Tag: anxiety

Through the fire and the rain

Well we survived.

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

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

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

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

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

Pink hair do care

Tomorrow is a big day. 

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

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

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

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

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

Go Love Yourself

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

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

Isn’t this a fun post? 

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

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

7 billion reasons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pcos and the feelings of failure

Living with PCOS will always be challenging. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please visit these blogs to find out more:

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

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

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

Photo by Dave Watson

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

The mental health butterfly

I saw a butterfly fly past me towards the park today. Mr W and I were heading out for our evening run. Recent events have seen me a blubbering mess and frankly such a hideous sight should be locked away behind blinds, windows and panelled doors. But our evening plans to run were calling and I needed something positive to happen. The butterfly was quite large, its colours were so bright I stopped for a moment to watch its flight. 

I usually people-watch while I run, mostly to stop me from running into them, or to make sure they see me coming. There are many times in which I indulge in people-watching. On the beach, in restaurants and in shops to name a few. However, there are only ever a few times in my life that watching has turned to interaction. I remember leaving work one day, years ago, I was lost in thought and consequently a little old lady walked straight into me. No fault of either really, her eyes were on her misguided feet, mine were in the clouds. I apologised profusely, and she said “there are worse things dear” and tottered off.

I wasn’t sure if she meant that having her stocking gathered around her ankle was the worst thing or that an accident on a token sunny afternoon was really such a big deal. How often do we stress about the small stuff until it becomes this spewing volcano in our not so bad lives? I remember a visitor to my office during that time that had lost her husband recently.  She had two children. Both girls. The older one had graduated a few months after they lost him. Having been through University myself I know how much it meant to have my parents around when I graduated. Telling them the results, taking the photos in my cap and gown and simply being able to make them proud. The younger girl in that family faced moments without her dad. It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Tonight, and most of this week to be fair, I’ve had my fair share of wobbles. Emotionally I’m not where I would like to be. The world feels isolated from me. I couldn’t manage our run. It’s the first time I’ve physically not been able to move. My legs wouldn’t cooperate and my brain couldn’t force them on. Maybe because mentally I’m at a stalemate too. I sat on a bench staring at the trees wondering what the answer was. Mr W sat beside me and I felt so ashamed. To feel so lost and searching for an answer. I’m not unhappy. My life is so blessed in so many beautiful ways. But there are times when I can’t see the good, when I can’t find myself. This week has been one of those times. 

As we left, well hobbled, out of the park, we saw a car with its hazard lights on pull over to the curb. The man jumped out of the car and looked as though he would throw up in the bushes. Seconds later, he was half kneeling half squatting and Mr W went to investigate. An unmarked police car sped by with his lights flashing as I crossed the road to see if I could do anything. I offered the man water and as quick as my banged up legs would take me I rushed home. I returned with fruit, biscuits and water as Mr W kept an eye out. We stayed until the man felt well enough to drive to work and quit for the night to go home and then we carried on our way. Mr W expressed shock that the police hadn’t pulled over to ask if everything was okay. I said they probably didn’t realise what was going on. It made me realise that mental health will never be addressed until we ask for help. If we had waved down the police I would think they would have stopped. If I wave down Mr W, family, friends, they will stop and help me. They just don’t know how. And neither do I. 

It’s only when I stop and think of the people who too are going through a difficult time and what I would do to help them that I realise I’m not so isolated from the world. Because I too have help when I need it. I just need to ask. Naturally there are going to be things in life and people in life that make us cry, push us down and make us question if we are the person we would like to be. Am I a bad person? Is my bad mental health my own fault?

I’ve suffered for so many years with questions. So many questions that make me doubt who I am to myself and to others. Because these questions are never answered I close myself off. Even when the questions are answered I don’t trust them. Why do I fail so hard when it comes to my own mental and physical health? Why can’t my body do what I tell it to?

More questions.

I want to believe one day I’ll break free of my cocoon, where I’ve spent so long growing and adapting, that I too will be able to rise above the questions and avoid bumping into the old ladies. I’ll have the ability to not sweat the small stuff, to view it from a higher perspective and be content just admiring the view. I just need to ask for help. And not feel ashamed for doing so. One day I’ll find my wings. 

Letter to our future baby

I wish you were here.

You just need to be here in my arms. Looking up at me. Me and you. Your dad is next to you. You are just sitting. Living. Breathing in this world where we are. I feel like I know your face. I know your noises. I can feel your touch. I have seen it in my mind a million times. You’re real. There are times I feel I’m starting to lose who I am because who I am doesn’t make sense without you. You are what we hope for everyday. There’s so much love just waiting for you. Love for you from everyone. You have no idea how much you will be loved when you are here. It just seems so hard. So impossible to think of you actually being here. I don’t know how long it will take and I’m scared of it never happening. 

This road, this journey we are on, just feels like it’s never going to start. That it’s never going to end. Such a long road with its twists and turns and u-turns that I’m just not strong enough to take for much longer. I’m not even worried about an announcement or a baby shower. It’s just holding you. I think once I hold you, I’ll never let go. I’d never want to give you up. And never let you down.

I feel like I’ve let your dad down. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. There is so much love for someone I’ve not even met. Someone who isn’t even alive. You are an idea. A wish. To be a mother is something I never ever wanted before and  now that I do it’s all I think about. My life is just one big distraction. 

I feel like I’m failing as a wife. That all the joy is just a mirage. A fake smile. 

I can see you growing up. Walking around this house. I see where your crib would be. Where your toys would lay on the floor. You’d be outside, where you’d run in the sun, playing.

I see you meeting your nan and your grandad for the first time. See Christmases and Birthdays. They all play out in my mind. I see that joy on your dad’s face. Nothing else compares. I wonder if this heartache will end. There’s such a small part of me that thinks it won’t and I’m scared. If our hopes don’t magic you into life what will happen? Wanting you is like no other feeling. Ever. I’m scared of what it means if you don’t become real.

I see your face in my dreams. 

Hot chocolate in the clouds

The Duomo calls!

We wake early to wander in the deep set shadows of this monolith in central Florence. There are very few people around and we are exceptionally early for its 10am opening. Entrance is free and I anticipate a crowd, but first, we need coffee. 

 A small restaurant is open in the shadows of the Duomo and with outdoor seating we are drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The piazza has that early morning eerie feeling and my excitement is building. In little under an hour we will be walking through the doors of one of the most incredible buildings I have ever seen. The sun is rising higher in the sky as our coffee is brought out in an actual mug! You know the ones I mean, the kind that adorns the souvenir shops shelves and this one has the building in front of me on it. I’m so used to the typical white coffee cups out here I’m taken aback and reminded of my mum who takes her own mugs when travelling because the cups normally supplied are too small! But not this one. Gazing up at the Duomo slowly being unearthed from the shadows, I take a deep glug of coffee. Oh, this is good. The drink. The view. The atmosphere of this place. It’s like I’m sitting at the base of a mountain looking up and every single square metre is different. The light and shadows are dancing around each other. 

It reminds me of my walk around Ayers Rock in Uluru. It started at 4am, something that back in 2013, I could never fathom, the day had not even begun. The hotel and the world outside was still asleep. The coach drove through the silent outback to the dark mass in the distance. We stopped in completely black scenery. The 12km trek began as the inky black night was turning a lighter shade of indigo. The magnificent rock transformed each and every minute that the rising sun moved from the horizon. Black rock became deep browns and blushing reds before the light hit the stone and turned it the same colour as the ground we walked on. The terracotta reds mingled with the ambers and burnt oranges. Ayers Rock, Uluru, had jumped into life before us. 

Out of the shadows before us, the Duomo shines, arriving into the new day. The coffee is the secondary star of the show, and my last gulp of it is drunk lukewarm. Tut tut. From where we are sitting, on the sidelines, we can’t see the front door, so at 9:30am with our bums numb from sitting and staring for so long, we shake off the cobwebs and head around the building. The queue already forming is impressive and we find ourselves a part of it snaking around the North side of the piazza.  

The shadows are long here and I pray that the queue moves fast. 10am comes around and the queue slowly moves ahead, they count people in and out, whether or not this is a covid rule I’m unsure, but for my own anxieties I am glad there won’t be too many people inside. Masks on, it is our turn. I take one more look up at the carved coloured marble marvel and step inside. I am shocked. As decorated as the exterior is, is how simple the interior is found. Walls are creamy white between the tall stone pillars and the floor is respectfully tasteful. The interior of the Dome is painted beautifully and reminds me of the paintings we saw in the Vatican. I’m taken back by its simplicity, but in a way I understand, this is a place of worship, it doesn’t need the bells and whistles, they are outside. 

We leave and head towards more sustenance. Breakfast! The sky is a picture perfect blue and the small clouds of the early morning have travelled away to distant places. The Duomo is bathing in light and the awe of the bigger crowds that have awoken. We wander the streets until we step into the Piazza della Repubblica. Walking past a small podium, we realise it elevates a small metal map of Florence. It is very detailed and I trace our footsteps through the city so far. It is an impressive addition to the square. As the sun shines down I gaze longingly at the carousel. Its horses with their feathered plumes gleam in the morning light and the gilded gold glints. I do love a carousel. I feel the pangs of nervousness in my stomach and forego the experience and head on to something special. 

Coffee with a rooftop view can be found at Caffe La Terrazza, in Rinascente, a Macy’s like department store. Just minutes away from the carousel this is something that I’ve hidden from Mr W most. We head up to level 6 past clothing and homeware and are greeted by two smartly dressed waitresses. Mr W looks at me with confusion flooding his features. We are led up a small set of stairs onto a very small rooftop with a dozen or so chairs. We are alone. Mr W orders a pastry and a coffee. My inner child who moaned at my retreat from the carousel orders a hot chocolate at 10:30am. I love her dearly for that. We sit in the corner closest to the Duomo. Here the rooftops feel so close I could touch them. I am transfixed by the colours of this city. The ever present red roof tile splayed out covering the city buildings and the mountains of green, pink and white marble erupting at its centre. We are a few minutes walk from its walls and yet if I just lean over the wall here, ever so slightly, reaching out my arm, I’m sure I could press my hand against her cool surface. I am hypnotised.  

The clouds have returned, and I am grateful, drinking a hot drink in the sun feels wrong. But, oh, the hot chocolate, it is thick enough to spread on a cracker and it is glorious. The cup is tiny and is that a sigh of relief I hear? This ‘drink’ is amazing but any bigger and it could be mistaken for a fondue and I’d be asking for strawberries. We take in the view and ask each other whether we should order another drink. Surely this is the best view in Florence, how is this place not busy? We don’t want to leave, even though the city itself is still recovering from the lost tourism and the roads aren’t quieter than we are used to in the Uk, up on this roof, we are relaxed and away from the minor hustle and bustle. Up here, it doesn’t feel like a city break, we could be anywhere among the clouds and breathing deep. Not wanting to risk getting too much of a good thing, we leave, and head back into a fully awake city centre. 

Today is definitely a slower paced day. It happens to be our wedding anniversary. What a start! 

Food and fretting in Florence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith in Florence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow and steady, what’s that?

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

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

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

And then there’s Scotland. 

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

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

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

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

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