Tag: memories

Whale of a time

One thing you need to know about me before this short tale is: I’m petrified of ice. Not ice cubes in my drink or the feeling of being cold. But ice on the ground. Ice I have to cross. Ice under my feet. If Disney ever re-made Bambi and before his first experience on the icy pond he drank a bottle of rum I’d be perfect for the casting call. I’m not sure if clumsy is the word. It’s the fact I don’t trust it and therefore my ability to walk well fails. I’ve had two nasty falls on icy pavements, one ending up in hospital, and I’ve never regained my confidence. 

Here starts my story.

In late 2015, Mr W and I were closing in on buying our first home. We had a New York trip coming up and yet felt the absolute need to book a trip for Spring 2016. Why not? It’s not like we needed the money. Or at that precise time we would be signing paperwork for said new home. I think, ultimately, it was our last trip before sh*t got real! 

As ever, I hunted down the best possible deal and booked half the trip including one excursion, hotel and flights with Icelandair and then other excursions via Viator including airport transfers. I seem to remember the pre-booking costs came to roughly £800 per person. 

March came around weekly and we hopped on the flight. We had so much leg room on the flight that it felt like the lap of luxury. We were seated in the seats just inside the airplane door, which meant other than the stewardess sitting in front of us, we had room to stretch our legs straight out. Just amazing. Especially for Mr W,he is 6ft+ and really struggles on planes. Above us the cabin lights were soft pinks, blues and greens. It was an amazing mimic of the northern lights. 

The flight from London to Reykjavik was short and sweet and it made for the smoothest flight I’d known. That is,until we landed. As we were taxiing along the runway, the plane turned so we could pull in at the terminal. There came an almighty juddering sensation and if the look on the seated stewardess’s face was anything to go by, this was not normal. Voices from the rear seats told us that our plane’s wing had hit another plane’s tail-end. With a quick nervous smile, the stewardess was called into action and the plane started reversing. It was over within minutes, but it’s definitely a birthday story I enjoy repeating to this day. Yep, it was my birthday!

The journey from the airport to our hotel was met with grey skies and a very soft falling of snow. I’m going to admit now, my heart sunk, this girl didn’t think about the land of fire and ice and the implications of the weather! Silly me. The snow was very light and it soon went unnoticed as the Icelandic landscape came into view. The fields of volcanic rock with their odd mossy patches amongst the ragged terrain was like nothing else we both had ever seen. I felt as if we had landed on another planet. How is this place 3 hours from London?

It continued to snow as we arrived at our hotel. With the grey skies it was hard to make out the snow. With our bodies enveloped in so many layers it was hard to feel the icy weather that the snow was promoting. The odd snowflake landed on the tip of my nose as my eyes darted around the Old Harbour. I could see the boats that we would travel on while here and the navy blue waters they sat in. Wow. This place! 

Night crept in as we relaxed in our hotel and our 10pm sail approached quickly. 3 pairs of socks, leggings, trousers, a couple of jumpers, a fluffy gilet, scarf and thick winter coat and this michelin man was ready for the Icelandic night-time. 

That is, until I stepped outside. The pavements were slick with ice from the earlier snow and sleet. It was clearly going to be a night filled with fear. Clinging with an iron grip to Mr W’s arm we waddled to the moored up boat. Leading to the boat was a long, heavily iced (think an extremely thickly iced cupcake) ramp to slip and slide down. It took MR W and another two sailor types to coax me down to the floating jetty. The fear was very real. Once aboard, and I say once aboard with the memory in mind that it took me at least 20 minutes to navigate the 100 metres from door to boat, I fixed my arse in place on the top deck of the boat. How did I fix my arse I hear you ask? Well the sleet and snow from earlier had settled on the chairs and was now firmly freezing between the chair and my trousers. It was cold but it was static. I like static when it comes to icy conditions! 

The boat heads out into the dark night, bouncing over the navy waves to escape the light pollution of the city. It’s cold enough to have our breath exposed in front of our faces but the lack of light needed for our adventures means we cannot see the icy vapour. We are moving for over 30 minutes until the boat stops. There are some clouds but other than that the night is clear. All we need to do now is wait. The night is still. Everything and everyone is quiet. Cameras are ready and waiting in frozen hands. The stage is set. 

As if blown from a cigarette a wisp of smoke like movement streaks across the sky. It is faint but most definitely green. It bends and twists in the night sky. Rippling like oil on water. It dances in the inky sky and all frozen fingers move rapidly to catch it forever with a click. The colours aren’t as strong as I imagine they would be and when I look later my camera has picked up the colour much clearer. It seems the human eye is not to be relied on in these circumstances. The pale green I see above me is almost neon on my camera. It is both strange and amazing. Mr W and I swear to come back to Iceland again just to spend more time with the Northern Lights. We treat this as a taster session in which we have had a nibble. The next bite will be much bigger. We’ll make sure of it. 

As fast as they appeared they fled the night sky and all passengers on board headed to the covered seating area inside. Here the seats were not fixed in place, in fact they were the white plastic garden chairs popular at BBQs around the world, and every wave the boat hit sent all of us flailing around. As we continued on our way the waves became more violent and we were quite literally thrown from window to wall. It was easier to sit on the floor and clamp my arms around the handrails. By 1am we were back at our hotel and ready for sleep. 

The next morning the biggest reason we came to this mysterious country would begin. 

Waking early to blue skies was a relief for the day’s activities. But first. Breakfast! It wasn’t included in our booking so we had to pay for the buffet style offering. Now, I’m not a big breakfast person, but with the long day ahead I know I need to eat. We charge the £16 per person breakfast charge to our room and head on in. The breakfast room arches around the buffet in a semicircle with lovely high windows that look out over the old harbour. 

Mr W cannot believe his eyes. The food here is unlike any other buffet we’ve encountered. There are boiled eggs, granola, bread, skyr yogurts, cheeses, meats and… boiled potatoes, salads and tuna mayonnaise. Hand down one of the most impressive and eclectic breakfast spreads I’ve ever seen. We fill our boots and head to the harbour. 

It is a simple 5 minute walk which is glorious in the morning light. Today’s boat is different from last night’s, although in the daytime light I can’t be sure. It floats, that’s all that concerns me. 

Something I’ve noticed in our brief time here is how very, very friendly the local people are. They say hello and ask how you are and then wait for you to respond. Friendly, polite and as we are about to find out, exceptionally passionate about their country and it’s finned visitors. 

We set off on the rolling waves again, this time chasing the sun. We want the best views for today and the top deck calls us once again. Last night’s sleet and snow has frozen solid and appears like its own rocky landscape. My fear returns. These boots are wonderful for ankle support but not so much on Bambi’s feet on an icy pond. One hand gripping Mr W’s and the other on the handrail, I make it upstairs. 

The sea is the deepest of blues and the sun is taking the bite out of the wind. All the same I am glad for my many layers. Today is a big event. A lifelong dream. We move away from the harbour and leave Reykjavik behind for the second time in 12 hours. There is a morning haze that sits on the horizon but otherwise last night’s clouds have moved on. 

Underfoot is icy but my heart doesn’t notice as the first call is heard. ‘Whale ahead.’ We rush across the deck in anticipation and there they are. Not just one. Not just two. A whole pod of Orca. I cannot believe it. As the tears stream out of my eyes I swear they freeze on my smiling cheeks. Their appearance as they glide up and out of the water makes my breath catch in my throat. After years of waiting I’m actually witnessing this. Right here. I can see the water undulate down their bodies as they arc their bodies to enter the waves again and again. They are moving fast and yet all so slowly all at the same time. I have forgotten to breathe.

When I booked this tour, it came with a disclaimer. Should we not see any whales, we would be invited back another day to try again. With time so sparse on this trip, it was now or never. It was also advised that there were no guarantees to which wildlife we would see. 

Puffins, seabirds. Possible. 

Minke whales. Likely. 

Humpbacks. Maybe. 

Orca. Once in a while. 

Here was that while. Before us. 5 or 6, at least, swimming as though in a murmuration. So graceful and powerful in the water. I urge the captain to stay on their trail as my eyes are transfixed. From here their black and white bodies seem grey and blue in the sun’s reflective light. It cascades down their bodies, no competitor for their strength. They sliced through the water like a blade through warm butter. I know this is a moment I will never forget in my entire life. My cheeks hurt with their salty dew and everlasting smile. Before we know it the pod has moved on. I stand in awe of being a witness to them and this place. 

‘We have a Humpback whale!’, everybody gasps as a large body breaks the surface of the navy waters. In comparison to the Orca this is a big beast and yet its fin is tiny. Its body blends in with the colours of the waters it rises out of until its large fluke with patches of white breaks the surface. We hope it is not diving deep as we are already addicted to its sight. We are gifted again with its presence and tears, once again, spring from my eyes. This cannot be real. This whale does not stay long and I know I want to do this again. Be here, living out a dream of over 25 years and chasing the next.

Beside us in the distance are snow capped mountains and I am once again reminded that this place is oh so foreign to me. Throughout my extensive travelling I have not witnessed a place like this. I am exceptionally lucky to be here. There is more to come on this adventure and I am here for it. 

The ice under my feet has not yet melted and I smile as I look down. My fear was blasted away once the call came across the tannoy. I ran back and forth across the deck without a second thought. No slips. No trips. And no hesitation. This Bambi just needed her whale friend to break the surface. 

The tears dry on my face as I hear ‘Oh my GOD! We have a Fin Whale straight ahead.’

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

Final frolics in Florence

It is our 3rd wedding anniversary. And Florence is bathing in sunlight and blue skies. The day has started slowly and the smiles on our faces tell us that today, slowly will work best. 

From the Piazza della Repubblica we take the short 3 minute walk to the Piazza del Mercato Nuovo to see the bronze boar of Florence. Il Porcellino stands along the edge of today’s market, tearing my eyes away from the amazing smelling leather bags. I await my turn at the statue. It stands nearly taller than me and its nose is bright and shiny. It is said that should you wish to return to Florence you will find luck in doing so if you give the boar’s nose a good rub. Mr W asks if I want to return, I hesitate wondering if Florence has enough to tempt me back, and then my hand reaches up and grips the metal snout. Rub. Rub. Rub. Yes, I dare say it’s a good guess I’d like to return to this city. There are wonders I think I have missed this time. Even if it means wandering the streets and enjoying the coffee there is something about this city that is speaking to me. Il Porcellino is not alone, he sits amongst leaves and tiny bronze frogs. The details remind me just how beautiful Italy is.  

The footfall at the market is building and it’s time to move on. Our wander takes us across the Ponte Vecchio, a bustling bridge lined with shops. We i-spy the Arno river below, its slow flowing pace sets the precedent for the day, the sun bounces off its surface and makes it glow. 

The hot drinks from this morning’s visit to the Caffe La Terrazza are wearing off, we need more Italian treats and we find them at Gino’s Bakery. Cannoli! The bakery has a serving hatch on the street with a window showcasing the mouthwatering treats for all of the city to see. Pizza slices, paninis encasing the meats and cheeses of the country and arancini with its tasty hidden filling. There are beautifully crisp sfogliatelle dusted with icing sugar, muffins standing tall in their cases, glazed desserts, biscotti dotted with nuts and a coffee machine whirring in the background. And there they are. Sitting in rows upon rows of delicate deliciousness. Straight soldiers of rolled, bubbled pastry filled with sweetened ricotta cheese laying in wait to be picked. There are different colours depending on which topping the cannoli has been dipped into. Each one carries different textures of chopped hazelnuts or pistachios and my favourite, tiny chocolate chips. A bag for our purchases is not needed, the delights are quickly eaten right there on the street with murmurings of mmmmm’s and ahhh’s. 

Our next stop is only a 5 minute walk away and it turns out it’s lunchtime! We’ve managed to have our dessert first. Oops! It is time for my first pizza of the trip. Gustapizza on Via Maggio is a tiny corner restaurant with three tables inside. The tables are very tall wooden barrels with glass tops, my 5’5 body hops up onto the towering stools as Mr W peruses the menu. There are 7 pizza’s total. I often find that the smaller the menu, the better the taste. Let’s see how this place matches up. Mr W orders the Gustapizza, it has cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, extra virgin olive oil and basil and when it comes it is a sea of red and green. The pizza is enormous and Mr W looks at me wide-eyed. ‘How do I eat all of this?’ he remarks. I’m too busy watching my pizza being made to offer any advice. The kitchen is right next to us, open to spectators and there are three men working as a team to create orders. The first man is stretching out the dough just one metre away. He glances up, smiling knowingly, he is confident in his work, he knows this food makes people happy. Toppings of tomato, mozzarella, spicy salami and basil are thrown together on the dough by the second guy and a wooden paddle whips away my pizza to the flame-ridden oven by a third. A short time later my pizza emerges and is placed in front of me. My mouth gapes open. This pizza is a monster! There is a fourth man wandering around welcoming new patrons, they look at the pizzas on our table and make their minds up. They sit having decided this is the place to eat today. My focus is stolen back by the glistening piping hot cheese in front of me. The meat has curled slightly at the edges and the crust has charred in places, the pizza oven’s heat has kissed the ingredients with its flames. The first bite cannot be believed, but the first slice is out of this world. No pizza back in the Uk can top this. The creamy cheese cuts through the saltiness of the meat and the basil gives it the sweet kick to tie it up in one big Italian bow. It is hands down the best pizza I have ever had the pleasure of eating. All of a sudden I remember I am not alone. I look across at Mr W. He is sitting in wide-eyed silence. His mouth is chewing but his eyes are drinking it all in. I feel a swell of pride that my research has paid off. He looks at me and nodds smacking his lips. It becomes apparent after a while that there is no way we can finish our pizzas. As if knowing thas, the fourth man brings us an empty pizza box. I am glad of the courtesy and also that in an hour from now, we will be able to again tackle the pizza in the open air of the Boboli Gardens. We pay for our pizzas and drinks and head into the ever present Italian sunshine. I remind myself we are lucky to have such beautiful weather in early autumn.

The Boboli Gardens are found inside the entrance of the Pitti Palace, after some confusion over our vouchers at the ticket office we are ushered to the security queue. Before we reach the entrance we are stopped by a scary looking art installation. Huge, lifelike iron statues of wolves are barring our way. The pack of wolves are standing in various places before the palace gates. Terrifying though they look, they are still and such a surprise that it takes a moment to walk on by. Mr W pretends that one has locked its jaws around our prized pizza box and stops for a quick photo montage. With just one handbag and the treasured delicacy in hand we know we’ll be whisked through quickly. There is a small family ahead of us, mum, dad and two small children. They have a big pram jammed with the necessaries for a family day out. Bags, food and coats are stuffed here and there. It takes them a while to move through the security scanner. We are standing in what looks like a grand courtyard surrounded by an arched walkway and I spy toilets up ahead. The absolute joy of the city break is finding a toilet you need not pay for. The two security guards usher us through easily until they ask what’s in the box. I answer with a smile that the box with a pizza drawn onto its lid does indeed hold pizza, he wags his finger ‘No’ and points to a bin. My inner obedient child wants to adhere to this crazy rule, of which there are no posters or guides to explain why food is forbidden, but my happy adult stomach is having a hard time letting go. I ask why, and again am witness to the waggle of the finger and that same finger pointing at the bin. With a deep sigh, I realise there is no way we could wolf the half a pizza that awaits both of us and Mr W drops it into the trash can. We turn away actually quite heartbroken and head on through. 

The day has taken a turn we did not expect, I had looked while planning if a picnic in the Giardino Boboli was possible and there were copious amounts of information suggesting this was the norm for a visit. Did I get something wrong? Were the security guards fishing our boxed deliciousness out of the shallow bin? Ha-ha I joke. Sort of. Mostly. Buggers.

Toilet found and used. We head towards the Anfiteatro di Boboli with its wide open space and Obelisk at its centre. I am yet to shake off the pizza incident. The sky is bluer than blue and here it feels like covid is a million miles away, but something isn’t connecting with us. We continue on through the park until we find the Vasca del Nettuno, the Fountain of Neptune in the Fontana della Signoria. It is pretty. But rather than enjoying the moment we are both wondering why we aren’t. It becomes pretty clear that museums, even open air ones with its impressive statues and Egyptian gifts aren’t quite our thing on this trip. We’ve been steeping ourselves so much into the culture here that we’ve swayed far from the tourist trail and finding our way back to it is hard. I believe if we’d invested in a guidebook we could enjoy the pockets of history in this place. Which only means one thing, a return trip! Oh dear, only if we have to!

We aim to head to the very top of Giardini Boboli to the Palazzina e Bastione del Cavaliere to make an exit and quickly cross over to the Giardini Bardini. But the exit here is closed. We check our handy paper map and find another exit at Forte Belvedere. The walk around the walled garden is in shadow and is pleasant in the afternoon sun. The trees provide the ground with a dappled shade that is both beautiful and refreshing. The next exit is also closed. What is going on?

We skirt the edge of the gardens right down to the security entrance and emerge onto Viale della Meridiana. It is a 10 minute walk in the opposite direction to Villa Bardini, the entrance to Giardino Bardini. To salvage our last afternoon in the city I urge Mr W’s tired feet onwards. The 10 minute walk takes twice as long due to the enormous hill that is the Costa San Giorgio, a back street of Florence that is the quickest yet steepest hill we’ve encountered yet. Again, what is going on? 

We are in a neighbourhood of Florence that is quiet and empty of tourists, it feels like we are trespassing. Upon reaching Giardino Bardini we are greeted with meticulously kept greenery and perfected planting. The gardens themselves are on the side of the hill we have presumably just climbed. They are spread out on different levels, each high above the Arno river and the city laid out below. From here the Duomo is tiny. Wedged between the Pitti Palace and the Piazzale Michelangelo, Giardino Bardini is a revelation. The large open spaces of the Boboli Gardens are long gone and the small intimate gardens here welcome us in their embrace. We find a bench outside La Loggetta di Villa Bardini. A large expanse of gravel leads up to a stone balustrade which gives way to a beautiful view of Florence and the mountains that stand by in a protective stance. We spend a long time sitting, stroking the resident cat and savouring the afternoon sun. Tomorrow we move onto Venice. The time here has flown.  

Forced to follow the daylight and keep on track for our evening plans, we leave the bench behind and wander down the zig-zagging path down through the gardens. There is a long sloped walkway with wisteria hanging from a pergola. At this time of year it is dense and green, the original plan was to come in April and be lucky enough to see a canopy of purple above us. Covid stopped that happening, I remind myself this is just another reason to return to this place. It seems as though we have unfinished business in Florence!

Our walk takes us past lines of hedges, rows of roses and past a vast staircase that ascends the hill to the terrace where we found the bench. This place has transformed our afternoon. It has forced us to slow down. To enjoy the smaller things we usually take for granted. We need to head back to our apartment to freshen up before our anniversary dinner. Our route back takes us over the Ponte Vecchio and the streets are busy in the evening sun. 

A quick shower and outfit change and I rush Mr W out the door. He thinks we are late and we head to the restaurant next to our apartment. This evening is a surprise for him and as he realises where we are he smiles. The secret has been worth it for that smile. His smile is my gift. The Hard Rock Cafe is somewhere we visit on our travels as a cheesy little tradition. Mr W collects the t-shirts and it’s something we’ve done since 2014. It may not be authentic Italian food, but it’s authentic to our relationship, and I love it. 

We are greeted by two proseccos ‘on the house’, they’ve been told it’s our anniversary and we settle in for the night. We order another boozy drink each and share a starter. The music is just to our taste and we are the first customers of the night. We are sat near the large stage, where a drum kit sits and take a moment to look at all the memorabilia on display. Mr W sips his long island iced tea, as I neck my prosecco and move onto my cosmopolitan. Our mains arrive and I can feel the alcohol taking effect. It’s clear very quickly that we are relaxed and in fact drunk. We say no to dessert, find a t-shirt to Mr W’s tastes and head out into the night. The darkness shrouds the city as we wander again to the Duomo, we are drawn to its presence. We have a small dessert from Venchi Cioccolato e Gelato, mesmerised by its flowing wall of chocolate and stagger slightly back to our apartment via Piazza della Repubblica. 

There is music bringing the night to life and restaurants with their tables spilling out onto the streets. I am reminded again how life has changed in the last six months. How covid has ravaged this country and the world. I finish my ice cream and thank my lucky stars, Mr W and hope to return soon. Florence, you have entranced me. For now we head to Venice! 

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/06/stories-of-venice-part-one/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/07/stories-of-venice-part-two/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/10/stories-of-venice-part-three/

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! 

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. 

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. 

Walk like an Egyptian. To and Fro. To and Fro.

The very first time I paid for someone else to travel was a big birthday celebration. 

My mum was turning 40 and had always wanted to go to Egypt. It was both of our first time in the country and I picked the Sharm El Sheikh Red Sea resort. We spent a week in the intense sun, cooling down in the huge pool and exploring the area. The area was built for tourism, it was not a cultural trip. Therefore we spent all but one day at the hotel. But it is one of my fondest memories. Times were simpler. 

Nowadays I long for the trips where I used to do nothing but people-watch and my movements were based on the sun’s position in the sky. I’m in no way saying I don’t enjoy the travelling I do now. It’s amazing. Just vastly different.

A trip now begins with a plan and long days filled with exploring and discoveries. It’s rewarding and beautiful and I wouldn’t change it. 

Even when Mr W and I have booked the quiet, relaxing holidays, we’ve each felt the ‘itch’ to get up and move around. Is it anxiety fuelled? Is it the need to see the world? I’m no longer sure. 

What I do know is when the time comes to sit still, we’ll be able to do it. 

My first time in Egypt was as unplanned as they come. When booking the trip I was given flight information, but told my hotel would be allocated on arrival. There were two 4 star hotels and one 5 star hotel in the possibilities and I counted my lucky stars that we were given the 5 star choice. I remember it so vaguely, a small all inclusive hotel with two pools. The smaller of the two was heated and therefore drew in my mum like a moth to a flame. She’s not good with cold water and when attempting to get into the bigger, colder pool one day decided slower was better and retreated down the pool stairs one tiny step at a time. I sat hidden by my book, laughing and watching everyone else laugh too. The noises, well shrieks, bounced all the walls of the surrounding accommodation and am sure drowned out the call to prayer that sounded nearby. 

That’s how we spent our days, until the sun fell behind the nearby mountains. When you are that close to the equator you can reach up, block the sun from view behind your thumb and literally trace it moving towards the horizon. It’s incredible. 

A mile from the resort we found the tourist nighttime hotspot. Restaurants, shops and a few clubs. It was the main hub for the entire hotel complex and came alive at night. There was so much going on you could not turn your head fast enough to take it in.  Shisha bars with all types of flavoured tobacco to try. Souvenirs of Egyptian cotton and drawings on papyrus. The locals offer you 12 camels for your hand in marriage. The open air was still warm, the lights glowed orange and allowed the night to darken to their deepest black. We spent hours wandering until it was time to leave. The last stall sold hand painted canvases. Large expanses of bright colours showcasing the wonders of Egypt; sand dunes, pyramids and camels in abundance. We each bought one, which we rolled securely and placed inside a sturdy cardboard tube. They both still hang in our homes.

As we left, waving away the throng of taxi drivers who called to us for ‘cheap taxi, cheap taxi’, we spoke of the lion painting that had caught my mum’s eye. She’d loved it but didn’t know where to hang it at home. We walked the mile back to our hotel, made it all the way back to our room, sat down and she gave me the look. The look that said, ‘I know where I would put the picture’. 10 minutes later we were on our way back to the market. Ignoring the taxi drivers and the calls from the bars to ‘please come in for a drink’, we head back to that last stall. Where she bought the picture and we walked the mile home. 

That picture still hangs in my mum’s home. My childhood home. Every time I see it, I remember the four miles of walking it took to buy it. I remember the laughter. The to and fro and to and fro. 

It’s when these memories pop into my head that my longings for the ‘simple holidays’ return. Sitting still, under the sun’s glare and a simple night-time walk can have even more impact on my life than I’ll understand at the time. 

The games we play

Been there done that ner ner ner ner NER!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh the games we play…

Photo by Dave Watson

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