world is only one frustrating chapter of the story.

When I discuss my worries about my future with fertility I’m often told success stories. One of the more popular stories I’m told, as a ‘miracles happen’ scenario, is the one with the husband and wife who had been trying for years, taking potions, going vegan, avoiding carbs and doing away with caffeine, legs up, tracking on a calendar and having sex at the full moon, until one day they just stopped trying. They felt more relaxed by stopping all the fertility measures and hey presto, pregnant. It’s amazing. Truly. So… ‘just relax’ oh is that all? Oh boy. That’s amazing. But what if my body is in a constant state of inflammation? And what if my mental state is also determined by my body? By stopping all of the fertility measures, or lifestyle changes, this does not help me relax. I have to take more procedures just to relax my body. I wish it were as simple as relaxing. But my body and I know no other way than this.

I’ve also heard the ‘why don’t you get stonkingly drunk and just go for it?’. Well, other than this being hysterical, I’m almost wondering, have Mr W and I been doing ‘it’ wrong? I mean his thingy… well… goes… in… yeah? Am I right? Maybe I need sex manual for dummies. Or a ‘special’ movie night. With a notepad by my side just in case. Or maybe I’m being too timid? Ohhhh I need to vamp it up. Sluts are us!

I have to laugh. I do. And I also have to remember that people just want to help. I’ve noticed the same stories and advice being given as I’ve stopped hiding away. In August 2021, we got some news in the family that a baby was on the way. Usually I’d have my little wobble at home and a few sleepless nights and be okay. This time it was different, it was harder to contain my emotions when asked if I was okay and I just let it all out. How alone I felt, how sickened I was by myself and how few people understood. It was mentioned there were family members around me that didn’t know what to say to me. Unapologetically I said that saying anything was better than saying nothing. Saying nothing gave me the impression they didn’t care or did think I was a freak. Or even worse, that I had brought it on myself. On my head be it! This was where it was brought to my attention that they didn’t ask because they didn’t want to upset me. I understand that. I do. But what’s so wrong with being upset? This is important. Being a mother. A father. A parent. Is life changing. It. Is. Important. So me crying, screaming, shouting, losing it for a minute only proves that point. I’m not dead. My emotions are there for a valid reason. Being upset is valid.

Since then I have been overly open on our journey with our fertility. And I’m starting to feel seen once again. There are still wobbles, I don’t think that will change, especially when my outward appearance is like a billboard for the internal hormone imbalance. I’ll never look like other girls. I’ll never feel pretty like them. It’s a battle everyday. It’s not a battle to win. But live with. Tweak the conditions here and there. And live with it. As I’ve said before, just by altering my outlook and saying I live with this, rather than suffer with this, I’m taking just a small piece of control back.

One thing I touched on earlier is pregnancy announcements.

Seeing them online when you’ve joined an online group for help is hard. The positive pregnancy test pictures and the congratulations. It’s everything I want. I’m now on a new group that asks people not to post pregnancy news because it is triggering for so many people. And I’m glad to be part of it.

It sounds absolutely disgusting, I know. It’s one of the hardest parts of this condition. To live in such hope and fear and despair and be surrounded by pregnancies and come across like I’m not happy for them. I have a large family with a big network of friends. In this year alone there has been one arrival and four announcements, all arriving this year too. When I say that I am overjoyed for these women and families, I wholeheartedly mean it. Who would I be to say they don’t deserve it? Why should I be the only one on the planet that matters? Because I don’t. Everyone has their struggles, their journey and their own stories. But, and it’s an awful but, I’m jealous. I’m so jealous it makes me sick. The news comes in and I share in their delight and then I’m screaming inside. WHY IS IT NOT ME? WHY IS IT NOT US? I WANT MY BABY!

And do you know what happens then? I chastise myself harshly. How dare you feel jealous. They deserve their baby. They are happy. How dare you. Oh hello guilt.

The truth is I am happy for you. I’m so happy you get this amazing gift. That you are happy. That you don’t feel this pain. That your dream is growing and will soon be in your arms. That your baby will have the best mummy and daddy. Because I am a bloody nice person. And I have to remind myself of that fact. I am not a bad person.

Beneath the smile I’m crying. I’m crying because I want our baby in my arms. I want my dream. Our happy ending. Our announcement. Our congratulations. Our happiness. I don’t want to be jealous. It is the worst feeling in the world. Teamed up with guilt it battles you back inside yourself. Back into the silence and the shame of this condition.

Something that has happened since I’ve been opening up recently is how the announcements have changed. The most recent two have approached me first to tell me privately, which has made all the difference. I could crumble in privacy and that has been a beautiful consideration. I wish things were different and I didn’t have to crumble. That this condition wasn’t such a huge part of my life. A huge part of me. I wish people could just tell me and not have to consider my feelings. That I could be told in the same way as everyone else. I wish I were like everyone else. It’s almost another indicator of what is going on. It’s another example of how I am different from other people. Again, I know it’s the very best way of tackling the mess of emotions it draws out, I just wish it wasn’t this way. But I am incredibly grateful to be treated with care and compassion. The hard place in this situation is living with PCOS and feeling hidden away, the rock is people knowing and treating you with compassion, being between the two leaves you with no ignorance. Your condition is never left behind.

And that’s the realisation, living WITH this. It will always be here. So rather than embrace it, I’m learning, adjusting, talking A LOT and taking each day as it comes. Being kind to myself is the new condition I’m introducing. Whether that means telling more and more people about what’s really going on, accepting me for me or just letting the sad days be just what they are. The sadness just means what we are struggling for really really matters.


Photo by Dave Watson

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

I don’t know.

They nod knowingly at each other across the magazine aisle. It’s the fortnightly shop that has become the new dread in his life.

What magazine does she like? What game did his little boy ask for again? He grabs a pack of paper and pens for the youngest. All the mundane things they ask for to feel at home in his new shell of life. All the things he can provide. Overshadowed by the things he can’t. He wanders the aisles. She likes yoghurt without ‘bits’. The boys aren’t fussed; they spoon it down so fast it barely touches the taste buds. Funny how this isn’t the case when he tries to introduce broccoli. The airplane technique faded away years ago; along with other traditions they all once held. Big family meals which saw her make the meals and him sit the kids down at their little plastic table and chairs, so they could play ‘grownups’. Them with their wide grins at smiley and turkey dinosaur night. Spaghetti? Or peas? The youngest still on mummy’s hip and the girl spelling words out with her food. Nowadays dinner is rushed so he gets them back to their home on time. Long gone are the messy table tops and happy faces.

Friday night supermarkets see mass amounts of ‘those people’ trying to gather their wits in order to remember all their favourite things. Children are so innocent in how they view the world. Forget the red fizz and they’ll remember the whole weekend as a dud but fight for your share in them and you become ‘that guy that they see once in a while’. Adult matters elude them. You know it won’t get better as they grow older, she’ll suddenly remember you exist when she has a big class trip coming up and money’s tight with mum. He wants a new video game every weekend. Family days are virtually non-existent and when they are played out before you, the sadness at them soon setting like the sun envelopes you like darkness.

They nod knowingly at each other across the playground. My mummy and daddy are getting divorced. Mine too. I miss them. Will it get easier, do you think? I don’t know.

Photo by Dave Watson

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

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.