Tag: husband

Scotland, where do I start…

Where do I start…

I sort of disappeared didn’t I? An avid reader actually thought something had happened to us. But I promise day 13, 14, and 15 of our trip ended quite simply and without too much to talk about. It was also our wedding anniversary on day 13 and with a few disappointments in our plans for the day it was easier to focus on us and enjoy the day for what it was than what it could have been. 

Over the coming weeks, I’ll be re-visiting our trip over on my instagram and facebook pages with all the photos I have that I think are worthy of sharing, there are over 2000, and I’ll be updating all the daily itineraries so you can benefit from our learnings. There will also be a mini Lake District blog coming soon and I’ll be discussing just how successful being ultra prepared was. 

So there is a lot in the pipeline and I honestly can’t believe it has been a week since I’ve written. In a way it’s been nice to have a break, as you can imagine writing while travelling did not leave me with a lot of time to relax. It was often the case that the spare hour or so that I had in the evenings, between accommodation arrival and bedtime was purely given over to recapping the day. At times, it felt like a slog, one evening in particular I was puking up my dinner (suspected sun stroke, haha yep, in Scotland) and then back to writing ten minutes later. But most of the time, it really did help me wind down and process the day in a really special way. 

Moving forward I’ll be able to pick apart the days further which will bring the memories flooding back. Which I am really looking forward to. Scotland really was a picture perfect experience. Every twist and turn of the roads gave new light and insight into the landscape and not once did we hesitate to turn round to peek at another roadside waterfall or river. It is safe to say we are addicted!

Down to restraints of weather, time and sometimes physical ability (hi sciatica, you utter tw*t) we actually only managed about 90% of our visits which isn’t something to sniff at but I am rather hard on myself for not achieving the desired 100%!

We also found that a lot of the businesses we were aiming to visit had changed their timings at the last minute or were closed due to unforeseen circumstances. As you can imagine, having missed some bits of this trip means I have already started building a ‘Scotland 2.0’ itinerary and it is already incorporating places we want to go to again. I’ll be discussing these in my ‘Highlights of Scotland’ blogs (also coming soon). So strap on those reading glasses, for it is going to be a whirlwind, much like the windy conditions we are experiencing in Essex today, for the Scotland information coming your way is going to be full on! All in all, I estimate there will be approximately 25 blogs to entice you to try this trip for yourself. 

This month is proving to be really quite busy for Mr W and I. We have a birthday party for a rather special lady to plan, a trip up north to negotiate, a few days out in London, work trips and friends to catch up with. November too, is getting rather full! In the coming weeks we will be setting our travel plans for 2023 (crazy!) and the logistics that they will present.  

Something I have realised in the last three weeks is just how special travel is to me. It is a given that I find travel special having started this blog and taking you through my history and present relationships with worldwide travel. And yet, this trip has ultimately taught me so much about myself and how my (and Mr W’s) tastes have changed. Scotland has opened my eyes to what travel can be moving forward and how you travel ultimately being such an important factor of the trip. So until I really get stuck in to the future blogs, I wanted to say a huge thankyou to Mr W for all the support on this trip, it was NOT easy, sciatica is no laughing matter and on day 2 I was extremely close to coming home, all the driving and all the hysterical laughs that he pulled out of me. It’s also prudent to point out how much trust he had in me in planning this trip. It was enormous in scale and I’m grateful we came out the otherside with more love than ever. Although I’m sure Mr W would gratefully have thrown me off a cliff at some points. 

And then, there are the thank you’s to you all. The people who continue to read about our lives and those who share and invite new people to read along. It’s given me a sense of purpose back and isn’t that just a wonderful thing!

Oh! And one final little preview, I will be reviewing all of our accommodation and giving you all some foodie tidbits. As always I will be completely honest and that means sharing the good and the bad. Once the blogs mentioned in this post have been written they will be linked down below and also on the original ‘NC500 Day XX’ Blogs too. I’ll incorporate all the pre-packed food and the packed essentials into these blogs so you can determine for yourself how worthwhile it all is.

Till then… 

NC500 Day 6 – Smoo Cave, Wailing Widow Falls and Ardvreck Castle

Miles: 116. Wildlife: nil. Camper Vans: 20+. Steps: 8300.

Cost of pre-bought food: £3.80 approximately

Extra costs: £4

Today we changed our plans slightly due to the weather. With a 10 mile hike ahead of us in the pouring rain we opted to have a later start than originally planned. And I can tell you it was well worth the change. 

We left our accommodation at 8am and said goodbye to the eastern part of Scotland. This part of the trip was set to be more challenging on the road and rather more mountainous. The road here is single track with alot of passing places to help out. It certainly takes some getting used to but it really is easy enough. 

Our route took us anti-clockwise along the northern coast of Scotland from Bettyhill and I started to really understand why people do this route. As we drove down from Coldbackie we were introduced with the Kyle of Tongue. What an absolutely breathtaking place. Having so many passing places on the road means there are very few parking places, or laybys, to get out in and take photos. So on the approach to the bridge at the kyle, after seeing a parking area, we did not hesitate to pool over. It is an astonishing place with mountains surrounding the water, the still waters reflecting the sky and a serene sense of calm everywhere you turn to look. We took our time to really drink in the scene. I do love to find gems like this alongside fulfilling plans. This is what I’m enjoying about road trips: you will see things you never would have thought were anything special on a map. 

We continued our way through the mountains. It is hard to put into words just how phenomenal the route up this way is. The colours of the heathers. The ferns. The tiny streams and rivers that wind their way around the foothills. The cap-like clouds that pass over the mountain tops. Every turn feels like a picture perfect moment. After what felt like a very long and beautiful drive we arrived at Smoo Cave. 

This was one of the places that everyone we have spoken to and every review online has said is a must see. It was for that reason I felt completely shocked at the size of the car park. It barely held 10 cars. There are only 100 or so steps down to the cave from the car park and although they are rather large steps there is a sturdy handrail. The view you get out to sea is fabulous and as you walk across the bridge it’s definitely easy to see why this place is so loved. The large cave was made by the sea but there is a smaller inner cave which has been punched through from outside by a waterfall. The waterfall is found at the end of a wooden walkway and is just fantastic. I do think my obsession with waterfalls is getting out of hand. The water falls into a large pool and then moves into a small river out of the cave. It is absolutely fascinating. The walls are decorated with vivid green mosses and algae which change their colours and depth with every step you take. The only cave in the UK with both types of erosion and the largest of its kind in this country too. Now you know something completely pointless to know, until, maybe, it comes up on a quiz show. Just give me 10% of your winnings! 

Now, I’m not going to shout this too loud, but something I love about being in the country is just how friendly people are. One of the best things I’ve seen up here are the honesty boxes. At our accommodation last night there was an honesty caravan! Filled with souvenirs and dried food items. Today at Smoo cave was an honesty box filled with knitwear items. It was honestly adorable and I may have bought a hat… a lovely green one.   

With my new purchase in hand, we took the short drive up to Durness beach. OH. My. Gah. It is stunning. Blinking through the wind I had to remind myself that I was indeed in the UK and that the sand actually was white. The water too was out of this world. Where white sand ended, turquoise water started. In Scotland. In the UK. Just… wow!

Tearing ourselves away from the temptation to swim (why did we do that) we continued on our journey and left northern Scotland behind entirely. Our route took us down the western edge of the coast and towards Scourie. Our very brief next stop appeared out of practically nowhere and even though it was a tick on the ol’ list. It really was impressive. The Kylesku bridge stretches across Loch a’ Chàirn Bhàin and pausing in the car park before it we had the most amazing view of the Quinag mountain range. Mr W was very happy with the sun poking its head out behind the range and lighting up the clouds lazily loping their way over the top. Everyone has their quirks eh.  

Something I am noticing a lot about Scotland is the places you want to find often only have a postcode. The next place was no different, all the guides online will tell you the postcode or that it is found by a layby on a particular road. That is why when I come to adjust my itinerary before I share them with you, I will be using the ‘what 3 words’ method to help you find places much easier. 

Wailing Widow Falls is hidden from the road and can be approached from the bottom or the top. We parked at the top deciding it would be a different approach for us to stand at the top of the falls. And here, hilarity ensued. I put on my walking boots because I’m just crap without them, Mr W left his trainers on. All the guides say it is a short 300 yards to the viewpoint. Superb. Just 20 yards or so into the walk we were presented with boggy pathways. Beyond that were large sloping rocks and even more soggy situations. The ground kept getting wetter and wetter as we tried to navigate our way across. Usually there is a footfall made pathway to follow but it looked as if everyone that had come before us and opted to choose their own path to avoid the water. By following footsteps we were met with deep puddles of thick mud and it was hard to find where to walk. After much negotiating, we found the edge of the gorge and saw the very top of the waterfall. It was too unstable and muddy at the edge to get a decent look and so we decided to return to the car. The waterfall itself crashes down and out of the relatively small Loch na Gainmhich. Something new entirely for our eyes to gaze upon. But this was something that was not meant to be. 

On our return to the car, Mr W and I took separate paths as best suited to our shoes. With lots of promises from him, I felt reassured that the ground wouldn’t swallow me up and took the waterlogged route many a time. He on the other hand was finding the paths harder due to his footwear. I remember stepping over a large boggy spot and turning to see how he was getting on. He was slightly bent over and at an odd angle. He was reaching for the ground while keeping one leg lifted. Then he plucked something out of the ground. Not off of the ground. OUT of it. His shoe. He looked up at me smiling. The bog had swallowed his trainer while we kept on moving. And I could not stop laughing. He decided it would be best to keep the trainer off and just replace the socks in the car. We were still a way from being dry and yet every step he took squelched and turned the wool to a very soggy counterpart. He jumped puddles, leapt across mud and generally made good old ‘clean’ fun of the situation. I on the other hand got a stitch from laughing so much and I swear to god I nearly wet myself.  

We advised other people who had parked near us of the situation and went on our merry soggy way. We spent our final visit of the day at Ardvreck Castle. It is in a very sorry state and is all but collapsed. However it was a pretty and short walk that ended the day nicely. There are many houses and outbuildings in the Highlands that are in a similar way and even though I’m sure it would be great to see them restored, there is something very alluring when they are in this condition. 

Tomorrow is another big day. As I sit here writing this to send out into the void, my eyes are drooping, the shower is waiting and before I know it, the next adventure will begin!

Highlight six of the NC500 – The weakness in me
NC500 Day 6 – Itinerary

Un-dreaming

Love is a dream. Feelings seem superhuman. Your ‘other half’ is miraculously god-like. And everything is pink, fuzzy and rejoicing at the both of you being together. Furthermore, you are different. Optimistic. Smiley. Bouncing around on clouds that whizz around you in puffy heart shapes. Then you hear the next door neighbours drill. Or a car backfire. Or an overbearing sibling, ‘Yeah, mate, pub 1 o’clock, bring your drinking liver.’ You’re blasted out of the dream before you can say 2 point 4 children and a white picket fence. The outside ‘no duvets allowed’ world is rainy and cold. People don’t look at you like you belong with Zeus and that your smile is perfect to warm this winter’s day. They don’t look at you at all. You’re just another person on this planet getting out of bed. Leaving the dreams behind and stumbling down the stairs, briefly child-like again, learning how to use your legs. Stumbling. Wiping your hand across your eyes to clear the misty waters and sleep that has gathered. Almost as if it had bound your eyes shut for you to enjoy the dream for as long as possible. Awake. Aware. The dream is gone. You’ve moved on. From the dream. From him. You’re learning how to walk again, albeit with help from the bannister. Brushing the endless pink fluffy clouds from your sleepy eyelids. You have learnt that a dream is unnatural and that this is life. Cold, dark and unsmiling. 

You reach the end of your descent. There is a noise in the kitchen. There he is. Making breakfast. Your latest favourite. Poached eggs on toast. The kettle is boiling and he has the radio on. He is here. Outside the dreamworld. 

You walk up behind him. Put your hands on his shoulders. Yep, still real. You slide them down his arms and join them together on his chest. You are on tiptoes to meet his height. He is still, acknowledging your embrace and his hands find yours in their return of the ‘Hey you’. 

Online you have seen that other couples, your friends, have been out for brunch at a well-known, hard-to-get-reservations London restaurant. You have spent the morning in bed, coffee, book, music, lounging in each other’s company. It is already noon. Your brunch will be the eggs that cook in the pan.  This is the dream.

The mundane activities aren’t mundane anymore. Shopping for socks and people watching from the food court. Making the bed because you have forgotten when it was last changed. Talking about your ideas for the next piece of DIY. Watering the garden to nurture what you have sown and grown. The pink clouds are gone from the dreamworld, they have left behind the very real white clouds that you both trace across the sky while you plan your next adventure. Warm, light and full of life.

Keep going!

We live in a big house on a council estate. We own our house. It took us two years to save a deposit and a further six years to have finished 80% of the renovations. We have scrimped, saved, learned and upcycled our way through some big DIY projects which include tiling a living room floor, overhauling a garden from a shingle nightmare to a green paradise and installing new walls in the kitchen. We stepped onto the property ladder and have found challenges at each step. Most have been fun, some have been tedious and others have seen me throw massive hissy fits and leave the room to calm down. 

There are memories ingrained in the very fabric of this place that call out to me, even in the short amount of years, this place is special. Our first home.

Without much DIY experience we have found each step so hard, but ultimately really rewarding. Mr W and I take on new projects together and I am so proud of the couple we are. 

We tackle things like tiling for the first time head on and keep each other going. I remember laying a wooden floor 2 months after moving in and thinking it was relatively easy. We started at 9am and after a brief break for tea, we didn’t stop until we finished at 9pm. That is, until Mr W said we needed to do the edging, he cut the small strips of wood while I glued them down. Half way through the job, I hit a snag, the walls were bowed and caused tension on the strips of wood. Once I put my hand on one end, the other would ping out of place. I end up like a freaky yoga goddess covered in glue with one foot reaching out to hold the left end of the strip in place while my hand held the right end in place. And PING it happened again. At 11:30pm, I cracked,  stormed upstairs, slammed the bathroom door behind me and sat in quiet and tired frustration. Ten minutes later, I opened the door and there he was. Sitting on the stairs, waiting for me. No words spoken, just a look to say let’s carry on.  Walking down those stairs felt easier knowing he was leading the way. We ended up finishing the project, hoovering and mopping the floor, moving all of the furniture back into the room and crawling into bed at 1am. The next day, the frustrations lifted as we came downstairs to the morning light flooding the floor for our first glance at our hard work. 

When visiting Pollensa, Majorca in 2019, we decided to stroll around the town and lose a few hours. And then, around a corner there appeared the Calvari Steps. All 365 of them. My flip flop wearing feet were feeling ambitious and my brain thought it knew better. The staircase is absolutely stunning. Lined by trees and hidden residences you don’t know until you reach the very top what is on offer to the achievers of the climb. After climbing up one third in flip flops, I decided the shiny, worn stone was too slippery for my meagre footwear and I took them off. The October sun warmed the stones enough that it was pleasant and did not burn my feet. As Mr W and I continued our walk, we took it slow and watched as other people passed us, glancing at my lack of footwear. I laughed at the thought that I looked like a pilgrim on some religious mission. Every so often, there would be a brief break in the stone strings of the stairs and we could step away into the trees and appreciate how far we had come. 365 stairs are by no means a vast number considering other staircases of the world but this place felt peaceful, unexpected and tiring all at once. Being unprepared footwear wise had made it more of a challenge, but adapting came easy. Mr W had gone from walking beside me to hold my hand to stop me from slipping, to staying beside me to take it all in. Just a few steps from the top, a man in a crisp shirt and hat sat in the shade playing his guitar. The music was soft and euphonic. It felt like we were on a film set, where was the director shouting ‘Action’? You don’t believe that scenes like that happen in real life. Once at the top we were greeted with the smallest church I have had the pleasure of stepping foot in and the single most sweeping view of the Majorcan landscape I am yet to see. The journey was hard, enlightening and I realised on our descent, my calves were going to thank me later! 

Today, I don’t feel the pain, I only have snapshots in my memory of a spontaneous moment that not only led somewhere beautiful but felt like a really special journey itself. 

Today, I felt really unhappy. We are in week one of the school holidays here in the UK and that means kids. A LOT of kids. I used to love seeing them out and about on our community green because all you hear today is how kids are glued to tvs, phones and iPads. And yet there they were, outside playing and laughing. Lately the scene has soured and there is litter everywhere, broken toys and various degrees of destruction taking place. It makes me want to close the blinds, play exceptionally loud music and pretend we have airlifted our home to a secluded area. I feel so sad because we take great pride in our home and have done since we moved in and when it comes to visitors the mess outside is the first thing they see. It feels like it’s a misrepresentation of us. It is embarrassing. I have tried hard over the years to ignore, ask for help and look at the bigger picture when I feel particularly stressed. Sometimes it works, sometimes, like today, it doesn’t. 

We have made the choice to move. There are several reasons and the above is one of them. Does it make living here today easier? Absolutely not. This house is my second ever home. Our first home as a couple. We grew here as a couple. Apart in the first year of stress. Together again as we prepared for our wedding. We became man and wife here. The walls here echo with the family who we have lost. The air still rings with laughter at private jokes and family game nights. 

Moving is a fair few years off yet. Do I feel forced out? Yes and no, if I were mentally stronger, I think living here wouldn’t bother me as much as it does but I also know there are other factors we aren’t happy with which means moving is the only option. Each step of accepting this being our future is hard. It feels like the staircase in Pollensa. By stripping it back, take all the feeling out of it leaving only logic. Clothing myself in the necessary memories and the fabric of our time here is making me slip on our decision. Sometimes, I can step aside and see this place for what it is, a beautiful singular chapter in our story.

I imagine over time, it will get easier to accept. 

It hurts now, like the first time DIY projects and the Spanish staircase did. Once it is over the pain will only be a memory, and thankfully it’ll be in a sea of memories that are absolutely stunning. Today, and the other difficult days like it, are part of a journey to something beautiful and unexpected. 

A sweat shop in New York

Dragging Mr W into another clothing store, I laughed at the groan escaping his mouth. ‘Come on, I love this store.’ Bargain hunting in Soho, Manhattan was the game of the day. Strolling around was just as fun in the Winter sunshine. How could it not be? We were in my favourite place in the entire world, and Mr W had proposed just days earlier.

Bemused at his groans, I knew the next store would make him happy. I had no idea exactly how much. Walking into the store it became very clear it was closing down. I was a lover of the store myself and I was gobsmacked. Big banners were strewn around the place with big letters spelling ‘CLOSING DOWN SALE’. ‘EVERYTHING MUST GO’.

No. No. No!

And then Mr W’s face lit up.

The sale was incredible. T-shirts that normally cost $30+ were now $5. Hooded jumpers were $10 down from $50+. Hats, shoes. Bargains. Bargains. Bargains! Mr W was in his element. We left with two huge paper shopping bags full of goodies. I remember standing out on the sidewalk watching him glow in the aftermath of the shopping frenzy. It’s an image that lives happily in my memory.

He never spends money on himself. In fact, he’d rather stitch up a battered pair of jeans than buy himself new ones. He has boxers that are older than our relationship and even now, nearly 7 years later, he still has the clothes he bought that day in Soho. The funny thing is he will always try and get the best deals for himself and stretch the lifetime of a pair of socks and yet walking past a shoe store he’ll ask if I fancy a pair. It’s insane.

Back to New York. After his shopping spree, we both jumped in a cab with his purchases and headed back to our hotel. Later on that afternoon, we walked to W43rd and 12th Avenue and took a trip on one of the Circle Line boats around the island of Manhattan. As the light faded in the early evening, we saw the city lights come to life. I braved the decreasing temperatures and stood on the outside deck to get some photos. The Freedom tower/One World Trade Center glittering in the night sky. It was phenomenally beautiful. I kept turning to usher Mr W outside, but even with his arctic winter coat on, he stayed put.

I have viewed the island of Manhattan from the water half a dozen times and it never ceases to amaze me how happy one place can make me. After touring the island and passing under the Brooklyn Bridge, our boat turned, repeated its path and sailed north up the Hudson river. We glimpsed the Empire state building, lit up for the night, and docked, cold and excited for the evening ahead.

Due to December’s early sunsets, the boat had sailed at 4 o’clock which meant we were back on 12th Avenue by 6:30pm. More time left for us in the evening and therefore more opportunities to see places. We took a slow stroll to Times Square. It is about a 20 minute walk through midtown-west and reasonably quiet until you are right in the thick of it. Night was truly setting in and the chills that came with it were very real.

We meandered through the crowds until we came to the Swatch shop. Lighting up the sidewalk on Times Square amongst all the LED billboards is an incredible feat and this store had managed it. In stark contrast to the bright reds, blues, yellows and greens around it, this store was starkly bright white. The walls were made up of lightboxes. Overhead were exceptionally strong lamps. The floor was white and therefore exceptionally reflective. It shone like a beacon. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the moths of America called it their church.

Not a huge fan of browsing I spent some time checking out various watches before I saw Mr W pause at one particular stand. In his nonchalant way he said, ‘That’s nice’, and went to walk away. I pulled him back and said that I still hadn’t got him a Christmas present, what If I bought it? He said no, but our pausing at the stand had set off an alarm in a sales woman’s mind, and she rushed to our side. I told her I was interested in the watch and she went to get one for us to look at. When she returned she offered to fasten it to his wrist. He kept shaking his head until eventually I persuaded him to slip it on. I remember thinking, why does he always do this? It’s a gift, it’s something he likes, surely it can’t be a bad thing? Did he realise how hot this small, lightbox was? Let’s buy the watch and get out into the fresh, cool night.

Hallelujah, our purchase in its fancy box and bag, we stepped into the cacophony of sounds, lights and smells. The nighttime was upon us and it was time to head back to the hotel. In true fashion, we found it hard to get a cab and so walked the 6 blocks back slowly.

When we reached our room, I remember seeing Mr W removing his coat with his back turned to me. He was muttering about how hot he had been. Since the boat, his coat had been zipped up halfway against the Winter weather and he could finally remove it. The scene plays out in my mind frequently. He unzipped the coat and slipped it off his shoulders, over his arms, wrists and hands and slung it on the bed. I remember seeing his new mid-grey t-shirt from his happy shopping spree covering his broad shoulders. As he turned, his eyes connected with mine, before I burst out laughing. On his chest, starting at the collar, two dividing lines of colour were drawn down his body at an angle creating a large V. The inside of the V was a very light grey colour. Below and surrounding this was the mid-grey colour I had seen on his back. The poor bugger had melted inside his arctic coat. The sweat had changed every inch of the light grey shirt that was not exposed to air into the deeper grey.

After I stopped laughing, he started to say that he had felt hot walking around in his coat, and when we went into the Swatch shop it had only ramped up the heat inside his coat. The coat had elasticated cuffs and therefore when the sales woman had offered to help him put the watch on all he could do was point blank refuse. He said something like ‘I had a river of sweat on my wrist, no way could she touch me.’ I fell about laughing.

That night he had to dry the shirt on the radiator ready to pack for our flight home the next day. Even now, when he wears it or I wash it, I smile. It is a memory of when he was extremely warm and courteous that keeps me warm and smiley.

Things we gained in the fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How very true that would turn out to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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