Tag: Australia

Sydney Harbour Bridge

Looking down through the enormous structure I saw the cars speeding by. Below these the harbour of Sydney glittered in the sunlight. If I thought about the bridge’s height I may have not walked its arch to its summit. But I did.

The Sydney Harbour bridge stands at 440 feet high from the waters level and stretches 160 feet across the harbour itself. The steel of the bridge weighs over 52,000 tonnes and has four gigantic concrete pillars to support its massive size. Just another walk in the park eh?

In February 2013, my mum and I undertook a mammoth trip to Australia and our last stop was Sydney. Wandering the city meant constantly being in the shadow of the skyscrapers but out on the harbours you really felt the fresh air return to your lungs. We spent a lot of time wandering the harbour and exploring the beaches by ferry and bus. It was so intricate with its coves and tree and rock dotted cliffs that it was hard to turn away from. The islands of the harbour itself were stunning and for a few hours we whiled away our time on Shark Island, just the two of us. As the only visitors we were the king of our own castle and it felt very strange to be on such a small piece of land in one of the most known harbours in the entire world. 

Sydney has many jewels in her crown and yet no one can deny the alluring pull of the Harbour bridge. Seeing in the New Year before many of us it is the emblem of future celebrations. Climbing the bridge began in 1988 and now it was our turn. 

Nervous about a new and potentially physically tiring experience, we approached the offices for our time slot. The guys leading the walk were so friendly and enthusiastic it was hard to find time to be scared. These guys literally put you through the paces by bringing out a replica staircase for you to practise your moves on. You need to practise in order to get used to the belt and harness you wear that is attached to the static line on the bridge that keeps you safe. Connecting points of the static line require the climber to tug slightly on the ball mechanism that otherwise glides on its way. With a few staircases to navigate, and all at different heights within the bridge, they want everyone to feel as comfortable as possible and therein the rehearsal makes sense. Practise makes perfect and all that.

Next came the styling. Standing around with our group, the ‘dude’ in charge gathered our climbing outfits and said it would be wise to keep just our underwear on underneath. Intrigued, we took the offerings of clothing and stepped into the makeshift dressing rooms. The material of the climbing attire reminded me of the shell suits I have seen in 80’s movies and I wondered how my body would fare in the midday heat. The ankle and wrist cuffs were elasticated and gathered in. I wondered if my shell suit would become a sweat suit. Thinking that climbing the bridge was hardly a fashion parade made wearing the blue and grey suits a tad easier. A tad. To keep items from dropping to the road below, our hats, sunglasses, sweat cloth and earphones were all attached to the clothing. It all felt very technical. 

The lead was taken by a member of staff who was able to talk us through the walk with his mouthpiece that transmitted to our walkie talkie style set ups. We emerged from the training area onto the steels of the inner bridge. Attached to it securely gave reason to relax. Focus at first was on the left right left right march of our feet until we were told a duck and step over was needed. A steel girder blocked the way ahead for both feet and head. And you therefore have to take a large step over while ducking your head under. The man in front of me turned to say something to his companion and hit his head clear into the steel beam. The ‘dong’ sound rang out dull and loud under the roadway. 

The climb itself passes without much trouble. Even the steps up and over the bridge are not enough trouble to be called taxing. They are very shallow steps which makes the whole process that much easier. It is a shame you cannot take a camera with you as every step warrants a snap of the lens. 

As you reach the top of the bridge you are graced with the wind sent by the gods to cool down your slick body. Assumptions were right, in those suits, there is no place for sweat to escape. At the top you are given enough time to pause. And what a reason to pause in life. High above the cars, boats and water of this powerhouse of a city you are an ant. An ant with the most incredible sweeping views. The harbour stretches to the Tasmanian sea and beyond. Ferries moor up beside cruise ships. People look up at you from the shadows of the Opera House and Mrs Macquaries chair. 

It is a strange feeling to behold the world from such an icon. You feel both insignificant and important all at the same time. Insignificant due to its dominance against your own in this world and important enough to be allowed to straddle its history and power. You quite literally feel on top of the world. 

At first you don’t accept that you have done it, but when you cross the middle of the bridge and start your descent, you realise it is over. That thing you were most nervous about was amazing and you’d, quite frankly, do it again in a heartbeat. On the descent, you find you have to go down a staircase backwards, watching the others go first shows you just what pace to take and your nerves are beaten. As you reach the top, a bottle of water is poured behind a whirring fan and its drenching, coolness brings your face back to life. It was not 15 minutes ago when the wind froze the smile on your face as you posed for the photographer at the bridge’s highest point. The smile has been there since. 

The climb was everything you hadn’t expected. It was so much more in every single way. 

Taking flight

Spontaneity is a dream of mine that never really has a chance to happen. Whether it be money, anxiety or time it always falls by the wayside. 

When visiting Australia in 2013 I picked up a guide to Melbourne at the airport and found several vouchers offering 10% off here and a free gift there. I’ve never really seen the point in free vouchers because they often have a read between the lines agreement. However one stood out to me and we had kept at least half a day free in each place so we could explore. The 2 for 1 voucher was for a Yarra river cruise and I was excited to see the city from the water. I do love boats!

I had already looked into the cruises from home but they didn’t really appeal. Maybe it was the fact it took us off our feet and yet we would still see the city. At $29 for both of us it wasn’t something to sniff at. The boat ride wouldn’t take long and it looked like a great way to while away a few hours. After a pleasant tour down river we docked at Gem Pier in Williamstown; a quaint little village which used to be Melbourne’s main port before its size couldn’t cope with the intake. With a short time to kill we headed into the main street until an enticing sign caught our eye.

Next thing I know we are onboard a four seater seaplane flying over the beaches of St Kilda and Port Phillip. There seemed to be a devil may care attitude on our second day in Australia and the short trip cost us $145 each. Brighton beach had amazingly colourful beach huts which took me back to the seaside boltholes we had back in the UK. Similarly to home, these cost a huge amount of money, some at $400,000!  The views were stunning and the pilot was a hoot. His name was Rodney and I was reminded of the nickname my dad had given Mr W the first time he had met him.  We saw our hotel from the air and the Melbourne Gran Prix track was pointed out. The budget was tight and I knew I’d be on rations for a while but wearing a headset to talk to each other while in flight was brilliant and when the plane turned on its side I felt my cares melt away. The short 10 minute flight was over so fast and soon enough the plane was bumping over the rolling waves. All smiles we walked back into Williamstown and grabbed a quick fish and chip lunch. We sat in a pavilion to avoid the sea birds and took in the scene. 

It is a moment that wasn’t marred by anxiety or questioning. I think of it fondly when I see a plane in the sky and when I see waves lapping against a shore. A moment long ago that gives me promise for spontaneous times ahead. Over and out.  

Michaelmas Cay

Michaelmas Cay can be found just off the coast of Cairns, Australia. It forms part of the Michaelmas Reef in the much larger Great Barrier Reef of which I am sure you have heard of. When I think of paradise I often think of this place in particular. In all of my travels I am yet to find a whiter sand and a bluer sea. I guess I will have to keep trying!

Our time in Cairns was much like a love story. Everything felt so perfect. From the hotel you could see the man made lagoon in which you could relax and cool off from the humidity of the day. Beyond that there was the Coral Sea with all its beauty and danger. The beauty, again I’m sure, does not need explaining. But the danger, well, you wouldn’t like to go swimming in it. The mangroves of the surrounding marshes are the perfect habitat for Australia’s creatures. They buffer the waves of the sea and make it a safer place to live. The roots of the mangroves arc and twist their way into the waters and from the surface look like nests. A perfect hiding place for the animals that call it home. Crocodiles and jellyfish come and go easily between the sea and marshes and swimming in both is strictly prohibited. Hence the man-made lagoon. I did not have to be told twice!

On one particular trip we jumped aboard a catamaran, ‘Ocean Spirit Cruise’, to be exact and headed out into the unknown. The water we were gliding on was the deepest blue I’ve ever seen and yet so light in the sun that it felt only metres deep. I have often tried to explain the colour to people and fall short, but just now, it has hit me. The water was like a sapphire. A sapphire that had caught the light. Glistening and all so encapsulating. Looking down into the water, my stomach dropped as I saw a white plastic bag floating in the waters. We were then alerted by the captain to all the jellyfish that were alongside us in the waves. Ah, so not plastic, just a terrifying floating death machine. Okie dokie. There were hundreds of them. Not huge in size, but large in numbers. Did I really want to go into the water today?

The wind whipped my hair around my face as the sun rose in the sky and I thought about our destination. A small sandy island from which to swim. Wetsuits and flippers on, we stepped from the sand into the shallow waters. The scene was crystal clear as we swam over the white sands of the seabed. Ahead there were small schools of fish. Shaped like Angel fish and pearlescent my eye was drawn to their beauty until their flittish nature made them dart away. I remember swimming lazily in the cool waters long enough that I wondered how far I had drifted. Righting myself, I gazed around to find myself only 30 metres or so from the island. The water hadn’t got much deeper and yet a turtle found it necessary to check out the commotion. He was fast. Much faster than I and once I spotted a jellyfish I knew it was time to take a breather. Swimming back to the shore was very lazy indeed and when I felt the seabed brush against my stomach I realised it was shallow enough to stand. 

On the beach, the sand was as cool to the touch as the sea was. The wind was carrying away the heat of the day and I wondered what my face would look like later on. Sunkissed or cousin to a beetroot. As tranquil as the waters were is how deafening the beach was. The island is a major nesting sight for a variety of terns and at my best guess I would say there were over 2000 birds. They lined up along the sands like soldiers. The beach rose from the waves for about 4 metres until a rope drew the line between us and them. We were guests. They were home. I found that it did not detract from the day. It only made it all the more tangible. It felt as if we had been plonked into a storyline of this country. Between the water, the waves and the nature we had one of the most beautiful snapshots to take home. The atmosphere was electric with life. 

To prove that all life was here a tern found its way to our shadows on the sand. It was not scared. It did not want to move away. As this was a nature reserve we knew it would be wrong to touch it. For the briefest of moments, we acknowledged that the bird was probably ill. And so we left it alone in our shadows. It had found peace and when we left, the on-site ranger took it from the sand and placed it beyond the rope. To this day I remember the life and death cycle of that island and how much it taught me to be in the moment. That we are all linked. It was a very humbling experience and it felt like time had slowed down. The white noise of the squawking birds and the breaking waves became a dome around us and our thoughts. I did not feel sad or happy, but a realisation of how much we can experience in such a short amount of time. 

Back on the boat, we waved goodbye to the Great Barrier Reef and the Coral Sea. It would be the last time we would see its waters. As the boat pulled away from the Cay, its small stature disappeared as the waves rose above it and the horizon pulled it from view. 

To divert attention away from our last night in Queensland, we visited the lagoon to cool off. It was busy and we found ourselves sitting and sharing the silence of our thoughts. Not too long after arrival the clouds sent down a heavy rain and the lagoon’s occupants raced for the shelter of the trees. I remember wondering why they were avoiding the rain whilst swimming in a lagoon. Wet is wet right? 

Suitably cool enough, we turned our backs on the two waters of Cairns and headed to our hotel to pack. The day had left us with a lot of love for Australia and its inhabitants. A lot of love, awe and true humility. 

Limits

It is day 876,352 of having Covid. 

Really, in actual fact, it is day 5 of testing positive. My life hasn’t changed apart from missing one day of work and allowing myself to watch as much tv as possible until my body needs sleep. Today has been a busy day considering that on Saturday I slept for over 20 hours. I woke up and no longer felt the fatigue in my bones. So I grabbed the laptop and started ploughing through the to-do list for our next big trip. 

To be fair it is a small list at this point, but two hours in and one of the days on the trip had transformed completely. Out of the 14 mornings while we are away, most of them start before 7:30am. In fact, most start at 6am. Paint me shocked. Tell the girl from 10 years ago who’s days usually started at lunchtime. Mr W has definitely had an impact. 

The plans I looked at today were busy enough to have us doing three big hikes starting at 6am. There’s maybe one day when we need to start at 5am to drive for two hours to witness the sunrise and I don’t mind it as a one off, but there are certain limitations when it comes to the body. Hell, in January, after a fortnight of deep research and planning for this trip, my limit light was blinking and my brain shut down! So, doing an endless fortnight of 14 hour days of photography, walking, driving and battling all the elements is going to be exhausting. So, when I found myself cutting parts out of the day in question, I was pleasantly surprised at how calm I was. When it comes to travelling I rarely know my limits. I will be up and ready for a long day and I will never go back to a hotel without completing an itinerary. It’s how I’m built. 

Or at least how I thought I was built. Today’s cut, pastes and deletes were owed to something new I found to do near Ben Nevis, a place which opens a lot later than the rest of Scotland. This caused a shift in the day’s plans and meant taking two things off the agenda. It made me choose between events rather than force myself to do everything. In light of these changes, I realised that we would be too late to another event and with a quick ‘delete’ and an ‘Oh well’ I made the necessary adjustments. This is not me!

Also, I know how frustrating it might be for me to sound so vague, but I really want my first experience of telling you about our trip to Scotland to sound fresh, so keeping details back as much as possible is really important. Stay tuned!

It’s not that I haven’t had limits before, I have, I’ve dragged my arse across Australia feeling tired up to my eyeballs. I’ve forced my feet up and down the avenues of New York because the itinerary calls for it. My limits are screaming at me like warning bells and I hear them, I just pretend I don’t.

It’s only since travelling in this country and the changes that lockdown brought about that the voice inside my head with all warnings about limits has started to make sense. In our personal lives we’ve even started to block out weekends so we can be at home, together, with nothing else to do. Inevitably, when I get a message asking if I’m free on those blocked out days, I will feel awful about saying we aren’t available because I’m a 1000% committed people pleaser. Being a people pleaser has ultimately stopped me looking after myself in situations and in turn neglecting Mr W. His limits are often dictated by my own. And that is not fair. Saying no to people is a crushing feeling. Especially as I never have. There’s a mass of guilt that swarms over me everytime I do. And that in particular is something I have to work on.

It just so happens that the weekend just past was blocked out. We needed to do this so we could spend some much needed time in the house we pay a mortgage for because June saw us come and go like passengers at a railway station. And then we got covid and were home anyway. Maybe fete stepped in and missed the memo.

During lockdown we found it hard at first to sit still, but as the weeks dragged on we found comfort in these walls. And as the world began to open up, we found ourselves dreading going backwards into the fray of events. It’s a complicated feeling. It isn’t the events that are the problem. It’s the sheer number of them. It’s knowing your limits. There came a time where we’d be seeing people for brunch on a Saturday morning, after a heavy night out the Friday, running a quick errand before seeing family on the Saturday afternoon and then heading out that night. Repeating ourselves on Sunday. Time flew and it felt difficult to enjoy it. How could we be in the moment, when we were thinking of where we had to race off to next?

When lockdown ended in July 2020, I particularly found it difficult to return to normal. To hug again, close the window and enter the crowds. An afternoon with friends was beautiful and yet saw me sleeping after the exposure to filled hours. Since we’ve put a curb on our weekends, we feel lighter and have to remind ourselves that doing things on other weekends shouldn’t be classed as ‘busy’ but ‘enjoyable’ instead. Yes, we still get rather busy, but it isn’t work, it is socialising. It’s freedom. It’s life. 

For the first time in my life, I’m appreciating the limits before they appear. I realise now that the fear of limiting your life, your time, yourself is very real. Push just a bit harder. Strive for more. You can do it. However there is a very large part of life that calls for boundaries and the ability to say no. It is self preservation. It is knowing that no matter how hard you try, keeping the pace is not always possible. Saying no every once in a while has to be a good thing. Choosing to stop instead of being forced to stop is always going to be win-win. Lockdown taught us that. And for that I am grateful.  

Photo by Dave Watson

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

Scattered skies

Picture the scene. It’s 10pm. You’ve eaten lots of BBQ food and you’re being called into the darker parts of the landscape. Light is fading and you are wondering what could possibly hold such an interest. The random torches go out and around you, necks are bent, heads are up. 

Above you is a star strewn sky like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It is quite literally a blanket. Scatters of diamonds glittering away. The milky way in all of its glory. Below you your feet are set into the red dirt of the outback shrouded in complete darkness. You cannot see anything in front of you. The only light pollution you’ll find here is the twinkle of the stars looking on from a million miles away.  

I have been enamoured with the night sky since that moment 9 years ago in Australia. I’d never fully appreciated the concept of a true dark sky until that night. I always thought it was good to see the big dipper when I was out and about in England. That felt like a treat. Now I know what hides behind the clouds. What fades away because of surrounding streetlights. Back then I thought I captured absolutely everything on my camera and yet I have no photos of that night. I’ve tried so hard to describe it to people and I never seem to do it justice. The only other time I’ve ever seen anything remarkably close is when walking along a freshly tarmacked pavement when snow has just started to fall. The specks of white snow stand out starkly against the black backdrop and as more falls it reminds me of the Australian skies. 

Chasing a memory is all good and well but when Mr W said there were ‘dark skies’ areas around the UK I found myself wanting to chase stars again. 

It started with a visit to Thirsk in North Yorkshire, just a simple overnight visit on our way to Edinburgh. After a smooth 5 hour drive we dumped our bags and headed to Sutton Bank Visitor Centre. It is a beautiful area with just a short climb up the hill to see over the Yorkshire Moors. With sunlight fading fast Mr W set up his camera and waited for darkness. It was not necessarily the darkest sky I’ve ever seen, the towns below cast a glow upwards and it didn’t hit the proverbial spot. Seeing the moths attack a head torch wearing Mr W made my trip worthwhile and we left laughing. 

Our next attempt was only a month later in Northumberland National Park. A location very high on the list of dark sky spots online. Our lodge had a dedicated garden area just for the occasion and we spent a very cold hour outside watching for stars. Here is where Mr W triumphs and my inability to be patient fails me. As I’ve learned from our recent visit to Northumberland, the sun setting at 9/10pm doesn’t necessarily mean dark skies. In fact only last week did the horizon continue its illuminations well past midnight. Very strange indeed. However back in September 2021 at 10pm the sun had truly disappeared and we were blessed with a clear, albeit cold, night sky. Mr W got all the gadgets out and whizzed away setting everything up. And then there’s me. This wasn’t Australia. No blanket of stars to see via the naked eye. Just the odd star pinpointed here and there covering your peripheral sight with your elbow because this dark sky spot had a porch light activated by movement. You have to laugh, you really do. I felt like a fox being caught sneaking into a chicken coop everytime I moved. We did in fact have a lovely time, aside from my complaining, watching the planets. I seem to remember it was Jupiter that appeared in the sky and even to this naked eye, it was pretty impressive. 

One day it will happen. Maybe in Scotland. The highlands are supposed to be some of the Uk’s best dark skies locations. With villages being very small and untroubled by streetlights I think there’s a good chance my patience will be rewarded. 

I’m also aiming to be on high alert for some Northern light tracking. I have an app set up on my phone to alert me to the perfect conditions and will (WILL!) drag Mr W and our sorry arses out of our rented bed to the night-time skies to see the colours dance once more. 

Dancing skies of lights or stars seem to hold an interest with me. I think it’s where your eyes can roam and your mind can rest. Where your feet stay still and yet you feel transported. Ultimately, that’s something to be patient for. 

Scattered minds rest while gazing at scattered skies. 

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

Feeling hot, hot, hot!

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

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

So why is it so hard to keep cool here?

Are our homes built differently?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Game. Changer!

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

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

Penguins and Cockatoos

With the celebratory weekend behind us, I’ve been reminded that the last Jubilee was in 2012. I have been scratching my head in befuddled bemusement as I simply do not remember how or where I was during the event. I’ll let it go as it was a big year for the UK and I’m sure it got caught up in the melee. We hosted the Olympics and the summer was spent fawning over the many medals Great Britain accumulated. It was also the year I booked my huge 2013 trip to Australia and therefore spent the majority of the year crossing off days on every available calendar, bent over a computer researching and planning and squirrelling money away like Scrooge himself.

It’s as I remember Australia that I am drawn back to two particular memorable high points…

I spent the majority of Day 3 in Melbourne soaked with salt water and smelling of sweat and sun cream. Nice image, I know. The sun beat down unforgivingly and if I paused to notice I’m unaware of it now. With 7 stops on our tour around the Melbourne coast we were witness to our first Australian delights. Most of the ‘delights’ were made more so by my forgetting that they were included in the pre-booked tour; the wildlife centre with a $10 cuddle from a huge 9yr old Koala being one of these. As we scoured the scorched bush for Wallabies we were greeted with a chilled out Kangaroo and it slowly dawned on me what we have got ourselves into. Australia had arrived rather under our feet than we had arrived in it! After all, once a wallaby simply hops out of the bush and grabs your extended hand to have his breakfast, of pellets not human flesh, you rapidly forget yourself and drown in all that is Australia. Additional unexpected experiences came in the form of Woolamai Beach and the typical ‘Ozzie surfer’. I didn’t know whether to run into the surf or help them with their surfboards. OKAY OKAY, I ran into the surf, rather a typical Ozzie than an Essex girl any day. Although this Essex girl did stare… only slightly, but overcome by the ‘small’ waves and I was back on track.

The beauty of this place is how dedicated they are to protect their country and all its inhabitants. Witness to this first and foremost during the penguin parade on Phillip Island; we were told to sit, not stand, and to see but not capture (on camera) the unique little penguins that raced up the beach to their nests. This was all to prevent ‘spooking’ the little waddlers and allowing them to live a semi-normal life. Who else can say that on their rat race home there are hundreds of people watching you? Unfortunately, a lot of our fellow tourists didn’t find the same respect for our lil black and white waddlers and stood up, blocking our view and preventing their homecoming, whenever they could. I’m proud to admit that out of anger for lack of viewing space, but more out of respect for the penguins, I told one ‘serial stander’ to SIT DOWN. I realise now it’s my own compulsive need to be a rule follower that gives me the proverbial balls to approach people in this way. ‘Look mate, the penguins are just trying to get home, so sit down, yeah? There’s a good chap.’ Otherwise, I really don’t say boo to even a goose. After a vast majority of the crowds had seen their first glimpse of the lil guys they upped and left, so we were able to move down to the front and witness the amazing spectacle within about a 5 metre distance. It makes me smile even now to remember the extra time we took to drink it all in. Above us the jewels of the Southern hemisphere sparkled and trailed across the sky and in front of us the waters gave birth to these funky little creatures. And I couldn’t stop smiling.

The smiling continued on the next day, so easily you would think it had been pinned to my cheek bones. Set off by the morning sunlight pouring through the surrounding mountain ash trees in the Dandenong Ranges the cockatoos on my arms were a stark white colour that shone as bright as sunlight on snow.  And we were due to feed them their breakfast.  Our coach driver John was kind enough to mention that holding the large, metal feed tray out, up high and level would prevent their sharp beaks from clipping at their favourite part of the human hand. Seeds, food. Hands, not. But what he neglected to say was just how heavy six or SEVEN of these birds could be! With a thick hooded jumper around my shoulders and my backpack straps also acting as a barrier, their claws clung to me as they squawked and shrieked to get at the seeds. It was hard to focus on anything but them once you saw their plumage and sunlight yellow crests up close. Their eyes were constantly on the lookout for more ‘victims’ entering the feeding area with a silver tray held high and glancing around us, I 

remember my mind taking a snapshot. The sun streaming through the giant trees reaching upwards of 75 metres, the birds, the fresh air and the happiness all flooding the space. 

Australia had welcomed me with sunlight, surf, style and a few small scars from my new white and yellow friends. 

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. 

Lockdown in retrospect

Lockdown. Lockdown. Lockdown.

What does that even mean anymore? 

Does it mean we get angry at the neighbours who bypass the guidelines to suit themselves?

Does it mean we have fears that life will never return to what was once ‘normal’? 

Normal for me is travelling. Normal for me is freedom. Plan a trip. Buy an airline ticket. Pack a backpack and go. If I’ve learnt anything the past 10 weeks it’s that there is no normal anymore. They are the words from everyone’s lips. Online. On the phone. From a conversation at a socially accepted distance.

Social distance. Lockdown. Corona Virus. Words you never thought could cause so much pain and upset in this lifetime. Unprecedented is another one. Something so large in scale it stopped the world in its tracks. Like never experienced before. I’m sure the Spanish Flu had the same amount of impact on the human race in terms of fear and confusion. However it is down to the technology capabilities we have today that news is manipulated on a greater scale and reaches around the world quicker than anything else on this planet. So what do we do?

One of the first things I’ve done is to stop reading the news. In the initial weeks I felt panicked at the very thought of leaving my house, my hands were cracked red raw and there was no other topic to talk about. It took over life as we knew it. I’m pretty certain that that happened to 99.99% of the world population. 

Truth be told, I’ve, until now, lived a blessed life of travelling the world when I want to and where I want to. When that’s been taken away from you, it starts to creep up on you that what once was viewed as such an easy vocation, is actually more of entitlement which isn’t granted to everyone in the world. Others panicked about their livelihoods, their homes, their friends and family. For one brief moment, I worried about when we would next leave our doorstep. It all seems so stupid now. Especially in retrospect. As the Uk lockdown slowly begins its ‘easing’, the new panic of an imminent second wave  plays on your mind. So you find yourself stuck in your adapted ‘normal’ and being rigid. It’s the fear isn’t it? It’s not letting you go. It’s self preservation. When this first started I was sad to be kept inside, away from everything I knew, now that’s all I want. Home. Home. Home. Safe. Safe. Safe!

Mr W and I sat in our garden the other day, a cool 2 metres away from my dad, visiting for the first time in over 2 months, and we got to talking about travel. Inevitably, that will be the cornerstone of conversation with me and whoever will listen. And I got to thinking about my time in Australia.

I landed into Melbourne, Australia on 2nd February 2013. Tired beyond belief and yet still raring to go! Two days later, with 7 stops on our tour around the Melbourne coast, we were to witness the first of our Australian delights. Koalas! Up close and personal with a 9 year old, male, who was huge and very focused on his lunch. Hand feeding Wallabies under sparse bushes, dodging the midday sun. Scouring the scorched landscape and glimpsing a rather chilled out Kangaroo. That afternoon, jet lagged and a little awestruck, to beat the fatigue, we dodged the odd tourist taking a pleasant walk down Woolamai Beach and jumped into the roaring waves. The sun beat down pursuing my exceptionally white English skin and if I paused to notice I’m unaware of it now. It slowly dawned on me what we had got ourselves into, this was going to be the most tiring and life changing trip of my life. Soaked with salt water and smelling of sweat and sun cream, I jumped into the surf once more. Sweat, nice, I know. 

Later that day, when the Aussie sun took its leave and the sky turned inky indigo, we watched tiny penguins emerge from the sea and race up the beach to their nests. Above us the jewels of the Southern hemisphere sparkled and trailed across the sky and in front of us the waters kept pushing forward these funky little creatures. And I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt free.

If you had told me that I’d come home, get engaged to the love of my life, move into our own home and get married, I’d have said you had experienced the effects of seawater on an empty stomach. But I did and it’s been its own little whirlwind. A different kind of freedom. A safe freedom where someone has my back forever. Who picks me up when I cry over crap people, who pulls me out of the surf when the water gets too strong and who also knows when to push me back in to deal with it myself. 

So moving forward, I’m going to surround myself with my memories, my new found sense of gratitude for the once viewed ‘small’ things and go with the flow. 

Nothing is forever. 


Take this day by day. And know that you are not alone. Each night is a chapter closing. Each morning is a chance to refresh. You’ve got this. And be kind to yourself. We are each droplets of water in one very vast ocean. Ride the wave, jump into the surf and know when to ask for help.