Author: Zara Watson

Reclaiming a sunset

Picture this: it’s late 2019, I’m on the phone to a stranger. It’s my husband’s colleague and I need his help to secretly book him some annual leave for April 2020. The conversation goes back and forth over the next few months and all is sorted. I feel a wave of nervousness and excitement every time I open up my secret itinerary. The plan started as 4 days in Florence but once I got into the research and my confidence in Italiano grew, I looked at exploring Pisa for one day and adding two days in Venice onto the end of the trip. One train journey from Santa Maria Novella in Florence to Santa Lucia, Venice. I planned on keeping this part a secret until the very last minute. How simple does that sound? I spent the better part of 2 months planning the itinerary. Booking restaurants, trains, tickets, hotels and apartments. I look up boats in Venice and lazy garden wanders in Florence. April 2020 could not come quicker. I feel you laughing. I’m laughing.

And then it did. From the middle of February 2020, the world watched as the virus Covid-19 spread like a wildfire from Northern Italy down the country, regions falling quickly under its deadly hold. Like a vice grip, we saw the devastation it had on Europe and then the UK. 

As people panic bought toilet rolls, another panic took over me. How on earth was I going to take Mr W to a covid hotspot? When the anxiety and lack of sleep got too much, I folded and spilled the beans. The decision could not be mine alone, his health could not be in my hands. The little gifts I bought that once held so much meaning were now pointlessly handedl plaover, in some wild attempt to salvage the thoughts and feelings that had been put into this trip. 

A metal plane keyring – we’re flying somewhere!

A faux plane ticket, with a scratch off location reveal.

An Italian flag – guess where?

A tiny train with real sound effects – choo choo.

One teeny, panettone – a snack while on the move.

A ridiculously small, jelly pizza – something sweet just for you.

A magnet of the statue of David of Michaelangelo – a cheeky part!

On the trip, I would give Mr W a fold out map of each location, to add to our collection and to round it all up nicely. 

He wouldn’t know much about the itinerary, but he now knew about Venice.

In true Mr W fashion, he took it like a champ, his own disappointment forgotten as I went to pieces in front of him. He wasn’t worried about the virus, he said we’d stay as safe as possible, buy some masks, and stay away from crowds. I even had plans in case Italy refused us entry. What if we headed for a private villa in Spain alone and safe. What if we stayed in the UK?

A week later, our choice did not matter. Governments around the world closed their countries borders and I spent two weeks reclaiming what I could from the cancelled trip. In the beginning it felt like a challenge, but through all of it everyone was so lovely. The hardest part was the airline, it was an unprecedented situation and even they didn’t know their head from their arse. Over the course of the months that followed I was either reimbursed in full or given vouchers for my tickets. All in all I lost 5% of what I had paid out. By then, money didn’t seem important, neither did a cancelled trip. The world went to pieces and I with it. When the travel date came, we spent a very long day in our garden, there was gin, music and sun. It was a totally different method of escape. 

Fast forward to June 2020 and there was talk of restrictions easing. I toyed with the idea of rebooking Italy, but the horrors of covid made the air thick with doubt. By July, flight prices were the cheapest I had ever seen them and new guidelines had been brought out by airlines, they favoured the customer! With lots of trepidation, Mr W and I decided to go for it. With only 6 weeks to go, we booked the same trip for a date in September 2020. 

It was easy enough to re-book everything, there was a fair bit of reading to do on the moving between regions and the restrictions in place, but other than masks on transport and in shops, Italy had found its way out of the worst of it. 

I’ll never forget taking off from England, our plane had 37 masked passengers. 37! I realised that we may have similar surroundings in Italy itself. As the plane lifted from the ground, my heart soared, I was back where I belonged. I was on the move again. 

We spent 3 picture perfect days in Pisa and Florence, and like the River Arno, the crowds ebbed and flowed. In certain areas it was quiet, in other touristy areas, there were slightly more people, but nowhere near as many as I expected. I didn’t really think of crowds until we got to Venice. Or rather on the way!

On the train to Venice, we were two of three passengers in an entire train carriage. Despite the busy station, this regional train was quiet. Was Northern Italy being given a wide berth by Italians? By tourists?

Unsure of what to expect, we ventured out to the venetian waters and climbed the Ponte degli Scalzi. I’ve never experienced such wonder. I usually see a lot of photos when researching a trip, so arriving at a pinpointed place is more like visiting an old friend. But not here. I looked down onto the Grand Canal and stood mesmerised by its glittering waters. It was so blue. The light caught it in such a way, the waves turned into sunlight and shone so bright that I could not look away. I’d held Florence in such a high regard when booking the trip, I had treated Venice as a flight of fancy. A tick on the ol’ bucket list. But this was stripped back and raw. The sheer abandonment of expectation, the utmost surprise of beauty in something so fresh and ordinary. 

We spent the majority of the first day in Venice on the water, we toured the Grand canal and once we dropped our bags at our hotel, jumped on a vaporetto to Burano. I still had a few secrets up my sleeve. Burano itself is one of the most amazing places. The terraced houses are painted every colour imaginable and the winding canals capture your inner photographer. It was perhaps a crowd you expect to see on a Sunday afternoon, after dinner, a slow wander to walk off a dinner. That kind. It was welcoming and unassuming. We made our way to Fondamenta di cao Moleca, famous for its Tre Ponti, a stunning three way bridge over the waterways. Lots of people turn up to take photos and repeat their steps back into the heart of Burano. If you walk further down to the edge of the island you’ll find a view out onto the venetian waters. Time it just right and you’ll meet sunset. It was glorious. Just us two. 

Before this moment, the sun disappearing each night, just hailed back the horrors of restless sleep and nightmares of death tolls and feelings of being caged. 

I remember feelings of quiet euphoria at that moment. Nothing could take it away. In silence I watched over the waters and felt a lifting of the anxiety that had clung to me for 6 months. Covid had taken so much from the world. And gave us back fear and anxiety and hopelessness. But that moment, shrouded in an orange sunset, I let it go. I felt that the world could heal. That I could. That’s the thing about a sunset outside of your cage, it feels like the closing of a chapter with a promise of something new tomorrow. 

Validate you

When I get together with friends, I’ll always have news to catch up on. That’s the way it works right? Work. Family life. Love. Loss. The bad and the good. More often than not, I have a small collection of stories I have to share. As the saying goes, a problem shared is a problem halved. Joy that is spread, just multiplies that joy in my opinion. Not only does getting together with loved ones entertain the soul it cools a boiling pot of emotion. When I find myself ready to tell my story to friends, I have a small voice in my head telling me that I’m self-indulging in their kind words, hugs and nods of understanding. The small voice grows louder as I approach their front door, as I accept a cup of tea and it even starts screaming as soon as someone says, ‘And how are you?’. I often wonder if my tales are important to tell. Why should my problems and woes command their attention when their problems should go first, or be spoken louder or longer than my own?

During the pandemic, during its most terrible and confusing moments, I felt unable to share how very bad my anxiety had gotten. People were dying, people were grieving, kept apart for months at a time wondering when and if they’d see their loved ones again. How did brain rattling anxiety compare? I felt anxious about catching covid, I worried about my loved ones and the world became a very scary place. I honestly thought people would band together more, I sometimes thought of the stories from WW1 and 2, about milkmen that still delivered to houses that were more rubble than homes. In such big ways, people did so much to help others, the children in the school playground singing loud so the nursing home residents next door didn’t feel alone is just one amazing example. This shouldn’t be dimmed by the few that were selfish and were fighting against the rules. But they were out there, and when you have anxiety you’ll often see the one bad person in a crowd of amazing people. 

It’s all too easy to be consumed by how personal feelings affect us when we are shut inside our own homes with no view of the outside world. It is all too easy to text someone and try to convey feelings, make a phone call and try to explain, but ultimately it’s when a friend is in front of you when the mask may slip and it becomes all too obvious that there’s more to the story. Unfiltered, unshrouded truth. And yet there’s a barrier to be found when you feel that your problems are tiny compared to others. Invalidation of feelings.

It was during 2021 that I started exploring the concept of how invalidating your own feelings can be dramatically damaging to your mental health. The most selfish way of explaining it is this: only you feel how you feel, it is happening to you and no one else. You can’t feel how someone else feels and vice versa. 

The more rounded way of describing this is likening it to a physical injury. A papercut is tiny. It slices the skin in an irritating way and stops hurting almost as fast as it happened. Now imagine the first time you got a papercut, you’d think what the actual hell was that! Now imagine the hundredth time, maybe you shrug it off, maybe you don’t. Maybe you catch it later on, snagging it and reminding you of the irritation. Maybe you forget about it and cook dinner and get some lemon, chilli, salt in it. Each situation produces a different response, from different people. Some people are more thick skinned than others and some people bleed like from a tap. 

A closer look at pain, makes me think of pain management in hospitals. They don’t see someone rolled up on a stretcher with a broken leg and categorise it as a 5/10. They ask each person. ‘On a scale of 1-10, how is your pain?’ This is down to how differently each patient can handle pain. If you were to punch me right now, I’d cry, from shock, from a new trauma and then the pain. If you were to punch Mr W, well first you’d have to run and second he’d shrug it off. We have vastly different histories when it comes to that kind of treatment. So why is it more acceptable in society to understand an individual’s tolerance to pain and not understand someone’s sensitivity to their own mental health?

I’ll say this, the pandemic opened up conversations about mental health and for that I am grateful. I’ll also be one of the first to tell anyone out there that their feelings no matter what. Invalidating your own feelings in favour of someone else does not push your feelings aside and out of the way, it pushes them down where they’ll rise to the surface again to harm you once more. It is compassion that dictates the invalidation we put upon ourselves. Where this can be a kindness to others you are doing damage to yourself. And it needs to stop. Once you start to look on others with more kindness than yourself, pushing the nurturing smile to your face and the care into your eyes, you are taking it away from yourself. Believe it or not, you have enough in you to care for both yourself and others. By looking after yourself and validating YOU, you’ll find yourself a mentally stronger person and in a perfect position to be stronger for others. Win win, right?

I know there is so much pain in this world, so much lost, so much feared and felt. I hope we learn to love as fiercely as ever. To protect. To nourish. To heal. Starting with ourselves first. Giving ourselves the changes we deserve. That the world deserves. You’ll never know how much you can change the world, until you change your world. Protect your mind. Nourish your feelings. Heal your heavy heart. Validate you. 

“My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?” ― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

Photo by Dave Watson

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

For the ‘gram’

I feel as if I have fallen into a trap.

A trap where I see a blue scene before me, laid out like a carpet in a forest. The ground is soft underfoot and all about me there is birdsong and the noise of leaves jostled by the wind.

The sun dances among the clouds and I am trapped between the real and the fake. 

The bluebells I am here to see have long been on my mind, I’ve seen photos a plenty online, but it’s through working in gardens where my wandering curiosities first started. Their delicacy and almost ‘Alice in Wonderland’ characteristics have drawn me to their woodland homes. I’m always a bit late to the party when it’s bluebell season and arrive only to find they are again lost for another year. Today, it happened, we took two hours out of our ‘day off’ and headed for Norsey Wood, Essex. A very small and free car park found us unbelievably lucky when someone left and we claimed their parking spot. Even more so lucky that it is bank holiday Monday.

The sun joined us for 30 minutes and laughed while I darted from copse to thicket trying to get the perfect image to capture what this moment meant to me. It was only when I sat down, that I realised my camera was the intruder today. That the feeling of wonder I had couldn’t be captured in one single photo. The bench I sat on was dedicated to a man who the world had lost, it looked out over a vast network of fallen trees, fresh ferns and the springing blues. My eyes picked up movement in the trees, a grey squirrel, perched on a log. Watching me, the intruder. I raised my camera and in a flash it was gone. I cursed myself for missing the shot, but what I really found myself frustrated with is using my lense to capture what my eyes could have done for me. 

It is hard to keep parts of your life offline when you are running social media pages and even more so when current trends dictate how well your sites can do. Bluebells are the joie de vivre right now, as they should be, but sometimes I wish it was me on a bench, camera away, enjoying the moment. The real vs the fake. I, myself, would find it hard to believe that I put these photos of bluebells out into the online world to share my experience rather than some feeble attempt to gain new followers. And yet here we are, talking to you, a blog reader, who may or may not decide to come back based on this one piece of writing. 

Ultimately should I choose to follow the interest of the day, you’ll get a marvellous view of the world seen a million times over and I’ll be another carbon copy blogger who has no real personality of her own.

So, from now on, not taking the picture will be just as important as taking it. To live in the moment I’m in rather than heading to the next one to please the ‘gram’ and asking myself do I like this? With clarity, the trap springs open, so I can watch the squirrels and wait for the sun to come back to me. Camera away. Memories intact.

The bluebells are wonderful. 

He knew

I’m known by my oldest and closest friends to be very quiet in the mornings. I have a ‘quite frankly, leave me alone’ demeanour, considering the fact I’m quite ready and willing to be up any time before 9am, it’s something that has improved over the years. Even now, I rarely talk to Mr W within the first hour of waking. The people that know me understand but I often find strangers think I’m rude. I don’t mean to be. When I’m properly awake I don’t talk to strangers either. There’s a shyness there. An inability to strike a conversation out of thin air. Often, I think, why would they want to talk to me? 

A 6am walk around Thetford forest, Norfolk, a few weeks ago, saw us frozen by foot but warmed by heart. The frosty ground thawed in front of us as the sun peeked between the trees. It was a beautiful morning. Something a complete stranger took a moment to remark to us as he walked his dog. A complete stranger. 

Today, in Colombia Road, London, a queue formed for a doorway serving coffees and pastries. In my hands I held the plants and flowers my heart could not leave behind. Behind us, a small child stretched his neck out of his buggy to see the world speeding by. He became completely enthralled by my Dad chatting to Mr W. I told them both they had a spectator and the child was brought into the fold with a cacophony of hellos as I wandered away to window-shop. Coffees in hand, we made our way through the neighbourhoods and the buggy, boy and father caught up with us, my Dad continued talking to him as if they’d met before. Talking about the area, coffee and doughnuts. It didn’t delay our return to the car, but it added a touch of ‘something’ to the stroll.

Later in Greenwich Park, while Dad and his partner wandered over to the meridian line, Mr W and I looked down the hill towards the Maritime Museum, across the Thames and beyond. We took our photos, revelled in the small droplets of rain and snuck a kiss by the blossoming chestnut trees. As he returned to us, Dad called “put her down”, followed by the laughter of another two complete strangers. They had not seen us, but having been stood only metres away thought the remark was meant for them. The six of us stood for barely 2 minutes laughing over the confusion, and jokes about us “getting a room”, until we departed. A simple interaction. But an interaction with strangers nonetheless. 

It gave me a smile. Small stuff like that usually does. It got me thinking about the joys of the ‘small stuff’. 

A copper stovetop kettle sits in our loft. Intact but dusty, we outgrew using it within a year of buying our home. You see, with a stovetop kettle, water for a cuppa takes at least 15 minutes to boil. At first the novelty was the point, but as time went on and visitor numbers grew, we found that it wore a bit thin. A quick pit stop for a coffee was not the name of the game. A shiny electric kettle soon replaced ol’ copper pot and tea raced out of the kitchen. Post Haste! 

I miss that copper pot, the lack of urgency it had and the whistling calling you back. It made you grateful for the tea, the whole process relaxed and rewarding. You didn’t take it for granted and in turn it was the best cuppa! The effort made it so.

Recently I’ve noticed that life is full of these moments, drawn out and satisfying.

Using a cafetiere, rather than instant coffee. A slow Sunday walk in a flower market, 30 miles from home, rather than grabbing a bunch at the supermarket. Planting seeds to grow your own vegetables, rather than bunging it in the trolley when shopping. Cooking a chicken on the spit roast BBQ for 3 hours rather than in the oven for half that time. Tending to the coals, watching it from afar, a G&T in hand. Talking to a man, pushing his son in a buggy about coffee. A harmless and funny misunderstanding with strangers in a park. A man in the forest, walking his dog, remarking on the beautiful morning. 

He knew. He knew it was the small stuff that matters. He had to share his joy with someone. Even me, the girl with the ‘leave me alone’ face and frozen toes. 

Where did all the planes go?

We saw friends tonight. Ate beautifully home cooked food and laughed and talked for hours on end. Inevitably chatter turned to travel and we shared our plans for Scotland. When we mentioned that we’d be away for our 4th wedding anniversary, two jaws hit the floor. It is indeed shocking how fast time flies. Even though we accept it to a certain degree, I have to remind myself and others that we did lose two years due to covid. 

Two years in and out of lockdown, watching the world tears itself apart in worry and fearing lost time. The days turned into weeks which turned into months and people both stayed home and lost their way. Their routines changed. Their lives were static. Horizons unknown. We learned just how much we take for granted in this world. A cuppa at your grans. An impromptu road trip to the seaside. Walking into a shop without queuing or wearing a mask. And actually being able to buy what you need. Hello toilet paper! 

Christmas. 

Birthdays. 

Hugs. 

We are guests on this planet and this was not felt more than when the world fell silent.  Roads that were once so immense in their sound, fell silent and the skys were empty. But we heard the wind rush through the trees and the birds singing. The seas were without their splashing visitors. But dolphins were seen enjoying the waterways of Venice with nary a tourist boat in sight. We spent months in masks, scared to be closer than 2 metres, the very air felt dangerous. But the earth inhaled a deep fresh breath as emissions reached an all time low. Mother nature continued without us, making it seem all very trivial and humbling.  

Beautiful scenarios were shared throughout the world. A date between two neighbours on opposite rooftops in New York. Fathers and mothers on furlough watching their children grow without interruption. Enjoying our gardens and realising their worth. Balconies full of instruments raining down their tunes in Italy. Happy Birthdays sung over video calls. Families coming together with zoom quiz nights. Friends reaching out with a listening ear like never before. The roads of London were alive with singing and the UK were clapping for the heroes in blue. The sun shone for weeks on end and it felt, at first, like a giant bank holiday. Relationships were missed but stable in their state of hibernation. It forced us to stop and evaluate. 

Some of us could stay at home all day, working from home or being paid to stay still. We forgot what it was to be surrounded by people. We learnt the value of home. The value of everything. To pass the time people cultivated new hobbies. Learned a language. A new skill. Got crafty. Planted life into their gardens. We glued ourselves to the tv. Both for entertainment and escape and then updates on where we stood in an ever changing world. We appreciated the once mundane and lived for the silent security.

Once restrictions were lifted there was a picture circulated online of a large, healthy, glossy stem of bamboo, left to grow without human interference. It grew next to neighbouring stems that had felt the destructive power of the human hand. Words, letters and symbols had been scratched onto their surfaces. The glossy surfaces were gone, left tired and victimised. 

If we learn anything from this image it’s that mother nature not only survives without us it flourishes. 

Still waters became crowded again as noisy roads drowned out the bird song and slowly the skies welcomed the planes among the clouds. The world stepped into a new era. Fears of leaving lockdown were shared. How do we return to normal when normal no longer exists? We cried. Those of us who felt that lockdown had forced us into a much needed rest period wondered if we could or indeed wanted to return to our busy pre-lockdown lives. 

We questioned whether there was more to be found in life than the rat race and the constant to and fro nature of socialising and ‘living’. We had become comfortable prisoners in our homes. So what new world was outside? Could we nurture a new world? A world built in lessons learnt and a new appreciation.

Ultimately the world changed. It changed because we had changed. Priorities switched. Countless conversations took place about never ever taking anything for granted again. 

Three examples stick in my mind of moments I felt an almost alert presence of living in the moment. 

Dancing without the help of alcohol at family celebrations, once shy feet were running to sway, shimmy and swing. Fear no longer ruled this person. The fear slept in the past where feet were still and music was quiet. 

Travelling to Italy on a postponed trip. The city of Florence was quiet. Winding streets were ours for the taking. We were smugglers of dreams. Relishers of hope. Venice was sleepy. St Mark’s square was oh so alluring in its empty splendour. The Grand Canal was the main character and shone its shimmer proudly in between the few boats dancing along its waters. We were humbled by the circumstances and grateful for the opportunity. I wonder if we return to Venice, whether it’ll be the city we know or whether the returned crowds will have changed its face to something unrecognisable from our 2020 trip. Appreciation lived in this new world, where greed and entitlement once reigned. 

Drinks with friends in the garden. Restrictions meant only garden visits were allowed. Blankets, chairs and hot water bottles were packed. Umbrellas taken just in case. Gin was drunk in favour of food. By the bottle. Laughter ruled the day. And the rain came. On and off. And on again. It did not matter. The umbrellas covered us. The water would evaporate. We’d lost enough time. The dodging of raindrops did not matter, we learned to laugh and dance in its reality.

My only hope is that as the planes return, our eyes are not lost among the clouds. That our feet will dance without hesitation. Our loud laughter is heard again. That life is grasped and treasured and we remind ourselves that perhaps it wasn’t two years lost, but two years of learning and change. That the scars left by the world healing are a map of where we’ve been and where we find ourselves now. New paths built out of what once was. That in our learnings we have become kinder to ourselves. Not rushing ahead but taking the time we need to adjust. Taking as long as we need to navigate out of the old and into the new. The very personal, nurtured worlds we have created to protect the self and soul. 

Confusion over the carbonara

One of my fondest memories of travelling is not even mine.

It’s Mr W’s. 

Four years ago we took an impromptu trip to Rome. Our first time in Italy.

Rome itself was unexpectedly brilliant in the most simple of places and a little underwhelming in other big tourist draws. I’ll do another blog on those really soon. 

My favourite part of the whole trip, is when Mr W told me of his encounter with the cashier in Caffè Italia on Via Di Santa Croce late one evening. As we had spent the better part of the day walking and visiting, our food intake had been small, and we were starving. We wandered into this eatery only a stones throw from our accommodation and Mr W went to order. When he returned he had the biggest laughing smile on his face. His story went somewhat like this:

Mr W: Hello, I’d like to order some food.

Cashier with a exceptionally deep voice: Sì

W: The carbonara 

C: Sì

W: Margherita pizza

C: Sì

W: The Lasagne

C: (a look up from the till and slightly longer drawn out) Sì

W: A Cappuccino

C: Sì…

W: A cola

C: Sì

W: And a tiramisu 

C: (confusion) Sì

Now you have to really imagine how deep the man’s voice was and how long the drawn out nature of the responses were, but I sat in both hilarity and mortification. It slowly dawned on me that we were sitting at a table designed for two and the food definitely wasn’t. We basically had 1 night to try all the foods on our list. Easy right? We then learned that ordering coffee with dinner is unheard of in Italy. Then there’s the amount of food we ordered. Ah when in Rome eh!

It’s funny how food can make the best memories in the most unexpected of situations.

A few years ago we spent 6 days touring Cornwall and Devon. Another first-time trip. And we had the most glorious weather when exploring Newquay, Torquay and Lands End. We even saw a basking shark while looking out to sea from the Minack Theatre. It was absolutely beautiful. At the end of our trip we stayed in a countryside hotel in Dartmoor National Park. We had decided to spend two days relaxing and taking a few walks. The weather decided to send a monsoon which made driving impossible, let alone walking. Stuck in our hotel on a weekday, we couldn’t stomach the monotonous offerings on the tv and made a dash out into the rain. Mr W found the closest possible small cafe and we spent a good 40 minutes driving the windy roads of the national park. We came upon a small town and splashed our way to food and warmth. We each ordered a cream tea. Baked to order the scones came warm and HUGE, with pots of cream and jam. Absolutely delicious! The owner had relocated from South Africa with her partner to run this quaint place. And we are so glad she did! When the scones were finished, she brought more over, when the jam/cream was finished, she did the same. It became a vicious circle which ended with us unable to walk too fast to dodge the raindrops back to the car. Totally worth it.

On our honeymoon, we treated ourselves to a luxurious trip to the Maldives. The restaurant open to us for lunch and dinner was exclusive to our accommodation and was another luxury we didn’t anticipate but was more than grateful for. Each evening, there were dishes to tempt every kind of palate and a chef cooking dishes to order too. On occasion there would be a one-off menu item that could help yourself to. It just happened to be the last item before you reached the tables. Walking through the well laid out buffet every day to get to your table was enough to tempt you to stay all night. Indian curries, delectable chicken dishes and more fresh vegetables than you can imagine. One particular evening, Mr W pointed out a large piece of meat as we perused the offerings, noticing the texture I remarked that it was Tuna. ‘No way,’ he says, ‘it’s way too big.’ Albeit it, the thing was enormous. But I couldn’t hazard a guess at it being anything else. When our waiter came to our table Mr W asked what the dish was, ‘Tuna’, Mr W’s jaw dropped. ‘But it’s so big.’ The waiter said, ‘We have lots here.’ In a bemused kind of way. I had to stifle a laugh as we both realised we were in one of the largest networks of Atolls in the world surrounded by the Indian Ocean and tuna would have been as a Brit getting chicken or pork. Mr W had his fill and learned a new lesson that maybe, on occasion, his new wife did know what she was talking about!

I like to think that when we eat while travelling we are having the most authentic foods because we are in the place that does it best. What I’ve come to realise and indeed appreciate about the food we eat on our travels isn’t its handmade qualities or how much you get for your money, but how in any language we can connect with other people. Be it the confused Italian, the passionate Devonshire baker or the bemused Maldivian. It reminds me that no matter how far we travel and no matter where we end up there are connections to be made. And ultimately that’s the most tantalising part. 

Auto-travel-mode. Planning the NC500.

A quick one today giving an update on the NC500 in a little under 5 months. Time is flying!

So, I spent the better part of 2 weeks in January mapping out our trip. We’ll be doing the trip anti-clockwise, which means joining the circuit in Inverness. There are a few reasons we chose to do it this way. 

  • When we spent two days in Edinburgh last year, it rained the entire day we were in the city centre. This meant our plan to climb Arthur’s seat was cancelled. We both don’t mind a bit of rain, but it had brought along a thick mist which meant we wouldn’t have a view of anything but from the top! Ironically, it was the only thing we both card most about on the actual day. So we plan to stop in Edinburgh really early on our way up to the Cairngorms and finally head up this major tourist hotspot. 
  • We’ve been given a lovely two night stay and have chosen the Lake District to do this in. It also means we’ll be staying in a lovely hotel for our 4th wedding anniversary and as we have really crunched the budget for this trip accommodation wise, it means on our anniversary we can really relax and unwind in complete and utter comfort!
  • Both of the above reasons, don’t rely too much on starting in Inverness and ending in the Lake District, however when you look at how the scenery changes from the East to West coast of the Scottish Highlands you will see how much more mountainous and rugged it gets. For us, we decided we wanted to start slowly with the sloping coastal roads of Inverness, Wick and John O’Groats before heading up and over and then down the dramatic landscape of the West. 

Where my research has taken the trip is down through Ullapool and then onto the Isle of Skye, which in itself looks absolutely phenomenal! I predict that we’ll be heading back to Scotland within a few short years because of how much there is to see and do! We managed to collate our research early on and had three word documents on what we wanted to see and do. 

Planning this all out, meant laying it all out in a kind of mapped loop, the amount of stops was unbelievable and it became apparent very quickly that our 16 day trip would not be long enough. So we made the hard decisions on what to take out and it has left us with another two week trip for sure in the future. 

Something you ought to know about how I travel. Once I’m there I don’t know when to stop. I go into auto-travel-mode. My body is tired. My mind is wired. And I should stop. But the thing is I am my freest when I travel. Seeing, doing, exploring. I was probably a bird in my former life. Never stopping. Always moving. In my nest, I’m still and calm. And then I’m in flight. Soaring and not letting my tired wings rule my heart. 

In the beginning process of planning this trip, Mr W, shared his concerns of us jamming too much in and wondering if we may have to ‘delete’ stuff as we go along. The concerns over the roads and how long it takes to get from point A to B are real! The roads are winding, often single-laned and there are cattle to barter with for space. The plan itself accounts for almost 30/40% more time on the road between locations to allow for this. And as we have said all along, this trip’s main aim is to drive the NC500. To be a part of that growing crowd that experiences Scotlands now not so hidden gem. Not what we see and do. That’s not to say that we won’t be seeing and doing a lot of stuff, because boy will we! 

I remember the trip Mr W and I took to New York, his first, my fourth. It was monumental before we even arrived in the city due to the fact it is, and was, my favourite place in the entire world. I was hoping to show him everything that was so great about the city and see him coming away from it loving it as much as me. I’m not saying it was a dealbreaker in our relationship, but a small part of me was so nervous that my boyfriend wouldn’t want to return and I would have a giant NY shaped hole in my heart. Turns out I left NY as his fiancee and with him loving the city too! Win, win. During a walk on the highline, Mr W asked me what the plans for the rest of the day were, and when told he remarked there was no way we could manage it all with the amount of hours left in our day. I remember stopping, sitting, looking down at W17th Street and crying. He didn’t understand me. I want to keep going. I want to see everything. I don’t want to stop. And my now fiance was unhappy with how I did things. Crushed! 

It’s only now I realise how much I do cram into these trips. And how hard it must be for someone who loves me to keep going for my sake but feel exhausted at the same time. Their inner voice is screaming for them to stop, while mine is screaming keep going! I think my voice is just so scared that another chance may not come up. Who knows what tomorrow may bring. It’s the fear of not going back. Not having another chance. Missing something. Having unfinished business.

We’ve done a lot of travelling since that life changing trip to New York and we have grown as a couple and our travel habits have vastly changed. This is enormously down to the 2020/2021 lockdowns and how we now view city breaks vs hiking trips. I know one day we will get back to the city breaks and stomping those pavements but for now the mountain roads are calling!

The more I see online and each little researching moment I have throws more and more at this trip, and most of it doesn’t stick due to timing but then some does. The days will be early, which is so out of my comfort zone and there will also be a lot of trust placed in me, eep, but I’m sure we’ll love every minute. Mr W will still have his concerns, as will I, but together we’ll be fine. We compliment each other with our differences. That’s what I hear anyway!

**Update, we continue to try out the canned foods for our roadside dinners, Mr W tried the spaghetti rings and sausages, said it wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t sold. I had the chicken curry which was more fiery than I thought it would be. Both of us were pleasantly surprised. The quest continues!**

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Still sitting still

When I was in University I was a mess, I was scared to enter the lecture room, and knowing now what I didn’t then, I know anxiety has ruled my life a lot longer than I ever realised. For a worrying moment, when I noticed how far back the anxiety stretched, I wondered if it had stopped me doing much in my adult life. 

Today, I had the most bizarre flashback, whilst sipping tea on a bench in my garden. I wasn’t covered in compost anymore nor was I chilly in the April breeze, I was in Paris. I was sitting outside a Parisien cafe, drinking coffee and watching the world go by. It was a Sunday morning, the early morning sun was making the cobbles blush and there was calm in the air. It seems it is one of my fondest memories, because it made me smile, really smile. 

It got me thinking, about other seemingly insignificant moments, that have created a collage of beautiful memories I unlock from time to time. 

New York, 2007, the Empire Diner, Sunday brunch. I’m wearing a lace tunic top and the waiter is parading up and down with peoples eggs and coffee as if he had just come from the Catwalks of Gucci. He had swagger. He had confidence. He had attention. And he loved it. He had a wonder woman tattoo on his upper arm, and paused by our table to say ‘Honey, I love your top’ in his American drawl. I have a photo of the two of us vogue-ing, it was fabulous and so was he. I picture him now, on Broadway in some garish and absolutely fantastic musical number, living his dream. 

Santa Susanna, Barcelona, 2014. The first sunny afternoon in 6 days, we dash to the beach to thaw our bodies and grasp back some of our holiday before the rain returns. The beach is busy. The sand is hot. Glorious! Women and men selling their wares stomp up and down; sunglasses, hats, scarves, coconuts. The cacophony of their voices, mingled with the muffled chatter and the gentle waves, just screams beach holiday to me. A sunbathing man calls over a small asian woman, selling her skilled masseur hands, I remember glancing over, and seeing her kneeling on the sand. She starts to dig a hole with her hands. Dumbstruck I continue to watch, the man waits, as if nothing is out of the ordinary. She continues to dig a deep round hole. In time, she stops and the man lays a towel over the hole, and it is only then that I realise the void is for his belly. I force my staring eyes away from the scene and tell myself to act normal. But for the rest of the day, I laugh internally, to the scene I witnessed. Lets, assume the man had seen this particular lady before and knew this was common practice, that’s one theory. Alternatively, I often think about someone being unprepared for the practice of the void/belly scenario and looking at the woman in complete disbelief. Much like I had. That memory generally floods back to me when I go to or see a beach. 

The Great Barrier Reef, Australia, 2013. I’m drinking a cocktail out of an enormous glass, my legs are over the side of a huge catamaran and all that stops me from plunging into the ocean is a thin rope that acts like a fence at the side of the top deck. I’m sunkissed, curly haired and tired. I have spent the day swimming the coral reefs and am in awe of where I am. I am nine and a half thousand miles from home, I have quit my job and am living out my dream. I am the luckiest girl in the world. No time to think of going back to England. No time to think if a brush will go through my hair later. No time to waste on anything but this moment. 

I often feel the best memories of my life, so far, are the ones that happen when I’m not moving. While I’m static, the world carries on around me, and I can appreciate the moment. What’s funny is in those moments, I never realise how much impact they can have, how much you’ll flit back to them in the future. How warming they’ll be when you are doing one of life’s mundane tasks. Maybe it was wishful thinking today to think of Paris whilst potting up some planters in the garden. Maybe I’m just grateful to have lived a life so rich in travel and culture. Maybe I’m starting to realise the small moments are the important ones. 

This is why when I had the truly horrifying thought that anxiety had stolen so much of my adult life it took me a while to come back to these memories. I have pushed and pushed myself to do and see everything when I travel because there’s an irksome voice in my head saying ‘make the most of it, do it all, miss nothing’. As lovely as it would be to see the world and run from experience to experience it would seem you aren’t in fact seeing all there is to see.  It is now that I truly believe when we stop, sit and look, we’ll find the world will continue turning, it doesn’t mean we are missing out, it means we are able to relish in it. Drink a cuppa, take a breath and appreciate it all. 

New, naked and without your glitter

Did you ever sit at the window as a kid and watch the rain? Maybe you still do. 

It’s often thought to be quite morbid if you enjoy the rain; it’s cold, uncomfortable on your clothed skin and creates a dreary sky. This said, I couldn’t be happier than sitting in my small garden nook, with the shelter of the overhanging roof above me (just because I love the sight and smell does not mean I’m inviting the common cold to attack my body, I’m an adult don’t cha know!) The noise, the smell, the freshness of the rain is all too enticing. The smell of rain is a real thing, one I am happy to point out to anyone that laughs when I announce ‘I love a proper smelly rain’. It is called ‘Petrichor’ and it is the earthy scent when rain hits dry ground.

Just what is its draw? As like anything else that surrounds us, it’s old news; the sun shines, the wind howls, the rain comes and goes. But watching the rain has always felt very soothing to me. Changing the sight, smell and colour of the scenes we see everyday. 

One of the most precious memories of my first trip abroad, that being my first abroad without my parents, was splashing in the gigantic puddles around Rockefeller centre in Manhattan with my oldest school friend. I’ve visited this memory in a previous blog.

There have been other times since then, when I’ve found myself in the rain, walking, laughing, standing still with arms raised to the sky. Australia’s humid banana plantations. The Dominican Republic’s jungle paths. A small island in the Maldives caught in the tail of a passing typhoon (a wonderful honeymoon for sure!) And each time it’s been like the water has washed away this idea of glamour that a passport gives you, the sheath of perfection you wrapped the holiday up in, all of it washed away into puddles and becoming diluted until it fades away.

Travelling isn’t something to be glamorised into a big glittery, sequinned mess, it’s something stripped back and raw. New York isn’t meant to be pretty, it’s a working city, it is built on over 400 years of commerce and trade, the first settlers in the early 1600’s didn’t plan to create tourism, they saw money in the beaver skin trade and the potential of the harbour. They saw life, growth and the chance to survive. Buildings grew on the island, as the trees once did, not for the purpose to look down on the city but to house its commerce. The glitter arrived much much later. 

What we experience when the rain falls, is the glitter washing away. The money in your pocket becomes soggy, the expensive clothes on your back no longer protect and the make up runs off the tip of your nose. You are without money, without protection and without your mask. You are as vulnerable as the day you enter this world. You are new. Naked. Without your glitter. For a moment you are aware you are alive, you are awake to the sights around you and a whole wide World is Born.

Travelling to me is much like the rain, no pretence is needed among the people, landscapes and avenues you don’t know. You are new, naked and without your glitter.

A hop, skip and a fracture.

It’s 10:40pm.

Outside, the only light on the street is from the moon reflecting its light off the clouds. The occasional car drives past. After six years of living here I’ve gotten used to them gliding across the tarmac. The birds are tweeting in the trees and I can’t get used to it. Yes that’s right, 10:42pm, and the birds aren’t asleep. And do you know why?

Because they are home! 

They have nests to maintain. Mouths to feed. Worms to forage. Water to source. Sunlight to chase. 

When they migrate you can imagine a more peaceful night. Food on tap. No responsibilities. Just away. No cares. 

And here I am doing just that. I’m home. It’s bedtime. Mr W is infuriatingly fast to fall asleep and I’m sitting up reading. Reading a book that has no real value, but gives me enough escapism to deaden my mind to sleep. Except it doesn’t work, I’m thinking about washing and work, food shopping and chores, gardening and social calendars. Cats. Birthdays. Trips. 

Trips. Trips. Trips. 

Where I find a plethora of other lists of things to do. 

Hiking. Wild swimming. Exploring. Seeking. Finding. Napping. Snacking. Living. 

I’ll put my hand up for the first time, hey let’s put both up, and shout… ahem…

I was wrong! I was so wrong in fact I’m going to make triple-y sure I was wrong. 

So, as bad as it sounds, my total number of trips in the UK for 32 years amounted to family trips to the Norfolk Broads and a long weekend in both Cornwall and Somerset. Ta-da! Ignore day trips to London, it’s 34 miles away, just doesn’t count in my book. 

Lockdown forced us to rethink flying, and other than our rebooked trip to Italy in Sept 2020, we stayed in the UK. We managed a long weekend in Edinburgh and Northumberland and then… we… returned to Northumberland for 3 days just one month later. 

Now these dots… you see… right there are put there for dramatic effect. For you see ladies and gentiles, I do not return to a place unless it has captured a piece of my whole actual being. 

There are few places that have done so, not being funny, once I’ve decided I’m going somewhere I GO ALL OUT, I’m seeing everything it has to offer, who knows if I’ll be able to go back? Why would I want to take the risk? So when Mr W and I decided to return to Northumberland one month after our first visit I was shaken. (And we’re going back in June 2022. Oops) 

You know what this amazing place did? It shocked me. First it’s in the UK, yep, and there’s me never bothering with home travel because, well I need a plane to call it a holiday. Unless I’m going up in the air, I’m still home, I’m in England, I don’t wanna be where I was born and bred! I wanna be right over there! Across the water, over mountain passes, tray table up, no peanuts. 

Second, I don’t hike, I don’t scramble, I don’t wander. But you will have caught me scramble down a rocky waterfall on my arse, dirty, soaked through and smiling. Laughing. Happy.

Not a shop in sight. No selfie stick welding tourists. Not even a car park destination. Just a field and a slight path trodden into a boggy hill. 

And I tell you this, I’ve never felt more awake to the possibilities. 

Northumberland has wonders even the locals don’t know about. Take Crammel Linn for example. A colossal cascade of water over a dark deep pool of water. The noise is enormous and an assault of the ears. But let’s not start there. Let’s start with finding this place. There are no signs, our B&B lady had never heard of it and its starting point is on MOD (ministry of defence, I’m sure you knew that but I didn’t up until 3 years ago, eep) land. Great start!

We find ourselves driving through winding lanes and across a beautiful bridge and then onto seemingly nowhere. I find the sign for MOD land and know it’s somewhere close. The only hint that we are in the right place is an old wooden sign pointing down a sloping field. We don our hiking boots, I would live in these bad boys if they didn’t scream MUUUUUD, and we take the first steps into the boggy wetland that is the path. There’s the odd plank of wood submerged in the watery, mossy ground, and I pray we aren’t in the wrong place. It is windy, no, that’s the wrong word, an invisible wrestler is pushing me back to the car and for good measure he has a misting spray levelled at my face. It is blindingly ferocious weather and yet we trudge on. We will see this waterfall. We will endeavour. And then, my arse falls out. We’ve reached what can only be described as the rockiest steep drop off I’ve ever seen. It’s an open field, the fence is at the bottom of the slope ahead and it’s wet. The rocks jutting out are threatening to gouge my legs apart and the fence has barbed wire. Mr W goes first and he leads me down. After several hundred ‘I can’t do’ moments we reach the fence. It takes me another 10 minutes to climb over the stile, which, I shit you not shook like a defecating dog and being on a slope was vastly different heights on either side. I’m 5ft5 and yet standing on that stile looking down I was an uncomfortable 7ft5! Did I mention there was barbed wire running along the top too? Honestly you couldn’t make this up. So, off the stile, onto a single foot track running beside the fence and a steep slope leading into an abyss of bramble and bushes. Lovely. But what is that I hear? Through the wind, I hear a cataclysmic sound of falling water. Before we can see the waterfall it’s just a hop, skip and a fracture down an even dodgier zig zag of a slope mounted with loose soil, large slippery rocks and nothing to hold onto. My god, what a journey! 

And then there it was. One of nature’s gifts to the world. A crash of water against water. A huge monolith of stone at the mercy of the rushing river. Once my legs retained their blood flow, we sat down and raided the trusty backpack for supplies. I couldn’t tell you what we ate, but it was likely crisps, water and some kind of sugar sent from heaven to keep my body from crumpling. 

As we sat there, the weather changed and the glorious Northumberland sun shone for us. A robin danced in the shadows and I was swept away by the solitude of the moment. 

I wasn’t thinking of washing or work, food shopping or chores, gardening or social calendars. I wasn’t thinking of much, my mind for the first time since before the pandemic had found peace. It turns out to drown out the noise of your daily life, you just need to find a louder noise. The wind, the rain and the waterfall. My daily life never really stood a chance. We sat until our bodies warmed slightly in the sun and then said our goodbyes. It was a special moment; our first UK waterfall! 

I listen now to the birds in the trees, and realise we aren’t so different. When it’s time to switch our minds off, we just need a new environment, a crazy adventure and somewhere else to call home. Even if it’s just for an hour in the lap of a waterfall. 

Photo taken by me at Crammel Linn, Northumberland. 

Please find other photos on Instragam @frameworktravel