Author: Zara Watson

The games we play

Been there done that ner ner ner ner NER!

Sounds like something a child would say doesn’t it? My family and I have a similar little game we play. We’ve all travelled over the years, those more extensively than others and some who enjoy the lazy lounger days rather than the toiling trekking days. However, over the years we’ve all amounted some serious airmiles.

As us three children have all grown and moved from our childhood home, our parents have done some extensive travelling Australia, India, South America and Mexico to name but a few. As I’ve grown, I’ve more than once discovered the freedom age, money and a passport grants you. By no means was I kept locked up at home when I was a kid nor was I kept from the rest of the world. But, how can a parent keep everyone happy when choosing the summers vacation destination? We did the summers by the pool, in different countries every year (more or less), day trips out and about to get a glimpse of the new cultures. I saw fantastic places like Greece, a place where you are surrounded by huge families in backyard restaurants, where everyone tucks in and is squeezed together in pleasure over Mediterranean food and laughter. I escaped the UK weather to Cuba one summer and was introduced to a vast, vibrant culture who worship the sun and laughter. Our hotel opened their beach over the weekends and the whole of Cuba, it seemed, descended on our weekday good fortune, it was an assault on the senses. I was extremely lucky as a child, as I continue to be into adulthood, the snippets of culture I saw travelling as a child lit a fire under me that have pushed me to explore the world whenever I can.

Looking back, we didn’t have much money day to day, and I now understand, that pennies were pinched so we could go on those trips! I’ll never be more grateful for anything else in my life, travelling is one of the greatest gifts to give and, if you’re lucky enough, to receive.

The game that I and a few of my family play, is based on where we’ve been, it often comes into action when an image of a city/country/place is flashed across a screen or brought up in conversation. “Been there” someone will utter after I mention that a new skyscraper has been built in New York, “been there” someone will blurt out when a colleague has been to India on their honeymoon and ‘BEEN THERE’ my mum and I shout when someone muses over a documentary on Egyptian history they saw the other night.

To outsiders, and probably you, it seems like a terrible game with a mix of bragging and a certain level of NER NER NER NER NERNESS.

I can understand that, most definitely, but all in all it’s that personal feeling of achievement to remind ourselves of. Oh I’ve been there, cor remember that trip! Feels like yesterday! Onto the next! It’s become a lot of fun between my family and the once newly introduced Mr W. When it was first introduced to him he was taken aback. Now he just smiles and nods along.

Oh the games we play…

Photo by Dave Watson

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

The rain falls outside

Rain falls outside. Like it has before. And how it will again.

It is late. The only light when I turn off my lamp is from the streetlights haze outside. I like the nighttime. You can hide away. In the shadows. Turn off the lights and disappear. In the light of day, you are an object that can’t be hidden. A voice with a face, a heart with a name, a body with a purpose.

At night. The voice is in your head locked away in the darkness. Your heart hammers and yet it is calm. Your body is just your mind’s life source. There’s no hiding from yourself. The light is out. 

I can lay here and listen to the rain in the dark and feel totally alone. It’s okay to feel alone at night. The world is asleep. You can run free without anyone being bothered by you and you by them. Thoughts clash loudly and an awful racket is made. Its deafening noise is silent in the night. No one hears it but me.

When the rain stops, my breath catches. It’s comforting to hear the drops upon the roof tiles, the splashes on the leaves. When the rain stops, only I am left. Only me and my thoughts. 

I don’t like it. I need a distraction. A noise. A light to follow. Just with my eyes. Or ears. The darkness offers a glimpse into my forbidden thoughts of self doubt and distress. But the distraction, every so often, stops me from falling down the well. The well that has no bottom. And no light. 

I like the darkness because at its most impenetrable it’s already turning to day. It offers a step back from the wells edge. I like the dark because it has the ability to transform. And someday it’ll teach me how to transform. Like the rain it brings new beginnings.

And so in the dark I listen to the rain.

Photo by Dave Watson

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

 

Little Excerpts. A Day in the life of.

Just a few glances at how living with Pcos and my mental health changes day to day:

25-2-22

As I’m doing the crap job of putting washing away (although it does help quell me on anxious days by being organised etc) I’m listening to a podcast on being plus size called Go Love Yourself. 

I’m not a podcast listener, but thought why not. And tbh they’re very upbeat, and it’s way out of my comfort zone to even think about being as confident as they are. However it has brought to the front of my memory block how many times I’ve been called out for my weight. 

I’ve found photos from nights out where someone in my friendship group has zoomed in on my stomach because it didn’t look flattering in a certain outfit or at a great angle. 

I’ve had someone draw me as a head on top of a circle when drawing a ‘stick’ person. 

I’ve even been flirted with on a night out and then had the guy go back to their mates laughing because they got the number of the big girl. 

This was all over a decade ago. Which seems so long ago and like yesterday all at the same time. And I was smaller then than I am now. And yet still wasn’t seen as normal or worthy of being treated like everyone else. 

So I’ll continue with the podcast, until it makes me cry, or rage, but it’s not been easy having those memories flood back. 

I’m not my weight. Nor my dress size. 

I’m a girl who has PCOS which 

– causes my weight to fluctuate whether I eat a salad or a burger

– makes my body cells stress out and alter the hormones in my system,whether I’m sitting down or running 5k

– go from laughing until tears are streaming down my face and then switch to actual heart wrenching sobs because my emotional well-being is shot to shit

– causes a vast number of fertility issues which can’t be solved by getting drunk and just ‘going for it’ with the husband or relaxing and let motherfucking nature take its course. 

– so many other issues that I tackle every single day

And yet PCOS is not my personality. I’m caring. I’m kind. I’m sarcastic as fuck. I love entirely and unconditionally. I’m awkward when I first meet people so I’m really really loud! I’m actually really shy. I’m quiet. I like to be quiet. I’m intelligent. I’m artsy. I’m creative. I have a filthy sense of humour. And a proper cackle. I say sorry way too much. I’ll help pretty much anyone just so they never feel bad about themselves or their day. 

I’m me. Not my weight. Not my dress size.

9-3-22

So for the last three days I’ve been in Birmingham. A trip I latched onto for a free hotel stay with Mr W while he worked here. I’ve been left to my own devices in a new city for 13+ hours a day. And if you’d have said to me as little as 3 years ago this would have been an issue for me I’d not really have thought about it. But I have been a nervous wreck! And I truly believe this is down to covid and lockdowns and losing that sense of independence.

So I’ve wandered aimlessly around shops, toured the old town, gone up to a rooftop garden and today I’m going to the cinema alone! Originally I planned to stay in the hotel room, sleep, veg and pamper. But my inner explorer could not be quietened. It’s that voice that helps me more than I know!

It feels so stupid to say I’m proud of myself because to be honest this is just an every day activity in the mundanity of life. If I hadn’t had such a breakdown when we got up here I’d not have realised what a big deal this was.

I have to remember to be kind to myself. But also remind myself that life has changed so dramatically and yet brave I’m still here. Deep down.

18-3-22

I look at this picture and feel sad. (the picture if you can imagine is me in jeans, a wrap top, posing in the mirror, I must have been going somewhere.)

Sad that this body turns 34 next week and hasn’t achieved what I want. Upset that it has let me down.

I try to be positive all the time, tending to my mental health daily and forgetting my body needs me too.

My body has let me down, it’s true, but more often than not I’ve just given in to it. Let it do its own thing. I’m kinda feeling the need to fight against it more and more. Which is hard because my mental health doesn’t let me fight much these days.

How can I control so much about my life to feel safe and secure,  without taking control of my physical health?

In a way, my body letting me down has led to me letting my body down too. I need to fight back. And I’m starting to believe I actually can. 

Today

So there we are, my biggest outbursts of the year. And it’s only May! We have an appointment looming with the NHS in August. I know they’ll mention my weight. And as I’ll discuss in the next Pcos blog, it’s been a rough ride just getting this far, and because of this, I’m angry. I don’t like being angry, it’s self- harming to the max and does nothing but add fuel to a fire. Except no one else is tending this fire. The NHS disappears and comes back at their own will. God love them for what they do for us Brits but it has been hell! My actual mental health plunges at every single mention of Doctors and hospitals. I’m yet to have a reasonable experience. I have to play a particular game of 2 steps forward 4 steps back with them and where I used to get depressed and shrink away, I can feel the sense of rage fuel actual determination. For the very first time, I’m sitting and thinking ‘Oh, so you won’t help me until XYZ is done? Well, let’s just do that then eh? Let’s get you to do your bloody job! Because I DESERVE THIS. Mr W deserves this!’

Deep breath! Breathe out the anger. Breathe in the determination. 

I’m off for a run now, pray for my back, knee and shins. Ta-ra! 

Pcos and Me

This is a highly personal piece today. It’s a part of my life every single day. There is no ‘cure’, but there are ways of handling it to make it easier. The amount of information out there is absolutely overwhelming so if you suspect or have PCOS please don’t think I’m the oracle or that my research is all there is to know. There will also be opinions that have been built upon emotionally because of years of discrimination and sheer lack of help and awareness. I’m here to discuss my relationship with this condition and try and try to work through some of my issues of embarrassment I have when talking about it and  hopefully, also giving you the absolute promise that you are not alone.

My pcos symptoms started in my mid teens. I had my first period at age 13 and then nada. Nothing. It didn’t happen again for over 6 years. To be fair at that point, I didn’t know about the condition and I wasn’t educated enough to think there was a problem. I simply thought that periods took a while to get going. In school, our sex education lessons saw us separated into groups of boys and girls and taught the ‘important’ things about our changing bodies. The boys were led to a different classroom, where undoubtedly condoms were thrown at them and they were told to be safe. I’d like to point out here that my disdain for the ‘lesson’, yes you’ll notice the disdain with the amount of apostrophes I’m using, comes with my learnings over the years about my condition. In the girls class, we were given a magazine about what it meant to be a teenager and it came with a tampax. How about that! And that was it, nothing about being safe during sex, and absolutely no information about irregular periods. I appreciate that talking about fertility at such a young age may be inappropriate but it is an education I feel needs some major attention. Because where these conditions can cause infertility, they also come with a vast range of physical and mental health implications too. It’s also important to point out that life is not a fairytale, getting pregnant is not always easy, marrying the prince, living in the dream castle and getting pregnant on your wedding night isn’t always the case. If you’re anything like me, you’ll marry your prince after living together for four years and fall asleep on your wedding night. Romantic! As important it is to tell children the lesson of being safe during sex, because you may catch something or indeed fall pregnant, it’s so damn important to tell them that there is another range of stories. The couple that struggle with infertility. The couple that sadly had a miscarriage. The couple who had children young. And the couple who did not want children! There is not just one narrative. So this needs to be taught or at the very least discussed. 

It’s been twenty or so years since that enlightening experience, and where then I would have wondered why endometriosis or Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, among other fertility and debilitating conditions, was important to learn about, I’m now a 34 year old woman teaching myself about it all. I suppose moving forward after this piece it would be prudent to ask some teens about the sex education they are receiving, or better yet, the teachers who have to give it. I dare say they are working from a guideline set out by some high seated council that knows best! Anger unfortunately will spill out from time to time. This is your warning. 

Daily symptoms of this condition are so surprising that at first most of them seem like a joke. However after countless medical texts, research pieces and noticing the patterns within groups of likewise women, the actual list of symptoms is enormous! When it comes to myself, I have all of them bar one or two. It’s only through my self education that I’ve found symptoms I wouldn’t have thought were out of the norm for everybody to be honest. But hey, ho, they are all part and parcel of this condition. Which in a way, makes me more accepting of the symptom as a whole. One of these for example is anxiety.

Ah the ‘A’ word. It has been brought into the glaring spotlight for the past 3-4 years and it’s creating awareness where once there was none. In my eyes, there are two forms of anxiety. There is the dread of going to a party and wondering what to wear/eat/drink, the feeling of shyness you know will creep onto your being as you are presented with a room full of people and there’s definitely nervousness such as when you read a piece of news. Covid-19 has reached the UK for instance. This type of anxiety comes and goes with the occasions that are making us anxious. It’s something everyone can feel at any time. And in most cases you live without it more than living with it.

And then there’s the other type. The complete saturation of anxiety into your whole being. The utter lack of sleep when analysing something minor. Maybe text that hasn’t been returned from a friend. Last year I had a full on meltdown because a friend hadn’t replied to my messages and I thought I had done something wrong! The heart racing and yet immobilising fear of new situations; answering the door to a stranger, talking on the phone, starting a new job. There have unfortunately been times when I’ve let the doorbell ring, or the phone go unanswered because I’m panicking on the other side. And quite surprisingly, I have avoided job interviews too. When you live with anxiety, you develop around it so fully that you don’t initially recognise it as anything, you fully believe it’s just how everyone is. Everyone at some point in their lives has surely travelled for 90minutes on the train to university only to turn around at the lecture room door because people will turn to look at you when you walk in, right? It seems when looking back, I’ve been struggling with anxiety for a long, long time. At the time it just felt like I was a nervous girl. 

Anxiety is a big symptom in the world of Pcos, how it affects people mentally is absolutely draining. Pile on the other symptoms which will make your anxiety worse and you’ve got a condition that needs more attention from the government and healthcare institutions. Some of the biggest symptoms I deal with are:

Weight gain – I’ve always been the bigger girl. At age 14 I was a size 14/16 and was very aware of it. Now I’m bigger and yes I’m still aware. In the beginning I was conscious of the fact that I had pcos because I was bigger. And in the most recent of years I have discovered that it is simply not the case. Weight gain is a symptom of PCOS not the cause. I’ve started owning the fact that my weight is partially not my fault. I’m not going to sit here and tell you I eat a lettuce leaf smoothie everyday, because I don’t. But what I do know is that exercise and the things I eat aren’t as simple as ‘get up and move, whilst digesting a tiny salad’. My body is in a constant state of fat storage behaviour because of my insulin resistant cells. My body’s cells are at war with my brain. It’s a difficult feeling to process when someone glances at your stomach and must think you are a lazy cow, when you aren’t choosing to be this way. 

Inflammation – so my body is also in a hyper alert inflamed state. So I’m more likely to suffer from IBS and stress. Apart from the physical side effects, the stress is on my cells which doesn’t help them when they’re already not functioning the way they need to be. Fun! Which is why, when I’m told to ‘relax’ I find it hard not to implode there and then. 

Hirsutism – that means hairy. I have hair growing everywhere on my body. Everyone does. But mine is thicker, darker and not bloody wanted. It makes me feel unattractive, self-conscious and it’s the hardest outward effect of this condition that I deal with. At times it stops me being loving with my husband. I feel like a man and it’s very difficult to live with. I often try to turn a situation around when you say ‘you suffer’ because more often than not, if you can find a way to come to terms with something, you can say you ‘live’ with something and in a way it stops controlling you and your quality of life. But for me, living in this hairy body is disgusting and I suffer its physical and mental effects everyday. It’s a physical reminder that I’m different. There have been a lot of times where I’m talking to someone and they’ll notice my face is different, and it’s unfortunate that I see their eyes move from my eyes to my chin. It’s not their fault, 

Infertility- I’m going to do another blog shortly on what PCOS has meant for me and my fertility journey (see journey, not struggle) because it’s just huge. Look out for it soon. But let’s just say, it’s fucking hard! Capital F!

Ance – I had horrific spots at school, I was bullied badly over this, even by ‘friends’ and at the time it was believed to be part of puberty. But I believe that as my puberty never really began properly because of the jumble of hormones my body was coping with vs the normal puberty struggles, I had spots competing in the hormone olympics. I’ll have the occasional pimple now and again, but nothing like back then. 

Hair loss – oh yes,how can I lose hair on my head if it’s everywhere else on my body. Don’t even start! My cousin first noticed some of the hair at the back of my head was shorter than the rest back in 2011. We blamed the amount of times I had bleached my hair and as it was at the back it didn’t bother me. A few years ago I started reading about hair loss and PCOS. It causes bald spots and thinning of the hair. Now my hair was so thick and curly when I was young that it regularly became knotty and matted. Nowadays, I estimate I’ve lost 50% of my hair due to thinning and the short bit at the back is still there. As a girl who suffers with her weight and facial appearance, my hair is my security blanket. Another physical reminder, that not all is as it should or indeed could be. 

Insomnia – well this one shocked me, it goes hand in hand with the theory of people living with PCOS having no energy. I’ve had insomnia since I started at secondary school. I would regularly not sleep or manage a few hours a night. Ultimately this came down to the stress I was experiencing at school but it also turns out to be a major symptom of the condition. It is said to go hand in hand with anxiety. It wasn’t until Mr W and I bought this house that I found myself sleeping better and permitting myself the time to nap if I needed it. I started listening to my body when it needed sleep. Before that I would muddle on through and had learned that being tired was just a natural thing that everyone felt. WRONG! PCOS also drains your energy from your body, so no matter if you’ve had no sleep, 3/5/10/14 hours sleep, you will, or at least I do, feel tired. The last couple of years have been better, and it’s only when I’ve had a severe anxiety attack, that I find I can’t sleep. But as I become more accustomed to what’s going on and recognising the signs, I can calmly go about my day knowing it won’t last forever. 

So there you have it, a day in the life of me! A lot of how I feel about the above is determined by my mental state. It’s my anxiety levels that will control my mental health. And a lot of the symptoms will cause me to feel anxious and my anxiousness will cause my internal symptoms to flare up and back to the beginning we go. So yes, I’m living within a vicious circle BUT somehow knowing there isn’t a cure but it can be managed makes me realise that there’s only so much I can do. 

Over the next two or three blogs I’ll be detailing my struggles with fertility, the NHS help I’ve gotten so far and the steps I’m taking to make my condition more manageable and in turn make my life just that bit better. 

I want to say now, that I have an amazing husband, beautiful friends and family, most of whom have not made me feel like a freak in any way nor stopped me talking when I’ve discovered new things about this condition. The wonderful power of research and owning your condition means you can take control and I believe that’s the first step on a very difficult and winding road. You are not alone. 

Stories of Venice part three

We are at the Hotel H10 Palazzo Canova. I’ve found it to be one of the only rooftop bars with a view in Venice. It’s not stipulated online whether it’s for hotel guests only and my attitude after being ‘caged’ for 6 months pushes me to try my luck. I’m dressed casually and this place is beautiful. We walk straight in ‘like we own the joint’ and head around to the bank of lifts. Hit the ‘bar’ button and walk out onto a stone terrace with the most phenomenal backdrop. 

The terrace overlooks the Grand Canal. Leaning slightly over the balustrade gives you a wonderful view of the Rialto Bridge, it isn’t the whole picture but it’s enough to make me want to squeak excitedly. The staff are so friendly and accommodating, they show us the QR codes on the table. When scanning them with our phones, we are able to bring up the menus with an English option. We order coffees and sit in the afternoon sun. This is the first time we have stopped and watched Venice’s world go by. I am transfixed on the water and all the boats moving about. The whole scene is intoxicating. Gondolas, vaporetto, people, smiles. It’s as if Covid doesn’t exist. It is by sitting for a while we realise how tired we are and adjust our plans for the day. This is very strange for me. I’ll usually walk til I drop. But I’m either out of practice or Venice demands your full attention, you need to sit and stay. NO! Seriously, stop. Enjoy. Drink it in. And that’s what we did. We sat laughing, talking and enjoying it all. Whatever plans were left for today could be done tomorrow, or when we return, I don’t think I had noticed at the time, but I had fallen head over heels for Venice and deep down was already planning the next trip. So if we didn’t finish the plans that day, we’d do it another time! I’m too busy watching the rows upon rows of gondolas rolling on the canal below. There is something so beautiful about their shiny finish and red interiors. 

Mr W made it quite clear when we arrived he had no interest in going in a gondola, we’re both really uncomfortable with being ‘served’. So being in a boat, with the gondolier transporting us about, is something unimaginable. But who said because I don’t want to ride in one I can’t watch those people! You can literally see their faces transform as they mentally tick that box on their bucket list. They are here. They’ve done it. A lifelong dream, a spur of the moment bit of fun or claiming back a missed opportunity due to covid.

I find for the third time, I do not want to leave, but we have dinner plans, and they’re quite special. In the last few years, Mr W and I have enjoyed a cheesy little tradition when we travel. I’ve always laughed when you see a Mcdonalds bursting at the seams when abroad. Don’t the customers know there is a Mcdonalds on every street corner. But as I’ve grown, I’ve started to acknowledge the ease of a fast food joint, the cheaper option, not having to worry about the language barrier and simply enjoying what you enjoy. So, with that in mind, wherever we go, we’ll check if they have a Hard Rock Cafe. We both love the music, the cocktails and we always buy Mr W a t-shirt. It also helps that this is the year we celebrate our 2nd wedding anniversary, which happens to be cotton, so the gift shop is calling out to me! It’s also a surprise for Mr W, we are afterall celebrating his birthday by being here.

We enjoy our food, dance along to the music and head back into the throngs of Venice. We idle away the time wandering the canals until nightfall and we find ourselves in St Mark’s Square. It is unbelievably quiet. There are pianos being played for the patrons of the night-time dwellers. There are less than 20 people in the entire space. It feels so personal. We stop to enjoy the music. For the second time today we stop to drink it all in. It’s our last night and rather than be sad, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be here. The world is phasing in and out of restrictions every week. In May 2020, it was possible to travel to Greece and Spain from the UK and not have to worry about isolating on your return. Every Thursday the red, amber and green travel list was updated, and every week it brought new countries into the green and pushed others into the red. The situation was always changing and taking the risk to book our trip to Italy for September was a tough decision. We made the leap because financially the risk was very small. The emotional risk of losing the trip again was a bigger one to us. So just getting out of the country was a big enough deal, without finding this place half empty and yet so full of life. While that piano played, it felt all so surreal, to be in the midst of a pandemic and feel happy. Not happy about the pandemic, but in spite of it. We still clung to parts of ourselves we thought all too lost. 

The next morning brings new adventures and the return of the fog. Except the fog is thicker and there is rain in the air. Today we fly home, which means our backpacks return to our shoulders and we have to face the elements. We have breakfast, take one final nap and head into the winding walkways. The venetian waters are lapping over the edges of the Riva degli Schiavoni and parts of St Mark’s Square have giant puddles. The water reflects St Mark’s Basilica, a beautiful time to reflect on the last six days.  Large raised walkways have been erected, it seems that Venice is preparing for a high tide. There is a light rain and we decide to take it easier today. Mr W takes out his trusty google map app, a godsend through our whole visit, and we head towards the Ponte dell’ Accademia. 

The fog lifts and the light of the grey sky reflects differently on the wet cobbles. The walk is slower paced and it becomes sadder the closer we get to going home. The rain sets the emotion of the day perfectly. We come to the dark wooden bridge that spans the Grand Canal, and we say another goodbye to a true icon of Venice. From here it is a 10 minute walk to Fondamente Salute, the alleys here wind more than ever, the bridges and canals are very small, it feels like a hidden part of town. Art Galleries line the streets with gated courtyards to tempt the eyes. We reach Fondamente Salute and look out across the Bacino San Marco. The water is rough and laps up to where we stand, we stay for a while looking out and over the Campanile di San Marco. Turning away from one of the most iconic landmarks in the whole of Venice feels like the trip is already over.

We walk away, the rain has stopped but the water is starting to flood the streets. We take a brief moment to stop in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute. The building is on a platform of stone, with stairs leading up to its vast front doors. It is hauntingly beautiful, in the grey of the day it merges into the sky and then back into the water. It feels as if the stairs lead you into the water. I know now that my love affair with this place is far from over. 

We cross a small bridge in the Dorsoduro and have to wade through an ankle deep puddle. A man stands on the other side, trying to sell us plastic booties that will keep our feet dry, he looks at us with his eyebrows raised when we walk straight through. We pause in a tiny Trattoria Pizzeria for Cicchetti and talk to the owner about the weather. Of all things. It seems apt to discuss rain in Venice. In broken English he tries his best to tell us about the floods that devastated the community in 2019. He shows us on his polished bar where the water came up to. I look at the table in front of me, in those depths it would be completely submerged. We continued to listen as he explained he’d replaced all his kitchen equipment just before covid snatched away his livelihood. And yet despite the last 10 months, he is here talking to us, smiling and sharing his story. 

I thought alot about that man on the coach to the airport. His story, his enthusiasm, his strength. It brought the whole trip full circle. The feeling of being uncaged, the beauty of an awakening country and the strength we were all regaining. It made me realise that despite the horrors of the pandemic, life would carry on and we could either be submerged by it, losing ourselves in the process, or rise above to fight again. 

Photo by Dave Watson

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

Lola

I wrote this following piece in December 2020, more than anything I wrote it for me, I never shared it. For reasons I’ll explain later, I’m posting it today…

It’s a year to the day. If it was any other year I’d do the usual, where has the time gone speech. But really, where has the year gone?

Day after day sat on the sofa, watching the news, waiting for updates, fearing the worst, hoping for the best. But seriously, how has a year passed?

Time should have slowed down, it feels appropriate for the world to stop spinning when you are grieving. That the whole world will acknowledge your pain. The loss. The despair.

Lola was our dog. Our family. Our unconditionally loving friend.

The cats scattered everytime the doorbell went because Lola would bark and run through the house like a charging bull.

There was a dirty, slobbery, biscuit mark left by her muzzle on the front door. It was about a foot up from the floor, on the edge of the door and inside the frame, it was brown and sticky and gross. It was made everytime we came home and didn’t, by her standards, open the door fast enough. She’d squeeze that big ol’ head through the gap to get at us quicker. We were home. She was happy.

Her tip tapping across the tiled floors when dinner was seconds away from being hers. Her teddy that she chased up and down our garden. Never ripped or torn but carried back soaked with drool. Her bandana that made her look badass. Her youthful looks that despite her age had people asking if the figure in years was actually how old she was in months. Her loving looks at my husband. Her special hugs, sitting straight back into our arms, bobbing her paw if we stopped scratching her white chest. Her twisted claw, that never grew back quite right, after too many wild moments over the fields. Her loud, hurried crunching noises at her bowl and the fact she guzzled a whole bowl of water in seconds and trailed it through the house afterwards. Her legs kicking when chasing those dream rabbits and the hilarious snoring that caught us muting the TV to sit and laugh silently and deeply.

Her contentment at us being home.

I miss it all. I miss her. We miss her. The cats miss her. Everybody does. Why are there no other words to describe this pain. I’m not even questioning it. I’m demanding to know why there are no other words to describe this anguish. This loss. This grief. It’s a weight that holds you down. Yet without it, I fear she’s gone entirely. When the grief doesn’t catch you off guard and batter you and bruise you does it mean you have forgotten her? If love was enough, death would never have come.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I feel guilty everyday for the times I yelled for the mess, for the noise. It is my punishment now to live with such a void. The silence in the room. No snoring. The ticking clock. No barking. The clean kitchen. No dribble.

A part of us died that day. It’s like taking a breath and never really feeling that deep breath of calm. Your lungs expand but it’s half arsed. It’s the tight, cold feeling inside the middle of your chest. It’s the shaking of your whole body when you cry those loud animalistic sobs. The sound issued from your mouth as your lungs fight to push the breath out despite your mind being overcome with grief. Your eyes expelling tear after tear with the pain of what was and now isn’t. It’s her not being here. And it’s the thought that there is no rainbow where she waits for us. There is no after where she runs. There is nothing. There’s only the sucking in of breath as you feel your insides go into shock. Life stands still.

And yet, it doesn’t, everything carries on. No one sees the destruction that is your mind and others ask when another will come. Angry. That makes me angry. Maybe it’s the process. That the anger will turn to hope. But right now, no. Tomorrow, no. A week, a month, no. No.

Her smell is gone from her collar. Her mark is gone from our door. The cats are settled in the silence.

And now in May 2022, reading that back, it’s unchanged. The pain is as fresh as ever. But it’s in the background. Like a scar. It’s present and it’ll never heal fully. It’s a reminder of what was.

This morning on my way to work, a huge truck passed, and from the passenger window a collie dog was barking at each car it passed. Laughter erupted from me so naturally that I couldn’t stop. They do that. These furry angels. They possess such a beautiful quality that lights up your life that it’s hard to let anything else darken your day. It’s not being able to tell them we love them in the conventional way that makes it so hard to say goodbye. To tell them they were so much more than they realised.

There is a psych analogy that says, ‘ Grief is like a box with a ball in it and a pain button on one side. In the early stages, the ball is very big. You cannot move the box without it frequently hitting the pain button. It rattles around on its own in there and hits the button over and over again, sometimes so much that it feels like you can’t stop it – you can’t control it – it just keeps hurting. But as time goes on, the ball gets smaller. It doesn’t disappear completely and when it hits the pain button, it’s just as intense, but generally, it is easier to get through each day.’

I want you, my lovely reader, to know that grief is natural, it’s not to be ashamed of and it’s not something to be understood. It’s a process. And it’s different for everyone. I truly believe when we lose a pet friend, it’s a different kind of grief, you don’t have words to exchange, only the hope that they know. That you gave them enough to know. I know all too well how hard it is to explain how you feel to someone who doesn’t understand. Perhaps they’ve never had a pet pal and can’t sympathise. It can be a lonely place. I’ve lost so many dear pet friends, our family furries, and it doesn’t get easier. And why should it. They add to our life in such a way without demanding anything back. Please know, you are not alone. It is the price we pay for the love we feel so deeply.

I miss her everyday. Still. It’s getting easier to think of giving a rescue dog a home. I not only miss her and the joy she brought, but I miss the joy of a dog. The unrelenting joy. But the guilt and feeling of replacing her still pushes the thought away. I hope one day we will because the scar she left behind is beautiful and will live forever. She’s still here. Wherever I go. A part of my make up. In the story of my life. Always.

Things we gained in the fire

When I was small my parents divorced. To this day I do not know why. I don’t care to know either. I love them both fiercely. They are both my parents and friends. I believed wholeheartedly early on that I would never marry. It wasn’t the divorce that made me think so, I didn’t understand until recently why. I was the chubby kid. The spotty kid. The bookworm. The quiet one. Easily bullied. I suppose in a way I let marriage go from my thoughts early to protect myself from disappointment in the future. Why want something that I would never have? Easy to rationalise when you’re older. But then, I just didn’t want to get married. 

Dating life started late for me. My first kiss was at 15 and quite frankly it was disgusting. It was all tongue (his) and it was cold and slimy. It would be years before I kissed someone I genuinely had an interest in. And even then, no relationship, no looking to the future. In a way I probably looked like a free spirit. Forever on a plane or planning the next trip. The only time I spent money was on nights out drinking or travelling. And it suited me fine. I wanted to laugh and dance or explore the world. 

At 19 I went to university and my anxiety skyrocketed. I spent more time out with friends than in class. It was a different world. Four hours maybe three times a week was spent on campus and the rest of the time was mine. I only realise now how very unhappy I was. I wanted a degree under my belt for sure, I knew that but a part of me was so stunned I got into university in the first place that I felt compelled to go. Otherwise, I felt the opportunity would be lost. There were so many big characters in my classes, so many people who knew what they wanted to do, that I often felt isolated in my fear of the future. The future wasn’t where I lived. I lived for the now. Partying. Dancing. Having fun. But I did the work. All the while wanting it to end. I wasn’t at university for the experience. I didn’t live in dorms and I had only a few friends. My life was very much at home, seeing school friends and working on weekends. University was almost a side hobby. 

Love hit me hard in my third year and when it ended four months before graduation my mental health took the brunt force of my devastation. I plunged myself deep into the solitude of my dissertation and didn’t emerge from my despair until the summer. Why do we love when pain goes hand in hand? 

I met Mr W later that year. We kept it incredibly casual. A movie or dinner every couple of weeks. The first time he held his hand out to me, I returned his smile with a dumbfounded expression, he said “I’m asking you to hold my hand.” What a revelation that was. Slightly older and with a difficult past of his own, he made life light again. I took a full time position in the bank I was working in on weekends and became a rat of the daily race. It paid for my travels, paid for the partying and it got me out of my head. 

I got into a routine and soon found myself working for a private agency. I loved the staff dearly, we are still friends now, but through the longing to travel further and for longer and clashing with a particularly meddlesome new manager, enough was enough. My mum and I decided to head to Australia. 

I gave myself a year to pay for the trip with a regular wage and then quit. For the first time in 9 years I was jobless. And I have never regretted it. Australia was amazing. The job opportunity I had upon my return was life changing and as the saying goes ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder.’

On my return, Mr W and I made a go of it. A year later we moved in together, started saving and got engaged. Four months later we bought our first home and two short years later we were married. Me! Married! The girl who didn’t believe in it. She didn’t believe it was happening when she looked in the mirror the day she found her wedding dress. Didn’t believe it at her hen party. Not when the invites went out. Or when she walked down the aisle. 

It wasn’t to be married. It was to be his. And he mine. Even on our getaway to the Maldives, with flowers spelling out ‘Happy Honeymoon’ on a huge bed or a cake with an iced ‘Congratulations’ I didn’t feel married. I felt happy. Like my life had come full circle.

Having decided to go away the day after our wedding meant we wouldn’t have the best weather in paradise. In fact, the annual weather report said it would most likely be raining most of the time, and upon arrival we caught the tail end of a tropical storm. As we planned to snorkel everyday, and both were prone to reddening under the sun’s glare, the forecast didn’t bother us. We spent the first week, as planned, swimming, sleeping and relaxing. Watching the world go by and relishing the very windy and refreshing bursts of rain. It was still very warm and truth be told the rain felt wonderful. Organising everything yourselves for your own wedding has its merits but it takes over your life! This was our reward. We rented a private ocean villa and had every possible luxury included. It was an indulgence we had never experienced before. A butler, a sunken bathtub, a secluded restaurant, a private staircase from the villa to the ocean, a separate overwater breakfast room, it was visually stunning. 

On the eighth day of our trip, the sun came out. The very same day that we planned to go on a boat trip to see spinner dolphins. The sky was as clear as the sea. Stunning. We had breakfast outside on the private decking and watched the waters teem with life. If the first week was perfect this was something else entirely. This was ‘plus quam perfectum’. Returning from the boat trip full of vigour and awe, we strolled through the sandy island to be greeted with the most amazing spectacle of a sunset I had ever seen. A rainbow of colours, each awaiting their turn on the horizon, danced around the setting sun. From reds and oranges, to pinks, purples and blues. The day was never to be forgotten. 

How very true that would turn out to be.

That night, longing to bask in the afterglow of the best day, I stayed up late and fell asleep at just after 1am. Not even an hour later a very loud and frantic banging on the door woke us both. Mr W was the first to the door and I heard racing mumblings between him and someone else (I wear earplugs, Mr W snores) and turning towards him heard, ‘We’re being evacuated, there’s a fire.’ 

Our ocean villa sat on a wooden pier that stretched from the island out to sea. The waters surrounding us were dark, full of sea urchins and the occasional barracuda and reef shark. The coral was jagged and the emergency electrics had failed. We were out to sea with the fire blocking our way to safety. We were told to grab our money and passports and head outside. Mr W grabbed his backpack and our essentials whilst I tried to scramble around for the nearest article of clothing. 

Bursting into the inky black night, the glow from the fire nearby was blinding. The first villa on the pier was completely alight. Luckily no-one was housed there, it was the private breakfast room we had been in not too many hours before. It was immersed in angry flames. The  wind out here was violent and had swept the flames onto the neighbouring villa. Its roof had caught and the way off the pier was through the wall of fire. I stood shivering in underwear (oops) and a thin dressing gown. What on earth would we do now? There were perhaps 10/15 other guests all emerging from their rooms. Some with luggage. I turned to Mr W and questioned whether we should go back for our belongings. It was everything we had. He agreed and we gave ourselves 10 minutes to gather everything. We darted around the villa with only our phone torches for guidance. Emerging back onto the pier, staff members told us boats would come. It soon became clear that the stairs at the very end of the pier were not going to reach the boats. The tide was still too low. Risking the jump in the pitch black was too dangerous. We were to go through one of the villas, down their staircase and slide through its bannisters onto the waiting boat. 

When I think about it now, it’s like I’m remembering a movie I once watched. It does not feel real. I remember the staff telling us to leave our luggage. That they would come back for it. People first. Yes, great. The time came for me to get on the boat. My dignity was in tatters. In just underwear and a flapping nightgown I had to maneuver onto the boat, it jerked with the ocean’s waves and my hand was crushed between the boat’s roof and the handrail of the stairs. The pain made me realise this wasn’t a vivid dream. I plonked myself on the backseat as Mr W followed me. It was pitch black and there was no way to tell how many people were on the boat. 

After several more people jumped on, I felt the water spill into the boat behind me, I screamed that we couldn’t take anymore people on and the boat moved into the dark waters. We glided parallel with the pier and found ourselves stuck on a reef. The man driving pushed the boat’s propeller to its limit, it ground up the coral and it carried on to shore. For one moment I felt a deep sadness at the lost coral, but the sight before me obliterated the worry from my mind. The pier was completely engulfed in flame and smoke. Burning timber fell from the pier into the waters below. It was an astonishing sight. If this was a cheesy, action movie, this would have been the point they did a close up on the bridal embroidery on my clothing. For dramatic effect. 

We were hauled out of the boat by more staff at the shoreline and it went back for the other people. We were taken to the reception by golf cart and given warm towels and drinks. The next few hours were a blur. Changing islands. Getting our luggage. Having to find clothes to gain a little dignity as the sun started rising. 

And my husband, while talking to the staff at the transfer boats that morning, for the first time in 9 days called me his wife. At that moment it felt real. We were married. And on the pier watching that fire creep closer, I knew why he was the one. While I stood shaking from the cold, the shock and a heap of adrenaline, he held me against him and promised me I’d be okay. And I believed him. Wholeheartedly. I was with him and I felt safe. My heart felt safe. 

He was the reason I believed in marriage. He’s the reason I feel I deserve to be loved. He sees me for who I am. He tells me that I am enough. The bookworm. The creative one. The once bullied kid. The quiet one. The chubby one. Anxiety riddled from PCOS. The little kid who didn’t believe in marriage is silenced. There are no more questions. No more rationalities. I’m still quiet, because I watch the world. I take it in. And he doesn’t question it. 

Our relationship was born before the fire, but through it we gained a new bond, an experience that saw us flee into the darkness and come out of it all the stronger.

Stories of Venice – Part two

Burano. The island is small, inviting and colourful. The research does not prepare you. I doubt anything could. Each house is so vivid in colour and yet so dignified in size. The juxtaposition sets this island aside from its neighbouring islands. Again my eyes dart back and forth between postcard moments, I do not want to leave. There’s the stroll to Bepi’s house that captures my attention for a moment, and yet this Instagram famous locale doesn’t quench my thirst for ‘more’. 

I remember the Bussola cookies, famously made in Burano, and grab two from a cafe busting at the seams with Italian treats. The Venetian butter cookie is round, with a hole in the middle similar to a donut and almost cakey in its texture, it is delicious and gorgeously light. The shop is closing and I regret not buying more. As we wander I see small restaurants line the streets and feel I am imposing on this community. We pass a small shop doorway and inside sits a lady, she is working on lace, another famous product of this beautiful island. I can’t help but watch her, she is unsmiling and focused and yet seems entirely untroubled. I wonder what it would be like to move into her mind, to be doing something creative, to have lived here a lifetime and feel untouched by city life. It is peaceful and it is enough. I envy her.  

We wander and wander, our feet tired but unnoticed until we come upon the Tre Ponti. One of many bridges we have crossed and seen today, but holding a beauty of engineering that is special. After the selfies finish we find the spot I timed the entire day around. Mr W wonders why we are here. It is the end of the Fondamenta di Cao Moleca and there is only water stretching before us. End of the line. The sky by now is a light amber. Silence has found us and we sit for what seems like an eternity and no time at all. I know we have to leave, the boat timetable demands it, our feet demand it, but I think I left a part of me behind that day. A wondering of a simpler life. With waters lapping and colour exploding the island into life. Simple pleasures of fishermen, lace makers and bakers, living untaintedly. 

The trip demanded that we carry on and our boat glided into the venetian night. By the time we stopped on the main island, night had fallen so completely that we found the canals in utter darkness. There was something so eerie about the odd streetlight that lit the buildings that I asked Mr W to take the lead. I felt sleepy and hungry. My eyes had not stopped and despite my yawning, would still not stop their roving and rambling of buildings and bridges. Passing restaurants that spilled their clientele out onto the streets. A small bar opposite our hotel offered the most delectable sandwiches and not long after devouring them in a most unladylike manner I fell into a dreamless sleep. 

The late night wanderings behind us, the hotel’s vast continental breakfast set us up for the day ahead. The hotel sat on a small sidestreet and when opening the shutters I felt that if I reached one arm out I could touch the building opposite. There is something so intimate about the layout of this place. As we reached the Riva degli Schiavoni we found ourselves lost in an early morning swirling fog. It was a shock after the beaming sunshine of the previous day. Saint Marks square looked desolate and sad without its visitors. We grabbed the chance to ascend the Campanile di San Marco, I felt transported back to the Empire State building. The lift had an attendant and a metal light panel that traced your journey to the top. Arriving at 09:30am served us well and we were one of two couples taking in the scenes below. Even through the fog, Venice lay out its carpet of red roofs so thickly you could not see the canals weaving their way through the island. Even the Grand Canal was lost in the fray. Again the intimacy of this place surprised me. Once used to guard Venice and guide boats on their approach, it now seems to watch over the island as its keeper and chaperone. From the lofty height you can see the astounding roof of the Basilica, its neighbour the Doge’s Palace and the infamous clock tower. For what it lacks in comparable size to its nearby celebrities it makes up for in intricacy and personality. I can imagine people aplenty whiling away the time, enjoying a drink and watching time tick by from this very square. At the mouth of the Grand Canal I spy the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute perched on the San Marco basin. It is an enormous structure that dominates the west of the island’s skyline. It reminds me of the other dome topped buildings that impose so pleasantly on the eye around the world. The Sacrè Coeur in Paris. St Pauls in London. And it’s Italian friend Basilica di San Pietro in Vatican City. Mr W and I are not religious people, but we find ourselves drawn to these places in awe.

A short chilly walk from St Mark’s we find another Instagram made-famous site. Liberia Acqua Alta, a bookshop that has embraced the floods that plague the island. There are books everywhere. They fill bathtubs, walls and canoes alike. In the midst of the shop, a full size Gondola sits keeping the books safe and dry. In the side and rear courtyards there are hundreds of books that have succumbed to the rising waters and sit proud, not too unlike sandbags protecting dwellings. It speaks to my inner bookworm and makes my creative soul scream in elation. This place is both beautiful and mysterious. I’m drawn in by the literature and hugged by the winding racks of the written word. I feel as if I am at a flea market and purchase an old print of Venice inself for one euro. There is also a cat sleeping atop a stack of books, resident or no, it seems at home nonetheless. I am in heaven. 

Meandering through the streets we head to Baci & Pasta, a small eatery with fresh pasta and gnocchi on the menu. I order the bolognese tagliatelle and Mr W has the pumpkin gnocchi. We wait outside while the friendly owner does his thing, still nervous about being in enclosed areas. It is only then we notice the lack of benches. Were we not particularly looking for them before or does Venice just not have them? There is a small well in the centre of the Campo with a very shallow step framing it. We choose to sit/squat here to eat. My loud inner foodie approves of the quality of the pasta and my quieter internal eco-warrior is happy for the wooden cutlery and paper bowls. A resident cat comes to say hello and it is then I realise Mr W hasn’t said anything. I glance over, prepared for his ‘cat-lady anywhere she goes’ style mockings and find his face drowning in contentment. The food he says is amazing. Triumphant tones play in my mind, girl did good!

We drag ourselves away from the campo and source dessert. Tre Mercanti sits aside a bridge and has the biggest assortment of tiramisu I have ever seen. Hey, when in Rome, give or take a mile or two! It’s delicious and just enough to satisfy the sweet tooth. It is also empty. A sign that we are early to eat and also of the quietness of the whole island. It’s something I am glad of when walking the narrow streets. They are intimate now but during the high season I imagine the intimacy can be quite suffocating. I am reminded of how lucky we are to be here. 

We realise we are making good time and change up our timings for the day, we head to the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo, a structure that needs to be witnessed to be believed. A spiral staircase leads you to the roof of this many arch-windowed tower and draws your eye across the rooftops and towards this morning’s Campanile. It is beautiful for sure, however I have the nagging feeling its fame owes a lot to being another Instagram hotspot. Only open since 2016, I hope this place becomes recognised for its quirks rather than its hashtag value. Up here we realise the fog has lifted and Italy graces us with another cloudless blue sky. This will make or break the next port of call for sure. 

Through the winding streets we wander, stopping to goggle over the incredible handmade Venetian masks, hung in their hauntingly beautiful way and practically dribble over the chocolate shops. We are invited to taste what’s on offer and honestly what kind of cultural fanatic would I be if I said no? The sweet treat shops here are phenomenal. There are glistening fountains of melted chocolate, barrels of macarons in colours befitting a rainbow and boxes of coffee beans in their abundance. I finally understand the advice you see online. Wandering around Venice is how you find its truth. It takes you firmly and embraces you in its welcome. 

I realise the worth of the advice and find myself stopping atop the next bridge. Something is in the water. Fish of all sizes swim just below the surface that laps against the submerged steps. They are a fair size and I am reminded of the dolphins that once played here during the height of Italy’s lockdown. It is a moment of reflection and a nudging reminder that this place is so much more than can ever be described. It needs to be seen. To be felt.

We find our way to the Rialto Bridge. It is smaller than I imagine, but its presence is everything. I find my inner tourist screams out for the selfies to be taken from every angle possible and am glad of it. The amount of people pales in comparison to the photos you see online. Covid has changed this place so much. I am warmed by the return of the few people here today, Italy will be restored in time that much I am sure of.

Next stop is the rooftop of T Fondaco dei Tedeschi, a free attraction in Venice and one of its top tourist sites. Sitting atop a department store I find myself wildly underdressed climbing its red escalators, it is similar to Macy’s or Harrods and screams MONEY loudly and proudly. There is a short wait for our time slot, but it is of no real bother, what it gives back is simply one of the best views I can ever have the pleasure of seeing in my lifetime. There’s the Grand Canal, the Rialto, rooftops, the now familiar building facades and the sky. So much sky. Behind us are the tokens of St Mark’s Square and I am left speechless. This whole place is so very special. I reiterate again, I do not want to leave. 

Dragged away by my need for coffee, we cross the Rialto and walk the Riva del Vin. I have spent a lot of time on the hunt for this place. It became clear to me in the process that I must have a ‘thing’ for skylines. To bask as they do in the sun and look across and down at the picture of splendour from above. We approach the address and head inside…

For photos of this trip please head to Frameworktravel on Instagram or Facebook which will be shared very soon!

Crashing a hotel bar

Stories of Venice – Part one

Our story starts in Florence, early enough that most shops are still closed but late enough that the sky has found the sun. It’s the day to travel to Venice, we take the TrenItalia Frecciarossa from Santa Maria Novella to the Santa Lucia station in Venice. The train is empty, and even though it’s September 2020 and in the midst of a pandemic, I found myself shocked that we are the only ones on the carriage. We have assigned seats and there have been paper gift type bags left for us. It is a health and safety aid: inside there is a leaflet on covid procedures, a blue medical mask, tissues and a can of water with a paper cup. If we’d forgotten about covid until now, this brings us right back to the heart of it. And yet I’m grateful for it. We stow away our own masks and hook on the blue ones provided. On our flight to Pisa, the airline would only permit the blue medical masks, so we go with the flow and guess it’s the same on all transport. I’m grateful I didn’t do my make-up, these masks make a waste of half of it. 

After reading so many amazing reviews of this particular journey I am glad we are on our way, although luck it seems is not on our side. The rolling hills and working farms are covered in an early morning mist that has continued on until well past 9am. The journey is pleasant enough and I watch the screen overhead for progress. The short journey of 2 hours 14 minutes speeds by and we cross the Ponte della Libertà. We can see the Venetian waters already and it feels like a big blue welcome. This road is the lifeline of the city, the only way to and from Venice if you don’t have a boat. Soon enough we disembark and walk out to our first view of the Grand Canal. It is stunning. I slap myself for ever thinking this stop off would just be a box ticker. I feel in instant awe. We head up to the top of the Ponte degli Scalzi to take it all in. The waters glitter like lights on a diamond. It’s that beautiful!

I snap out of my reverie as soon as possible and find the Vaporetto, Mr W does an amazing job of calming me down as my anxiety flares when I can’t find the right boat and we board the boat on line 1 to San Zacharia. We are staying right next to St Mark’s and owing to my research I know where to jump off. Backpacks strapped on, we spend 40 minutes gliding down the Grand Canal. 

There is just so much to see, at first you don’t know where to look. Small boats, bigger boats, gondola’s, tradeboats, walkways, bridges. Your head is turning every which way. Your eyes are dry because you simply will not blink. The water shimmers. The buildings are steadfast and classic. I am astounded. There are canal side restaurants with huge giant baskets of flowers that distract your eye. The awnings are a deep ruby red and yet the flowers are pinks, yellows and purples. Patrons look relaxed as they canal-watch and tuck into their dishes. I wonder what they are eating. The unattended gondolas roll on the small waves of the water. They create the iconic image of the shiny black vessel proud to be on these waterways. The sight is like a picture perfect postcard. We come around a bend and glimpse the canal’s iconic monument. It stretches across the river and unites both banks with such grandeur you find yourself bowing under its arches. The Rialto Bridge catches the bright sunlight and I’m unsure if I’ve noticed the true Italian sunlight before this moment. The bridge demands its attention. All too quickly it is gone and it is time to alight. 

We are early to check in, but the lovely staff at our hotel allow it. I’ve spoken to Valentina countless times over the past six months due to cancelling and rebooking and we’ve shared laughs and woes over the phone during the difficult times. It’s lovely to put a face to a name. I already know I want to come back here in the future. The hotel could not be more different from our exceptionally modern apartment in Florence (look out for my Florence blog coming soon!)This room is classic, with traditional furniture that has golden accents and small floral designs. In a word: breathtaking. 

Our bodies feel anew as we dump the backpacks and return to the streets. We make our way down to the Riva degli Schiavoni, a very short walk from our lodgings and are greeted by the open waters that precede the Grand Canal. Huddles of gondolas bounce in its wake and the wide walkway allows for much needed space to drench yourself in its splendour. 

Up ahead is the Ponte della Paglia, and a group of people, not large, but sizable enough to be noticed. Where crowds had been few in Florence, this is our first group of people in Italy that reminds us of how much has changed. They’ve paused at the top of the bridge to look down between the buildings. The Bridge of Sighs sits in the shadows. Beautiful and forlorn. I can see its attraction but feel the melancholy history. 

We march on until we reach the columns of St Mark’s Square; the Colonna di San Todaro and the Colonna di San Marco. The gateway into one of the most famous and busiest squares in the world. Here we go I think. Prepare yourself the crowds you’ve learned to avoid for the last 6 months. And yet, they are not here. There are maybe 100 people at most, and we leave the majority of them by the water. The square itself is lost in space and sunshine.We even have time to video call family. A quick update and glimpse around the square before we say our goodbyes. This is not real. The reminder of the pandemic is everywhere. What’s been lost, what needs repairing and what can be gained. There are lessons to be learned at this moment. My haste to the next location is quelled. I don’t want to move from this place. The Basilica Di San Marco stands before us shrouded in blue skies and commands its space. It is not an overtly tall building, nothing is next to the Campanile di San Marco, but it draws you in like no other building. The gilding on its facade, the mosaics and the bronze statues, the Triumphal Quadriga, Constantinople’s horses. 

I feel silly. Stupid even, to have thought of this place as a quick pitstop. Something to throw into the mix. A ticked box. This place is alluring. Maybe I am charmed because I had little to no expectations. For that I am stupid. 

We continue on through the winding paths of Venice to reach the Fondamente Nove vaporetto stop. My planner’s mind has taken over and I know to reach an important stop on today’s plans, we must make haste. The waterways call for my attention, but I drag myself away. This place is soul consuming. Our vaporetto heads to Murano, and failing myself I find no pleasure in its offerings of glassy works of art and anxiety finds me again. This is not us, it’s craftsmanship is lost on us. I praise the arrival of another boat and we head to Burano. 

For photos of this trip please head to Frameworktravel on Instagram or Facebook!

Are we the virus?

“Take only memories, leave only footprints.” – Chief Seattle

It will always be apparent to the travellers of this world, that a photo can only tell you so much about a place. You see idyllic beaches in the Caribbean, pure white sand and crystal clear waters. It may shock you when you visit that the odd plastic bottle or crisp packet ruins your expectation. In many places, there are staff that go to the beaches at ungodly hours and rake up the debris from the surfs kiss upon the shore. We see all too often the capabilities of people on this planet. 

During lockdown in England, there were unprecedented numbers of visitors to beaches and parks. Not having to be at work and the fantastic sunshine that shone during the months of May and June in 2020, saw the restrictions of meeting outside well and truly met. The carnage left behind was devastating. Tonnes of litter left behind like never before. It was like the earth had had its breather while we were locked away in doors and this was our chance to do double the damage. 

There have been several news items in recent years about how overrun tourists spots have been in the UK since 2020. When lifting restrictions meant we could exercise outside for an hour daily, Snowden was overrun despite many people living more than an hour away. It was a clear example of give and inch and take a mile. 

Even now, in 2022, there are articles about the UK experiencing its highest level of domestic tourism for decades. We are two people who never really travelled the UK, before covid, I will put my hands up to that. If it weren’t for all the confusion about what country needs what test and form wise, I’m sure we would have planned a trip abroad. There is also the highly stressful experience of having to cancel and rebook a trip in 2020. (See my ‘Reclaming a sunset’ blog.) I’m grateful in a way to how much our travel perspective has changed. We always used to lean towards city breaks, with the vast cacophony of noises, people and culture, we thought we were getting all that place had to give. It wasn’t until we took a trip to Edinburgh and Northumberland in late 2021 that our vision was altered. We spent two days wandering to waterfalls and hiking the hills and we found rewards like we hadn’t before. The peace of it all, the personal pride of achieving new feats of exertion and the slower pace that we needed to heal.

Being in Northumberland felt like we were the first to discover new areas, the forests were empty and the hills were silent. None of this overrun business. And yet there was a time that all had to change. As I said, our tastes have changed, and I’m not saying we’d never been to the countryside, but given the choice we’d choose a day in London over hiking. Now it’s more, let’s get into the city at 5am, see it at its emptiest and leave by noon. Venice taught us that a city is at its most beautiful without its crowds. We’d done it before in London, purely from a photography point of view, but there is something in being the only one wandering the Thames at sunrise. 

This past weekend we went to a local forest to see the blooming bluebells. Despite their annual appearance this was my first time seeing their exuberance in such an enormous way. Walking amongst them felt like being in a dreamscape. The colours, the life and the sheer volume of nature’s power screamed out in the silence of the forest. I noticed that several paths had been trodden through the bluebells, their stamped on stems laying squashed underfoot, it was a big shame. When we returned to the car parks, I noticed a lot of signs asking people to keep to the pathways to avoid ruining the plants. It made me sad. 

Returning to Northumberland this year is a big deal for us, we just don’t do it. How can you see the world if you return to the same place twice? We have a select few places we’ll return to out of comfort and it seems Northumberland is one of those for the time being. It is one of those places that when you find one of its hidden secrets, it whispers to you another one. 

On the coast, and our first taste of Northumberland, stands Bamburgh Castle. Surprisingly, in early August it was unexpectedly quiet. We parked without problem, and walked the beach without disturbing towels or sandcastles. It’s been said this week that Bamburgh is 2022’s most visited UK town. We’re trendsetters don’t-cha-know! 

With its absolutely enormous beach and stunning castle backdrop it comes as no surprise. 

However, locals have found the sudden infamy problematic. Vehicles parked up on grass verges due to car parks hitting their capacity, litter and disruption not far behind. It’s certainly a turn of events, but not one that can cause shock. It’s saddening for sure. But shocking? No. I’m sure there are people that profit from such large numbers of tourists, it isn’t all bad, it never is, since when did news articles give both sides of the story. 

It would be wise to remember the world continued turning, the oceans continued crashing to the clean shores and the bluebells thrived during lockdown. We are the virus the world does not need, these beautiful places are a gift and should be treated as such. If we wish to arrive in paradise we need to do our bit. Pick up our litter. Stick to the path. Take only memories. And if you should leave footprints, be respectful of what’s underfoot. Paradise takes a lifetime to build and only moments to disappear. 

Well, wasn’t that a cheerful post, come back next time for something lighter!