Beaming after a freezing surf over Christmas, I vowed to commit some time to surfing this year. I decided to book a surf and yoga camp in Morocco and, after chatting to Jemima about her lack of holiday plans, suggested she join too. Jemima has never surfed or done yoga, nor shown any interest in either, so I assumed she’d say no. But here we are, both sat in the priority lounge of Gatwick airport buzzing with excitement (and perhaps nerves on Jemima’s side). I was looking forward to showing Jemima how easy travel is, and to having a whole week where I could shut off my mind and focus on the physical acts of surfing and yoga, with lots of downtime in between. This is quite laughable now, as you will discover.

We touched down in Agadir and I marched us both onto the local bus into the city, and then a second bus to Tamraght, a small town south along the coast. Firstly, despite it being March, a month with guaranteed sun in Morocco, it was raining. Like really raining. As it had been for the past week, and was forecast to be for much of the next week. The man running the hostel remarked joyfully that “it hasn’t rained like this in March in 8 years, the argan trees are loving it”, to which we faked a smile and silently cursed the argan. I saw Morocco through Jemima’s eyes briefly and realised it was starkly different from Europe. I guess I hadn’t appreciated that last time I visited. I thought back to a comment a girl had made to me in Malaysia after I had told her about my travels: “you have the whole world in your head now”. Morocco didn’t strike me as different to Europe, but similar to Central Asia and Cambodia. Funny how we instinctively compare things to their similar rather than their adverse. We went out for our first tajine of the trip with an Australian guy from the hostel, who was of course living in London, and drove cranes for a living. Jemima went to bed early, and I hung out on the roof top, trying to avoid the pouring rain which began to slant into the covered area, and watched a man light a flare for some reason.

The surf and the yoga (and being completely overwhelmed)

The next morning it was dry but cloudy and we moved our stuff over the road to the surf camp. We quickly got ready and then jumped into the minibuses to head to the beach. I hadn’t considered the knock-on effect of the rain on the sea. All of that rain had washed the built up shit from the river beds all the way from the mountains into the sea. Eight years of shit it would seem. And immediately after the rain, that shit was concentrated right along the coast. It had stopped raining fairly early the previous evening so we decided it would be okay to surf, but I made a mental note to avoid swallowing any water. The waves were messy and there was a strong sideways current, it was cloudy and it spattered with rain at points. But god was it good to be back surfing. To try and fail at something repeatedly, with an unwavering determination to run straight back out and to try again. I felt energised. Jemima seemed less so… We had lunch on the beach and a brief sun bathe in the break in the clouds, and then back out for a second surf. I coaxed Jemima back into her wetsuit, just for 5 waves say, you have to keep practicing. Post-second surf we drove back to the camp, showered and chilled out before it was time for sunset yoga and then dinner. It was a shame about the weather but I could feel how good the rhythms of the surf camp would be for me. And I did indeed settle into a rhythm. I would get up a little before 7am and potter upstairs to drink a tea whilst watching the light spread out to the sea. I’d always take my journal up with me, but each morning I ended up just sitting and looking. The stillness was needed. At 7:30am I fell into giving an unofficial yoga class before official sunrise yoga at 8am. A new yoga teacher arrived a few days in and she taught Kundalini yoga - a more stationary style of yoga. Great to do, but our stiff post-surfing bodies also appreciated a more active vinyasa flow. When people saw me doing my own yoga, they asked if they could join in until practically everyone was joining me up on the terrace each morning. I decided that I really would do my yoga teacher training soon. In the evenings, after yoga and dinner, we’d all sit together and chat or play cards. I’d join in for a bit and then usually take myself off to one side to read. I was often the last one up and enjoyed the stillness as I watched the lights of the town and marvelled at the sound of the waves.

The reason I was up early and went to bed late was less idyllic than perhaps imagined. It was because I was desperately in need of some alone time. As wonderful as everyone was at the surf camp, and how fun it was to all hang out together, the Finger Incident (see below) had left me feeling completely overwhelmed. I needed some time and space to dispel this intense overwhelming cloud, and I’m disappointed at how long it took me to realise this.

Eventually, when we couldn’t surf one morning due to the conditions and it was decided that we would go to the Agadir Souk (a large market) instead, it dawned on me that I absolutely did not want to do that. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything with people. I didn’t want to even be near another person. I had a burning need to be alone. I tapped the guy driving the minibus on the shoulder and requested he let me out of the bus at the next town. I didn’t give anyone the chance to join me, and leapt out of the bus, shouting that I was fine in response to the worried queries from the others. The bus drove away. I was alone. I took a full, deep breath, and immediately felt ten times better. I had no phone service to let Jemima know my plans - she had stayed at the surf camp and would probably go to the Souk. I knew she would understand completely and be able to explain my behaviour to the others. Alone, I explored Tagazhout. I went to the view point and watched the waves and the surfers and I cried. I continued exploring (no longer crying!) and found a cafe with tables right on the rocks by the sea. I drank a subpar coffee and read my book and felt another 10 times better. I walked up to the skate park which sits on the hill above Tagazhout and looked longingly at the vans parked up. Impossibly chilled looking couples and friends napping inside, passing the time before the surf conditions improved. After feeling satisfied I’d been down every street and had seen every surfer tourist, I set off on the long walk back to Tamraght. Luckily, it turned out there was a beautiful promenade the entire distance between the two towns, and so I happily strutted along with my headphones in, stripping down to my bikini top and shorts. Back in Tamraght I stopped at a place serving prawns cooked up in a skillet for lunch, and enjoyed the final moments of peace. I now felt 100% back to my usual self and returned to the surf camp excited to see everyone. How had I not realised that I needed solitude to process certain things? I suppose because I could so easily and naturally get this usually. I didn’t have to think about it. Only now, when it took such a conscious act as requesting to be left on the side of the road, did I learn this. Better late than never I guess.

Before we get into the defining story of the trip, a few more noteworthy moments:

1. A trip to Paradise Valley which was less paradisey and more muddy bog after all the rain. As someone who loves mud and bogs, this made me very happy. Especially walking barefoot through it all. Even less paradisey when one girl’s bag, containing her fancy camera, slid down from the rock into the muddy water. We stood frozen as Mohamed (one of the surf instructors, and someone who you’ll appreciate had a very unlucky week…) stripped down to jump in after it. We watched him carefully remove his phone from his pocket, placing it on the rock. We watched even more carefully as the phone slowly slid from the rock, following the path of the bag, also falling into the muddy water. Mohamed jumped in and, accompanied by much splashing around, managed to retrieve both items. The careful spell was broken and we all laughed at this comedically awful turn of events.
2. Purchase of a gorgeous yellow, shallow bowl from which I’ve eaten 90% of my meals from since.
3. Jemima and I both got tattoos from the most amazing Amazigh woman in the town. She taught us all about Amazigh history and the significance of tattoos for women in Amazigh culture.
4. Delicious coffee from the few bougie coffee places in Tamraght. Always a great way to start the day, or to give a boost post-surf.
5. Mint tea on the beach in between surfs. The only time I’ve appreciated the sugar hit it provides. Also tajine on the beach. And just tajine in general (how is it so good???).

The Finger Incident

Without a doubt, the most memorable moment of the trip. On day 2 (!) of surfing, Jemima had yet to stand up on her board. She instead managed to put her right ring finger through the little bit of string which attached her leash to her board and, when a wave pulled her board forward, this pulled off her finger with it. I am only slightly exaggerating, the finger was actually left attached by a tiny bit of skin. I heard a shout and looked over to see Jemima in the distance, holding her hands up to the sky. Initially I thought she was trying to show something to the surf instructor. That was until I heard her screaming and the surf instructor rushing her out of the water. I waited a beat to work out if this was something I needed to go over for. Quite quickly I realised it probably was and so I ran across. I shouted to one of the other girls who was closer asking what had happened. She looked pale and said she didn’t know, but there was a lot of blood from a finger. I watched as two of the surf instructors ran Jemima up the beach and to the road. Resigned to the fact that this definitely meant my surf session was done, and feeling mildly annoyed about this, I chased after them. I dumped my board on the beach and followed the trail of blood up the steps to the road. With each drop of blood the mild annoyance evaporated and was replaced with a steady building panic. I reached Jemima sat in the boot of the minibus and could see she was in full shock. I held her face and made her breath with me. I looked down at her hand and steadied myself when I saw the angle of the finger tip. Bloody hell, there was no way that thing was fully attached. It was almost at a right angle, and slid over so you could see down into the finger. Now I am very much not good with blood (I spent the majority of the film “The Substance” with my face in a pillow and still had to make us pause it so I could have a break and stop the building sense of nausea), so I think I must’ve had enough adrenaline at this point to stop me from passing out. I, as calmly as possible, told the surf instructor that we absolutely needed to go to the hospital. He nodded and set off to arrange for this. I left Jemima with a random man and ran back down to the beach to grab our stuff. We moved Jemima into the front of the minibus and, after much too long, we finally set off to the hospital. She was doing amazingly considering. The initial shock had worn off and the pain seemed to come in waves. For moments she was able to talk and we hysterically discussed the situation, then she’d be screaming through the pain. We drove past the surf camp and I sprinted upstairs to grab our passports and Jemima’s travel insurance print out (and thanked her for printing it out, and myself for thinking to reminder her to get it). I asked how long to the hospital and Mohamed, the surf instructor driving us, replied 15 minutes. I knew he was lying but chose not to push the point. I tried to think about how long a finger tip could stay alive without blood flow and realised it might have already been too long. The initial adrenaline started to wear off and I felt sick. I couldn’t even imagine how awful Jemima must’ve felt. We went over a bump and Jemima inhaled sharply and screamed. She looked at me with huge eyes, pupils pin small, “something’s happened, it feels different, you need to look”. I begged her not to make me look but she insisted. I knew if I looked under the towel we’d place over her hand (more for my benefit than hers I think) and the finger tip had detached completely, it would be too much for me and I’d most likely vomit or pass out or both. Gingerly I lifted the towel, my face already grimacing. Intense relief when I saw the familiar right angle of the finger tip, awful but very much still attached. Jemima asked if I had picked up her vape from the beach, a worrying first concern in my opinion, but I confirmed I had. I asked if she wanted me to hold it for her so she could suck on it. She nodded intensely. And so there I was, holding Jemima’s vape to her lips in between waves of screaming/mooing as we drove to the hospital to reattach her finger. When we finally arrived at the international hospital in Agadir (I had strictly forbidden us going to the local hospital) we sprinted her into the A&E department and were immediately seen to. I think the screaming helped, and the fact we were both still in wetsuits, dripping wet.

Whilst the nurse looked at her finger and took several whatsapp photos (I hoped to send to the doctor and not a random group chat), I slipped into the corridor to hang my head between my legs and focus on not passing out. This is so stressful I thought. And somehow it only got more stressful. It became apparent that the damage was quite serious and this wouldn’t be a question of a few stitches to reattach it. I was also too scared to ask about the outlook of the finger tip being reattached successfully. The idea Jemima might be permanently damaged from this made me feel like, once again, I was about to faint. A lot of things made me feel like I was about to faint that day actually, basically any time Jemima screamed or a nurse tended to the finger or I spoke to the doctor. I knew Jemima, despite the brave face she was managing, needed me to be there for her. And I felt myself failing at this miserably. I found her pain suffocating, and each time she screamed it felt like my head was being pressurised. And it was HER pain, not mine. I couldn’t work out what was happening to me, until I realised with clarity that this is what it was like to be completely helpless when someone you loved was in pain. It was horrific and absolutely the most awful experience of my life so far.

Finally, after hours, we got some answers. Jemima would need an operation as it was an open fracture. The aim of the operation would be to reattach the finger, but it was possible that this wouldn’t work. Only if it didn’t work would they consider other options (removing the finger tip). I pushed on the likelihood of it working, and they seemed optimistic, but they also kept speaking to Mohamed alone in arabic and he was looking increasingly worried. This was a stark change from the Mohamed we had become used to, constantly joking about not needing all 10 fingers, that it was only the tip anyway, and in response to any of my questions about the medical stuff going on that “this is Africa” (I still have no idea what this means). Mohamed was absolutely incredible though. Whenever I had to run out of the room to avoid passing out, he stayed with Jemima and held her hand. He helped communicate with all the nurses and the doctor. He calmed me down when I started to panic. And as incredible as Mohamed was, Jemima was even more so. She took the whole thing like a complete champ. She stayed in great spirits despite the real underlying risk that she may lose her finger tip.

It was eventually confirmed that Jemima would have the operation that night, and we were moved into our own room. It was absolute luxury. A private ensuite room, with a balcony and little sofa. I joked that if Jemima was fed up of staying in dorms there were easier ways to get a private room. It was nearing Iftar (the time when people break their fast during Ramandan) and despite our insistence that Mohamed should go and be with his family, he insisted even more strongly that he would stay with us. We settled on a compromise, Mohamed and I would go to his sister’s house together and collect some food for us to bring back to the hospital. I was anxious about leaving Jemima, but also incredibly grateful for the chance to get some air from the hospital. Mohamed’s sisters were wonderful and forced Moroccan coffee (basically normal coffee with spices added) and cake on me, even though they couldn’t eat yet. We left with a bag filled with food and tea and returned to the hospital. Mohamed and I ate together, traditional harirra, homemade pizza, pineapple cake, and of course dates. We washed it down with more Moroccan coffee. We were informed that the operation would happen at 8pm, something I was very happy about considering the surgeon was also doing Ramadan and this would mean he will have eaten first! Nothing happened at 8pm and we discussed our plan for the night. I looked at Jemima and knew that, for us both, I absolutely had to stay with her. The thought of leaving her overnight, unsurprisingly, made me feel like I was going to faint. Mohamed and I went down to the reception to persuade them that I needed to stay. After a lot of back and forth, and an agreement on price, I was allowed to stay. Mohamed offered to run me to a shop to pick up some supplies, like water, and I agreed. Jemima still hadn’t gone into surgery and I was nervous she’d go in whilst I was away, but Mohamed needed to leave soon so I gave her a hug and wished her good luck in case. I returned to the hospital alone, Mohamed having done more than expected of him by staying all day, and found the room empty. A lot of pacing and tidying up ensued as I tried to keep myself busy. I showered and called a friend back home to explain the situation. I paced some more. They had said the operation would take one hour and I had set myself two hours before I was allowed to be properly worried. Minutes before the two hour mark the door opened and Jemima, crying her eyes out, was wheeled in on a bed. I made eye contact and sent her a questioning look. She cried harder and exclaimed “no, no, no!” shaking her head. Oh god, the finger tip must be gone, or even the whole finger. I let the nurses move her onto the proper bed and gave her a huge hug. I didn’t know what to say. I was so scared for her to confirm my fears. Eventually I managed a mumbled “it’s okay, you really don’t need 10”. “Oh no, they’ve done a great job, it looks really good, they showed me before they bandaged it up”. I sat back, “if the finger is okay, why are you crying and saying no?”. “It really hurts and they weren’t listening to me saying how much it hurts”. If I wasn’t so utterly relieved, I probably would have hit her. I repeatedly clicked the call button until the nurses came and insisted they give her some more pain medication. After we had both calmed down, and Jemima’s pain was under control, we tried our best to get some sleep.

The initial scares over, the following day became a waiting game of when the doctor would be free to inspect the finger and send us home. It took until 4pm, and then it took another 2.5 hours to actually leave. We chatted, Jemima slept, I paced the room and did several yoga sessions on the balcony, and I pestered the nurses at steady intervals. At the point I was on the verge of going completely stir crazy, the doctor came. He confirmed the operation had been a success and we could leave! I thought the tension and stress would float from my body on hearing this news. But it only seemed to ground down with renewed stubbornness. My patience was now completely spent so the final 2.5 hours of unexplainable waiting really got to me. As did the complete inability to communicate with anyone to work out how we could actually leave. Who knew it would be so difficult to pay a hospital bill! All the while my stress levels ascended. Poor Jemima was still in so much pain and had so many concerns and questions about her finger. I couldn’t answer any of them, and had no patience to even try. I cried in the elevator as I went back and forth between the various desks, each one sending me back to the previous one. I was failing miserably at supporting Jemima again. Finally finally, we were in the taxi and pulling away from the hospital. Jemima exclaimed that she was bleeding from where the IV had been inserted. I closed my eyes in weariness and told her to put pressure on it, but she insisted it was really really bleeding. I turned around to check and burst back into life when I saw that she was correct, there was blood gushing down her arm. I manically waved at the taxi driver to stop and take us back to the hospital, leapt out of the taxi and ran with Jemima back in to the stupid hospital and straight upstairs to the ward we’d only just left, barking at her to keep her arm up in the air. If Jemima and I were upset to be back, the nurses were even more so. They looked exacerbated at us as we showed them the issue. They quickly fixed Jemima up and sent us on our way again, this time ordering us not to return (jokingly, but also with a hint of seriousness which I appreciated). Finally, finally, FINALLY we were on our way back to the surf camp.

We collapsed into the room. I sorted through the medication Jemima had been given and hurriedly explained when she needed to take each, snapping at her when she asked me to repeat it, and then I sprinted up to the terrace to catch the final bit of yoga. Desperate to do something other than sitting in a hospital. Desperate to pretend the whole ordeal hadn’t happened. After the class, we caught up with the others and Emma, the mum of the group, gave me a proper hug.

Jemima was completely amazing, but the whole experience had pushed me to my limit of stress. I have never been so stressed for such a prolonged period of time. I felt completely drained and overwhelmed. And the stress knot in my shoulder/neck had returned with a vengeance. I had so wanted a week of no stress and rest, you really had to laugh! Whilst I spent the next few days moody and tense, Jemima dealt with the whole situation brilliantly. Everyone at the surf camp remarked at how brave she was, and I agreed wholeheartedly. If anything, she seemed happier and more grateful and focused since the Incident. She spent her days sunbathing, relaxing and exploring the town, and seemed quite content with this. And thank god, because if she was as moody as I was, it would’ve been a complete nightmare!

In all seriousness, the experience was incredibly bonding for Jemima and I (not least because I had to help her go to the loo and pull up her nappy afterwards). I realised how deeply I loved her, and how absolutely amazing she is. I realised how she has so many qualities I lack, and, in some ways, vice versa. It was my first time having to deal with travel insurance, and my first time having to properly deal with a health incident whilst travelling (aside from Rosaline’s monkey bite in Cambodia). I considered if I’d be able to deal with it all if it had happened to me whilst I was alone. I concluded that I’d have found that less stressful. Travelling with someone, and being responsible for someone else, is way harder than travelling alone.

Despite the Finger Incident, I did end up having a wonderful time in Morocco. But when Jemima suggested we go back together once her finger has healed did I immediately shout “NO”? Maybe…

A quick note on Ramadan

When I realised our trip fell during in Ramadan I was slightly apprehensive, but also intrigued. I knew it meant it would feel a bit different, but I was interested in experiencing this difference. Because all of our food was catered for, we didn’t run into the issues of not being able to find places to eat during the day. Instead, the impact of Ramadan was as follows:

1. People, as a generalisation, were lower on energy and mood than I’d experienced on my last trip. Unsurprising, considering they were fasting (and it was raining). I saw people arguing frequently, and tempers seemed to be short. People walked around the streets in slow motion almost.
2. Around 1 hour before Iftar (the time where people would break their fast), there was a real flurry of activity. Cars honked, motorbikes weaved through traffic, people skipped home ladled with shopping bags. Once Iftar had started, there was absolutely no movement. The streets were deserted. But if you looked through the window of each house you’d find a scene of community and energy. Each home would be filled with people feasting together.
3. People were unbelievably charitable and generous. Again, unsurprising considering this is a time where they are constantly thinking about those in need and how to be more charitable and generous. Examples include taxi drivers sharing their homemade meals with us as we drove back from the hospital just after Iftar (the sardine koftas he passed over were the best food I had in Morocco I’ll add); Mohamed’s sisters pushing huge quantities of food on us to take back to the hospital; and a lady selling jewellery expecting way below the asking price for two rings when we explained we had no other cash left.

The urge for the next adventure was growing and reached breaking point last week, so I began hatching a plan. I wanted to go alone. I wanted to be by the sea. I wanted to do it on my bike. After some time spent perusing google maps, I settled on getting the train to Brighton and then cycling to Folkestone, or possibly Dover, camping in between. I used Komoot to map the bike route and it looked perfect. I booked my outbound train for Saturday late morning and baked a loaf of banana bread on Friday in preparation.

Day 1 - Brighton to Rye Harbour Nature Reserve

Saturday morning arrived and I did some yoga to loosen the legs and ate a delicious bowl of porridge topped with a caramelised banana before finishing gathering up my stuff. My housemate had sheepishly returned my headtorch after finding it hidden in his bedroom (for the readers of the last wild camping post). I lubed up my bike chain and decided not to bother pumping up the tyres, they felt fine and I usually managed to make them go flat by doing this. I used a bungee cable to tie my tent to my pannier rack, and then clicked in my bags. I looped my smaller bag around the frame of the bike. After eyeing up the grey skies, I opted for my raincoat over my puffer jacket and pushed my bike out the door. First stop, London Blackfriars.

I missed the earlier train by a minute, after huffing my luggage ladled bike up the stairs. I stood on the platform and watched it pull away. No great loss, as I managed to convince the platform guard to keep an eye on my bike as I ran back downstairs and got a coffee. On the later train, I finished my coffee, ate an apple and prepared the greatest bike packing playlist of all time. And then I was in Brighton, bike propped up in a quiet corner of the station as I reattached my bags and pre-emptively got out my rain cover to try and best protect everything from the almost certain downpour later.

Headphones in, balaclava on, helmet on top, phone with directions on the handlebars, I pedalled away. Immediately taking the wrong turn. But once back on track, and zipping through the colourful streets of Brighton, I stood up on my pedals and took a deep breath. And so it begins.

A less than pretty initial section took me out of Brighton and on a bike lane next to a dual carriageway, until moving onto quieter roads mixed with designated cycle paths which undulated over fields. It was cold and the rain came and went, but the sun appeared in between. My nose was streaming with snot, and I’d given up protecting any dignity (who was I protecting it from anyway?) and had started blowing my nose directly into my mitten and then wiping it on my waterproof trousers. Lovely. I sang out loud often, with joy and excitement. I munched on a date bar I had stuffed in my coat pocket and chopped through the miles. At 3pm I realised I was getting properly hungry and stopped to work out where I could get some lunch. Bexhill looked promising, and at 30 minutes away would be pushing it, but doable. I ate a mars bar from a celebrations box that my housemate had given me as I left the house. I cycled past an old castle and through the charming town of Pevensey (I was keeping a mental note of towns which were pretty and ones which were not) before coming to the top of an open hill. As I rounded the corner to start descending I squealed out. I pulled over and stopped to dance and cry with joy for a second time. The cause? The sea! I could see it down below the hill, across several fields. There it was, lit up with the speckled sunlight coming through the clouds. A VW campervan drove past me and I laughed with the driver and his kids as I made eye contact. Then I pulled back onto the road and sped downhill, I shouted out as loud as I could, because we really don’t do that often enough. And soon enough I had skidded onto the small pebbles and was pushing my bike up to the top of the breach and looking out at the sea. It was right there. Muddy and brown and churned up from the rain and wind. A second deep breath filled my lungs. Oh dear, I really missed the sea in London.

Having spent a bit too long marvelling at the sea, I arrived at the cafe on the promenade just as it was closing. They could only offer me chips, which just wouldn’t cut it at this point in my deep hunger. I continued into the town and stopped at a cool looking spot. I felt dazed and honestly like I might faint I was so hungry. My legs felt like jelly as I timidly walked to a table. Staying stood up for some reason, I consulted the menu and settled on a Moroccan style chicken flatbread and a flat white. The waitress took my order, and only then did I realise I was still stood up. I collapsed into the seat and dug inside my bag for some biltong (straight from South Africa, thank you to my other housemates!) to chomp on whilst I waited. I plugged my phone into my portable charger and looked around the room. This was a state of utter exhaustion and hunger I was familiar with from travelling, it left my mind incredibly quiet, observant and focused. I watched the other customers, and noticed one man, also alone, watching me. I didn’t care, and held his gaze to show him so. My coffee came first, and it warmed me. Now I’d been still for a bit I had become very cold. Finally my food also arrived and I ate it slowly, savouring each bite. It was excellent! As I ate I felt my energy and heat return. I looked at the map to work out where I could camp that night. I only had an hour or so of daylight left, but was always planning to cycle for a few hours in the dark. I thought 7pm seemed like a good time to stop, and that would get me to a nature reserve on the coast I reckoned. As I zoomed in on maps to see if there was anywhere that looked good for camping I noticed there were several bird hides marked. I clicked on one, and then scrolled through the reviews. Reading reviews for weird things is one of my favourite past times. The first review was from last year, of a guy who had been bike packing and ended up staying in the hide overnight. Well I never, how perfect! I checked the weather, and seeing that it would rain overnight and in the morning, it was decided. I would also aim for the bird hide and camp there. I settled my bill and loaded back onto the bike, this time with my bike lights on and a headtorch on the back of my helmet. Two and half hours more riding left!

As I climbed the little hill out of Bexhill (makes sense), I looked over my shoulder just in time to see the sun disappear behind a cloud, but not before lighting up the sky a soft orange. I continued onwards as the light left the day and darkness came. Quite quickly I realised that my front bike light was dreadful, despite having put what I thought were fresh batteries in before leaving. I decided they must have been duds and pulled over at a corner shop. I bought new batteries and changed them. And some chocolate. And some water. The light was still rubbish, but slightly better. I wished I’d packed my camping fairy lights, thinking of how I could’ve wrapped them around my bike to make me super visible. I did not feel super visible at the moment, and with every car that approached me from behind I would scrunch up my face, praying it would see me and go around, but expecting it to instead crash right into me. I imagined the impact every time. My nerves were shot by the end, and I quietly whispered my scared mantra to myself over and over (picked up in times of need whilst travelling), a simple “you’re okay”. I was incredibly relieved to turn off of the road and onto the track of the nature reserve, although the lack of light cast by my front light was still a slight issue. I slowly trundled along, eyes getting used to the dark as I peered left to make out the marshes and lakes, and then right to make out the breach and beyond that, I assumed, the sea. There was no one around now, something I was thankful for as it was time to find the bird hide and settle down for the night. I could just about make out a path leading off from the main track, signposted by an information board. I slowly rolled down the muddy path and almost bumped into the wooden bird hide.

The bird hide, aka my home for the night

I gingerly opened the door, tempted to knock first just in case. There would have been no need, it was empty. I wheeled my bike inside and pulled my headtorch from my helmet, using it to track either side of the hide. It was perfect! I propped my bike up, lifted up a few of the shutters and peered out at the dark marsh. There was a big moon now and I could make out the shapes of the lake and even some birds floating on the surface. I got to work making the hide a home - unclipping my bags, blowing up my roll mat, fluffing up my sleeping bag, changing into my warm clothes and folding up my cycling ones, getting out my stove and mug, and my notebook and book. I nipped outside to go for a wee and then got into my sleeping bag to sit at the little bench and peer outside. I felt my nerves calm. I had found somewhere to sleep. I hadn’t been hit by a car. I wouldn’t have to do any more cycling in the dark. I was okay.

Still full from my late lunch, I decided to skip cooking the noodles I’d packed and just ate the quorn nuggets and carrots I’d prepared earlier. I ate quietly, watching the birds, thinking about the day. I made some hot tea and ate some banana bread and half an orange. My earlier calmness had started to recede at this point, as I knew it would, as the fear of being alone at night settled in. I wondered if I would ever feel less scared of sleeping alone whilst wild camping? Sighing, I knew I would just have to get through it. I picked up my phone and realised I had some voicenotes from Will to listen to. That would be the perfect distraction! I settled into his wonderful australian accent as he told me stories of his continued travels in central and south america. I cupped my tea with both hands and smiled at the thought of him hiking up volcanoes and surfing. Once finished, I sat in silence for a bit before replying. As I caught him up on my life, and gave him some requested advice on how to navigate the end of a huge trip, I heard voices and admitted, to Will that is, that I was actually incredibly scared and was in a bird hide alone. Saying it out loud made me laugh, what on earth was I doing. Why did I do this sort of thing? What was driving me? And why did it make me feel so alive?

After I rambled on for quite long enough I pulled out my notebook and wrote about my day, until my pen ran out. I snapped the notebook shut and looked at my watch. It was 9:15pm. I decided to go and look at the sea, making a second cup of tea to take with me. I slipped my boots back on and walked back up the path, crossed the track, and navigated the pebbles with my headtorch. It was freezing. The sea was definitely there, but did nothing to quell the fears of being murdered, so I quickly turned around and returned to the hide. I got out the chocolate I had been warming up in my sleeping bag and ate a few pieces whilst sitting with the feelings of fear and start of sleep. I picked up my phone again and opened netflix, I’d downloaded an emergency romcom for this exact moment. 10 days to lose a guy, a classic. I pressed play and watched for a bit before getting ready for bed. I looked up at the moon as I brushed my teeth, and leant my back on the outside of the hide. The cool structure supporting me, the moon supporting my focus in a similar way. I crept back inside for the final time that night and climbed back into my sleeping bag, and lay on my roll mat. My hat was pulled down over my eyes. I’d taken my arms out of my second fleece and pulled it down so it sat around my hips, like a skirt. My mittens were on and I pulled the toggles of my sleeping bag tight, so there was only a tiny hole left open near my face. I shivered and put some relaxing music on to help me start to drift to sleep. I focused on the melodies and just let the fear sit on the side. I stopped the music and fell asleep.

I slept relatively well, all things considered. I wasn’t too cold, although definitely colder than the previous winter camp without another person’s body heat to help. I had to get up and pee once, but unsurprising considering the second cup of tea. I got up at a bit past 7 and stayed in my sleeping bag as I made my morning tea and sleepily batted my eyes open, looking out at the birds once again. I nibbled on more banana bread and the rest of last night’s orange. I had survived. I replied to Will’s slightly concerned message with a photo of my tea, cake and the view out of the bird hide window. He said it was the most Megan picture ever. I smiled in agreement.

Day 2 - Rye Harbour Nature Reserve to Folkestone

By 8:30 I had packed up and was scooting my bike out of the hide, taking one last look to confirm everything was how I found it, and to give a nod of thanks to the shelter. I pushed my bike up the muddy path and climbed on to begin the second day of cycling. It was raining, and it wouldn’t stop raining for most of the day. I shook off the stillness from my body and took some fiery breaths as I pedalled away from the hide. More singing, more fresh air, this time with rain on my face. All incredible. I contemplated packing it in early because of the rain but decided against it. I was built to do hard things. I could dry off once home. I was going to get to Folkestone today. And so head down, I cycled.

Today’s route hugged the coast, and the crashing waves were a wonderful companion. I contemplated a swim, but the fact I could already not feel my feet made me quickly opt to not. I decided to take a detour to visit Dungeness, a peculiar looking spot out which stuck out into the sea. The road out to it was trying to put it lightly. Long and straight, the headwind meant it felt like I wasn’t moving, despite cycling hard. The rain was so intense that my headphones stopped working. Eventually I reached the odd outcrop of houses and took a spin around the place. The beach was littered with little wooden boats, and I couldn’t tell if they were deserted or just resting there. The houses looked like they were straight out of Norway, minimalistic with huge windows. I peered into one window as I slowly cycled past, still battling the wind, trying to make out the shape inside. I clocked that it was two, naked people locked together just as the man looked up and made eye contact. I snapped my head away and laughed as my cheeks flushed with colour. Oh the joys of love (or lust)…

I was once again starving. The problem was I was now too early for most places to be open for breakfast on a Sunday. So I decided to continue to the next town. The cold and wet were settling in now and I had to dig deep to find the joy as I pushed on. I collapsed into the little cafe which was run by exclusively old women it turned out. I stripped off my wet clothes, including my socks, and placed them on a chair. I ordered a breakfast baguette and a cappuccino. The lady remarked at how soaked I was, and insisted that I put my clothes under the heater to dry. I got out my electric hand warmer and stuffed it in my sock, each foot getting its turn. The breakfast baguette really hit the spot, as did the coffee, and the heater mostly dried my clothes. AND it had stopped raining (for the most part)! Utterly revived I set out again, with Folkestone squarely in my sights.

And soon enough, I’d made it. I could see that I was just going to miss the next train to London so when I cycled past one of those sea saunas I stopped, turned around and pedalled back to it. I asked the guy (Danny) if they had any spaces today and he said I was in luck. They were fully booked but he’d had a cancellation for the next session, which was in half an hour. I said I’d take it! He said I could come back then, but I admitted that I was much too tired to go anywhere and would just sit and wait by the sea. Danny was with his Dad who then went and bought us all a coffee (and refused to take any money for this) and we chatted. Danny had recently settled back in the UK after travelling for four years. We spoke about his trip and how he knew it was time to stop, and how he felt about this now. Longer term travel had been increasingly on my mind, and I was especially interested in speaking to people who had done it and then stopped. About what drove them to settle down. To work out if I would feel the same. It was a beautiful conversation. And the half an hour was up quickly. I changed into my bikini and sat in the great heat of the sauna. I felt it warm every inch of me from the inside out. It was magical. There were two other ladies in there with me, and I drifted in and out of their conversation, joining in occasionally, letting it wash over me at other times, and completely tuning it out at others. They were both lovely, and very interesting. When I reached my max temperature, I snuck out of the warm cabin and slipped barefoot into my boots, running to the sea down the pebbled beach. Sliding down almost. Kicking off my boots I steadied myself and strode in. The icy water dug itself in deep, beneath my skin and muscles into my bones and blood. I plunged my shoulders under and held them there. I caught my breath and held it also, eyes locked on the horizon. My feet floated up and I wiggled my toes. I closed my eyes and breathed over and over. Long and slow I felt the cold. I let it envelope all of my awareness. And only once it was everything in my entire world did I burst out of the water and run back up the beach, shoes in hand, blurting back into the sauna to sit right by the fire and shiver with life. Eyes burning with the intensity of it all. A huge smile on my face.

I waved goodbye to the women I shared the sauna with, to Danny, and to the sea. I appreciated the last bit of the journey, but also rushed it as I didn’t want to miss another train. At 16:20 I boarded the train back to London, a lot damper and muddier than when I’d arrived. Completely full of life and adventure.

A thought on the varying weight of life’s segments

Life is a sequence of segments. Or at least it is when we are reflecting back on it. Our memories are of discrete events which then stitch together to form a story. The segments can be of varying lengths, with lines drawn only where it feels natural to do so. They can be as short as the first sip of coffee in the morning, or as long as one 20 hour bus journey. I can’t think of any segments in my life which last longer than a day, but perhaps that is true for others.

These segments of life have different weights. Some are incredibly light. As in, they are light on substance, on meaning, on impact, on experience, on everything. They are utterly forgettable. The uneventful morning commute comes to mind, the same every day. No novelty, nothing for your mind to cling to. If, say one month from now, you were asked to describe in detail the morning commute of Monday 3 February, would you be able to? Probably not. Unmemorable right. Or in other words, a light segment.

In contrast, some segments are incredibly heavy. They are saturated with substance, with meaning, with impact, with experiences, with everything. They fill your memories. You will tell them as stories to your friends and family, not just in the immediate aftermath, but for years to come. They become anecdotes. They become woven into your life history. They form who you are. This might be in a negative way, they might be heavy and remain with you despite you really wishing you could forget them. But, hopefully, they are heavy in a fun, joyous, interesting way.

People’s lives have a different concentration of the two segments. And, of course, the segments are not binary, with a whole spectrum of light/heavy being possible. You can’t change a heavy segment into a light one. You can’t engineer something which is so full and meaningful into something which is empty and vacuous. But you can change a light segment into a heavy one. You can infuse any segment with more life, with a deeper experience, with richness. You deepen the experience of any segment by giving yourself over it to it in full, being completely present. You give more meaning to any segment by digging into it mentally, learning about it, trying to understand it. The richness is already there in every segment, but you appreciate it by softening into it, by letting yourself see it.

I wonder if we should be working towards increasing the concentration of heavy segments (the positive kind that is) in our lives. If having more of life being worthy of being recounted to friends, of lingering with you for days afterwards, of making you feel so full your chest could burst, is not the most wonderful thing? Obviously there is a balance to be struck, as giving weight to a segment takes more energy than zoning out and letting the world past you by. So first, we might need to build the energy required to live more heavily. Purposefully. Presently.

I think this is what I crave most in life. Weight. Intention. Appreciating the richness and unearthing the meaning which is just there. Living life in this way. Making more and more of my segments heavy. Having them so oversaturated with life that it drips out, spilling into the lives surrounding mine. This weekend was magnificently heavy.

On my cycle over to the ladies pond for a Sunday morning swim in the sun, I thought about freedom. It had been a topic on my mind since Friday night, when, after a particularly terrible week, I decided to walk the one hour home from the office and thought about the application of the evolutionary concept of the “Darwinian Demon” to current life. The concept is that each species has a finite amount of resources to apply to different traits related to survival and reproduction. This means that there will be trade-offs and no species can maximise every trait (the hypothetical one that could is known as the “Darwinian Demon”). For example, in optimising the number of offspring produced at one time, a species can either have a large litter, where each individual is slightly weaker and there is a risk that some will die (e.g. dogs which can have up to 12 pups), or it can produce a smaller litter, where each individual is stronger and it is more likely that all will live (e.g. humans). The broad concept of having limited resources and needing to decide how to apportion it between different traits carries over to current life. I thought about it specifically in terms of a job. Just as the traits in litter size are (i) number, and (ii) strength of each individual, the traits in your job are, as I see them, (i) salary, (ii) flexibility, and (iii) purpose. Whilst the traits are not as antagonistic as number/strength in litter size (an increase in one necessary removes resources from the other), in most cases, you still cannot max out all three. It was clear to me which I wanted to maximise. Flexibility.

I spent the rest of the walk planning how I would do this, and was quite happy with my new rough trajectory. I polished the idea on Saturday, and thought I was perhaps done pondering it all by Sunday. And yet there I was, cycling away, squinting through the sun, mind settling on a time I felt utterly free the year before.

A time where I felt very free

25/05/2024, somewhere near Stanford Dingley

I lay on my waterproof bag cover, one leg bent at the knee and the other extended long, over the edge of the cover and onto the softly damp grass. I was wearing cream, flowing linen pants I’d picked up in Nepal. My white trainer socks were brown on the bottom from the mud. My arms were bent at each elbow and tucked behind my head, supporting my neck as I surveyed my set up. My tent stood proudly 10 metres or so beyond my toes. My bike lie next to it. There were buttercups everywhere. I sighed as I lay my head back and took in the soft blue sky, thinly veiled with clouds. It was just me. I felt so strong and so happy. The knot in my stomach which had started to form an hour before, when the safe-bet campsite turned out to not exist and I had no idea where I could camp that night, had disappeared entirely. I’d cycled on to the nearest town, following the old style road signs that were just about visible in the overgrown hedges of the country lane (I had no phone signal) and once there, I’d found a pub. I’d ordered a half of ale and asked the lady if there was anywhere I could camp nearby. A farmer sat at the bar overheard and offered one of his fields. Once we’d each finished our drinks, he drove in his truck and I pedalled hard to keep up, as he showed me to the field. He’d poked his head over the gate and said there were a few bulls in there, but that they shouldn’t bother me. He helped pass me my bike over the nettle thicket which blocked the gate opening, and I waded through getting stung all the way up my bare legs. And now here I was, all the set-up was done and I was safe and content. No bulls had emerged. I lay back, watched the clouds and smiled.

Then I thought fuck it, there was absolutely no one around, and I laughed out loud like a crazy person. My mind moved on and got snagged on a word - “reckless”. “I am reckless” I thought. For setting out from London on my bike, with the idea of cycling to Bath. For forgetting an allen key and for following a man into his container workshop for compostable toilets to see if he had a spare one. For thinking I, who could barely change a tyre at home, would be able to use the allen key to replace an inner tube on the side of the road if I did get a puncture. For having nowhere to camp. For following a farmer into an isolated field. For getting the direction confused on my gas stove and turning the heat up so high I burnt my dinner so horrifically I couldn’t eat it. “I am reckless”. I turned the phrase over and over in my mind, like a mantra. It made me so happy, so devilish, so fired up and excited, to think it was true. I formed the words with my mouth, slowly. “I. Am. Reckless.” Then I said them out loud, still hardly audible, but enough that I could feel the vibrations on my lips and through the air into my ears. I said it over and over. Slowly and then faster. Louder and louder. Until the words forced me to sit up and fling my head back and to cry them out to the sky. I gathered my knees in to my chest and crunched my eyes up, feeling the rush of whatever this feeling was move through my body.

But the point at which I really felt free came several hours later. I woke up during the night, slightly too warm and bursting for a wee. I could hear the rain outside. And that it was proper, hard rain. Without opening eyes I flung my sleeping bag off and removed my clothes, including my underwear. Once completely naked, I unzipped the tent and slipped out, padding barefoot a few steps away from the tent, eyes now slightly open. I turned and squatted down. The rain was cold on my skin, but the night was warm. Whilst I peed I noticed the moon. It was full and beautiful and sat just above the trees that were in the middle of the field, making it surprisingly light for the middle of the night. I stood up and, for the first time, was awake enough to notice the obscenity of the situation. I looked down at my naked body, lit up by the moon, the surface of my skin now completely wet from the rain. I looked up at my tent and the moon, and then back down to my toes wriggling in the mud. I smiled from ear to ear and laughter softly rippled up my body. I opened my arms to the sky and breathed in the rain. I thought about how the previous day I’d been sat at my desk in an office in London, and now I was stood naked in the rain in a farmer’s field, having just peed on the ground. I spun and twirled and danced. I felt completely free.

(Note: In case it wasn’t completely obvious why I decided to strip naked before leaving the tent - which was actually quite a good idea from my sleep filled brain - it was to prevent my pyjamas getting wet. This way, when I eventually climbed back into the tent, I could dry myself off with my little towel and redress into dry, warm clothes to finish sleeping in.)

When I feel the most un-free

There are no longer many things which cause me to have an unreasonable reaction. One notable exception is when my bike gets a flat tyre. It immediately tanks my mood. I instantaneously feel burning anger, which then becomes frustration and severe annoyance. I feel like I could kick the tyre and cry. I feel angry at my bike, at my dad, and at myself. I’m angry that my dad never taught me how to change a tyre, that I was never encouraged to cycle properly. That my brother, who hated all exercise and outdoor activity, was bought a road bike and I wasn’t. I’m angry at myself for being so useless and so weak. For not teaching myself to change a tyre, for always getting my housemate to do it and never paying attention when he tried to show me how. I’m angry at my lack of motivation to learn to do it, and my lack of patience when I can’t immediately do something new. And so I end up with grease and dirt, and even one time dog shit, on my hands. Sweating from the anger and the exertion, and getting more and more frustrated when I can’t get the tyre levers to pop the tyre off, or the pump to click into the inner tube, or the tyre to slot back in without pinching the inner tube, or whichever other step is causing me an issue this time. And even if I do manage to do it, usually after an insane amount of time (genuinely an hour), I normally get about 100 metres down the road before realising the tyre has gone flat again. Have a miraculously got a new puncture already? Did I not pump it up enough? Did I not close the gauge properly? Did I pump it up too much and burst it somehow? Usually by this point I’m too pissed off and too late to care and angrily return home to shove the bike back through the door and get the bus instead.

Beyond, or perhaps beneath, all of this anger is a feeling that I’m most definitely not free. That I’m not capable nor independent nor able to do anything. That I’m stuck. That no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix this (very simple) thing and that I’ve had to give up. The realisation is bitter.

The idea of going camping in January at just above freezing temperatures seemed natural to me. I loved camping and I loved the muted nature of a winter’s day. I had a very warm sleeping bag and thermals. Of course I would go camping in the winter, just as I did in the summer. Other people’s reactions led me to realise this was an unusual desire…

Luckily I’m not the only person with this apparently strange urge, and I knew that Ciaran (a friend I’d initially met in Pokhara, Nepal and since done several hikes with) would be keen. I set aside a weekend in January and messaged him but got no reply. As the weekend crept up I thought about whether I’d still go camping, alone, if Ciaran wasn’t available. I decided I would, but the idea gave me a patter of anxiety. I loved camping alone but I did still get scared once the sun had set, and knowing how long the dark period would be in January made me apprehensive. I followed up with Ciaran. Turns out he was completely keen and had immediately put the weekend in his calendar, but had just forgot to let me know. My anxiety vanished and I was incredibly excited to get back out into nature.

I chose our route. We would continue the Ridgeway trail from where I left it with Angharad on the last camping trip of the previous year. A train to Princes Risborough, walk around 20km to Watlington and the Fox and Hound pub to warm up by their fire and enjoy a pub dinner, with Watlington Hill looking promising for a wild camping spot. Another 20km to Cholsey and a train back to London. For Ciaran and I, a little shorter than we’d usually do (not quite the monstrous 40km we did on one day on the Isle of Man…) but considering it would get dark early and Ciaran wanted to get back to London in good time on Sunday, we could live with it. For tips on how to plan a wild camping hiking route, see my previous post “Want to go Wild Camping? Start here.”

The usual flow of preparation took place on Friday whilst I worked from home. I baked oat cookies during my lunch break. I raided the cupboards for supplies - pre-mixing porridge oats with chia and flax seeds, and chocolate protein powder; a sachet of cous cous; apples; homemade roasted nuts leftover from a dinner with another travel friend the previous week; coffee and a variety of teas. I packed my hiking bag with warm layers and even an electric hand warmer I found stuffed in my desk drawer. I booked the outward train. I charged my portable charger and camping light. I got frustrated when I couldn’t find my headtorch after I specifically remembered putting it away somewhere safe so I would know where it was next time I needed to use it (as is the way). On Saturday morning, I got up early, showered and did a short yoga flow. I drank my hot lemon water and enjoyed the excitement I felt. This is life. Doing things that excite you, and being present for those feelings of excitement. I ate a huge bowl of porridge and got the tube to Marylebone, leaving enough time to buy an M&S salad for lunch and a coffee for myself and hot chocolate for Ciaran. I met him on the train and the adventure began!

Disembarking in Princes Risborough, it was grey and cold and quiet. We made a slight diversion to a co-op for Ciaran to pick up a few extra supplies, including malt loaf which would prove to be a saviour later. We found the trail and began our trot along it. It was 11:30am.

The Ridgeway is a 140km trail going from Avebury to Ivinghoe Beacon, across Wiltshire and Buckinghamshire. It’s referred to as “Britain’s oldest road” as it’s been used for at least 5,000 years as a route over the high ground by travellers, herdsmen and soldiers. The path is clearly marked and weaves through the countryside, making its way through woodland and across moor, sneaking between fields in a corridor of trees, pottering down and up valleys. It’s not spectacular by any means, but when you’re aim is to just get outside and be surrounded by nature, it certainly delivers.

We walked for around 5 hours on Saturday, reaching the pub at 4:30pm. We caught each other up on our lives and settled into our favourite topic of conversation - the trips we had dreamed up recently. This included discussing the long-distance hiking trails that we wanted to do most, the countries we’d most like to cross on foot, and any other adventures we could think of. Ciaran shares this obsession with adventure more than anyone else, and I’m always excited to hear his ideas. And his response to my plans are never to dampen them, he doesn’t point out the dangers or doubt my ability to do them. Any wild idea is met with enthusiasm and it is so refreshing and enjoyable. It makes me giddy with thoughts on how beautiful the world is and how we really could go and explore any part of it. The spaces between our conversations were filled with comfortable silence and the sounds of our footsteps. Another reason I love hiking with Ciaran, we both enjoy quiet company. Space to explore inside our own heads, or fill our attention with the outside world.

Whilst we waited for the pub to start serving dinner, we laughed our way through a book giving tips on how to better live your life, and playing a hard fought round of couples (which I eventually won I must add). We both chose a steak and ale pie with mash and seasonal greens, which we demolished with great delight, whilst sat by the roaring fire and accompanied by the rather lovely pub dog. With our bellies warmed by the pie, our brains by two pints, and our skin by the fire, we adorned our jackets and pulled on our bags. The other pub goers took interest and we had a fruitful chat with one lady who offered us her farm for camping, and when we realised this was quite far in the wrong direction, gave us some good advice on where we could find a camping spot. We followed her instructions and made the short walk along a road, turning off onto Watlington Hill. We immediately lost the path and ending up using the contour lines on the map to guide us back over a small overgrown area to re-find it. The laughter slipped out as I hurried after Ciaran, the sight of him pushing through the undergrowth by torchlight being all too exciting for me. I love doing things alone, but was amazed at how fun and safe this felt just by having someone I trusted with me. We followed the path a short way until we came to the brow of the hill, then it was time to find a spot to pitch up. We pointed out different areas that looked suitable, before finding one that seemed perfect. Ciaran ran down to the other side of hill to confirm this was in fact the best spot, which it was. We quickly and seamlessly put the tent up, blowing up our roll mats and unfurling our down sleeping bag/quilt. Into the tent they were carefully laid, followed by me and then the bags, which Ciaran passed in and I positioned at the end of the tent, where our feet would go. Ciaran crawled in last. We collectively sighed and stretched out in the comfort of the tent, before finding the energy to finish getting ready for bed. I swapped my hiking clothes for thermals, and Cieran just stripped down to a tshirt (a true crazy person!). We brushed our teeth and spat the toothpaste out of the tent door, zipping it up afterwards. I was so happy to crawl into the warmth and luxury of my sleeping bag. We commented on how easy that had all been.

To lull us to sleep we played some of the audiobook I’d told Ciaran about earlier, “Walking the Himalayas” by Levison Wood. The book opens with Wood exploring Pokhara, describing the lakeside street and the vista of the mountains. He meets a fellow traveller and remarks on how you often meet other travellers you connect with completely for a day or so, and then say goodbye to perhaps never meet again, or to perhaps bump into them in another internet cafe in some far flung place. Ciaran and I had met in Pokhara, almost 2 years ago, and here we were now, listening to a podcast about Pokhara cuddled up in a tent on the Ridgeway. Life is strange and oh so beautiful.

We woke before the sun and I savoured the act of opening the tent door; of feeling the freshness on my face and the smell of the morning. Still enveloped in my sleeping bag, I sat up and looked out across the faint lines of the hill. I sleepily made a cup of tea and cradled the warmth. I was surprised at how well I’d slept, only feeling a slight twinge of cold in the morning and being completely warm the rest of the night. I lured Ciaran awake by slotting an oat biscuit under his quilt. We both got dressed back into hiking clothes, something that was less pleasant in the cold, and then packed up. By 8:30am we were making our way off the hill and back to the path. We spotted several deer on the hill ahead of us, and then a whole herd of stags ran across our path. I was able to catch it on my phone as I had this out to reply to a work email (the annoying realities of corporate law, but lucky in this instance). It was even greyer and colder today, but the hand warmer proved very useful to warm my fingers stiff from packing the tent up.

More footsteps, more crunchy leaves underfoot, more conversations about life and more silent reflection. We interacted with a run club, them passing us twice, including once whilst they ran up a huge hill. We walked along the river for one section and saw Oxford rowers training. We stopped for a brunch of porridge and coffee, only to discover the cold temperatures had killed the gas cylinder - thank god for the malt loaf! By 1pm we had made it to Cholsey and by 1:15pm we were back on the train to London. Tired, legs surprisingly fresh, a blister on one of my heels, and a revitalised love for camping. We watched a documentary about the race across the Pennine Way (the Spine) on the train, and I had a very disappointing coffee from Reading station. Soon enough we were back in Marylebone and hugging one another goodbye.

I feel like I’m often struggling with the desire to do things alone, and the desire to share the experiences with people. In this instance, I felt no fear or concern whilst camping, something which I definitely would have if I were alone. I had more fun, chatting and playing cards in the pub, than I would have alone. It was all easier with someone. But does that mean it’s ‘better’ than doing it alone? Absolutely not. It made me appreciate the continued value of doing things alone, of doing things which are challenging and uncomfortable, to build resilience and confidence and to master your own mind (as silly as that may sound). Life is about balance and variety. There is no ‘better’ option in isolation, only a ‘better’ option based on your needs in that moment, considering the experiences you have had before and will have after. If I’ve spent a lot of time adventuring alone, it may be ‘better’ for me to adventure with someone else. If I feel overwhelmed and need some quiet and space, it may be ‘better’ for me to go alone. If I feel unsure in my self, alone. If I feel like I need to talk and laugh, with someone. It’s all about listening to what you need an honouring it. Here’s to more camping, alone and with company.

On a recent date (no further details here, this is a travel blog not a dating blog, but please see a friend’s incredible substack on this exact subject matter here), my blog came up and the guy asked if I was currently writing. I explained that I didn’t write as much now that I wasn’t travelling full-time, that I wanted to write more but I didn’t know what I wanted to write about. This led into a general discussion over why we write and if writing needs to have a purpose, and it transpired that the guy also wanted to start writing. The whole conversation was lovely and importantly for you, it made me realise what I did want to write about. My friends. I loved writing observational pieces. And whilst I wasn’t constantly travelling, I was constantly observing, learning and experiencing new things, through my relationships. All of that curious and observational energy cultivated whilst travelling was being focused into my friendships (and my work, but no one wants to read about corporate law). I interrupted my date with excitement when the idea struck and (after I apologised for the interruption) we mulled over the idea of writing about people. Was it an invasion of privacy? Would the person feel like you learnt about them just to exploit it for a blog piece, rather than for a genuine interest in them? Ultimately, we realised we’d both be flattered if anyone wrote about us, and would enjoy reading it hugely. I guess human self-interest wins in the end.

All of this to say, I’m going to start writing observational pieces about people (and maybe other subjects) in between travel posts. Starting with the guests to my New Year’s Eve dinner.

Like with most of my uni friends, how I met Angharad is hazy (not because of alcohol, just because meeting a lot of people at once makes it hard to pinpoint exact interactions). I studied Biology alongside her for three years. The experience was like floating in the side wake of a steady, sure cargo ship. Unwavering in direction and unflappable against any stress. Our friendship continued in this calm, nourishing space after finishing university. Like an explosion in a quarry, unearthing something that was always there, this year I increasingly saw the wilder side of Angharad.

If you also know Angharad, you will be forgiven for assuming she’s all serene and sweet. That the glint in her eye is purely one of intelligence and charm. But in reality, it is a glint of utter wickedness and adventure. This is the part of Angharad I had the pleasure of enjoying this year. Please see below for some of these wild memories.

The 2024 Adventures of Angharad, with Meg in tow

1. On a truly perfect trip to Faro, Portugal, we visited a vineyard for wine tasting. We got a bus to the nearest town and then an uber to the vineyard. On the way back, I floated the idea of trying to hitchhike back to the town. I was aware that most of my friends were disapproving (or at least dubious) of my love of hitchhiking, so assumed Angharad would prefer not to. Without hesitation, she voiced her support for the idea. She looked at me with her doe-like eyes, full of that adventurous glint, and also trust. We both smirked and ran down to the road, sticking our thumbs out and plastering our faces with our most approachable, but not too approachable, smiles. We were picked up by one of the waitresses from the vineyard and easily made it back to the town.
2. On the same Portuguese mini-break, a man slipped Angharad his phone number on a receipt as he left the restaurant we were all eating in. Neither of us saw his face. But of course Angharad was game to not only message this mysterious man, but also meet him and a friend on the jetty to stargaze and drink sangria the following evening.
3. Beyond these larger adventure moves, Faro was filled with so many moments of wildness. We sunbathed topless, we danced in the square, we cycled around hunting for flamingos. It made me realise that whilst travelling alone means you experience a place more deeply, travelling with a friend means you experience them more deeply.
4. Staying on the travelling theme, we hired a car for a day on our summer trip to Sicily. We got the car for 24 hours, which meant we still had it the next morning, until 9am. I spoke out loud in the evening, with the idea of getting up and driving to somewhere to watch the sunrise. It was summer, so that would mean getting up disgustingly early. Of course Angharad was entirely enthusiastic about the idea, and cemented the plan. We got up in the early hours and drove in the dark to a spot on the cliffs. We hiked up to a little castle and sat quietly with the birds. The sun came up out of the sea and we both exhaled a silently held breath. Magical. And then we decided to also visit the volcano in the middle of the island, and try out the pistachio croissant from McDonalds.
5. I saw Angharad dance more this year than ever before. Mostly salsa, with us attending classes and salsa nights across the city, watching her twirl and laugh with whichever lucky person she was partnered with. But also line dancing at cowboy nights (more on this below), and a more unique style of dance called Contact Improvisation. In the latter class, Angharad was initially reserved as we moved around the room playing with our centre of gravity, but by the time we were learning how to roll across the room like trees she was as committed as the die hard hippies. That’s another quality of Angharad I really saw about this year, not just that she’s open to try anything, but when trying it she will fully commit to it. Even if afterwards she’ll kindly say that Contact Improvisation was probably a one time thing for her.
6. Angharad and I share a love of country music, which means we very much enjoy the Buck n’Bull cowboy nights at a weird faux western town in the Isle of Dogs. Angharad is an excellent line dancer it turns out, especially in her cowboy boots, and also a bucking bull rider! I was a bit nervous of going on the bucking bull, of falling off in an embarrassing manner with everyone circled around watching. Angharad showed no such concern, she was the first of us to jump on and she also managed to remain on for over 45 seconds, which was only just shy of the record. It definitely gave me the confidence to also give it a go, although I was not quite so accomplished…
7. Lots of my friends have shown interest in joining me for a wild camping trip. Only Angharad has followed through, and not once by twice! Which is especially notably seeing as on our first trip both of her shoes disintegrated and we were saved by the duct tape provided by a group of southern hemisphere fishermen. But she made sure we got back out there this year, with a beautiful two day hike across Oxfordshire. We wild camped on a rather exposed hill and when I suggested it, noting the potential concern that it might be a late night meet up spot for local ruffians, I forgot all I had learnt about Angharad this year and thought she might prefer the safety of a campsite. How wrong I was! Out came the tent poles and we were pitched in no time. Again, her eyes overflowing with excitement and trust.

This year was filled with many more memories of adventure, and also cosiness, with Angharad. Because that’s a space she also holds strongly, one of rest and vulnerability. It’s unusual for one person to hold both that space, and one of adventure. I feel desperately lucky to have Angharad as a friend, to have her to adventure with and rest with. To have earnt her trust and to continue to watch her become more confident and more accomplished by the minute!

I have unearthed just two of Iwan’s talents, although two of many I’m sure. The first was an inclination towards escape room style puzzles. I should have guessed this, after I was forced to spend a morning locked in a police van with Alex Cleere under the guise of an escape room for Izzy’s birthday one year. Usually a quiet presence in the group of our outspoken friends, Iwan migrated into the centre of the hive of activity that encircled the escape game box that was opened on New Year’s Eve last year. He rattled through the puzzles, tying together pieces of information that went right over my head. When Alex woke up from playing with the calculator app on his phone and decided he wanted to join in half way through, Iwan gave no time to this silly suggestion. We were too far in! It would be impossible to recap all we’ve uncovered so far! You idiot! Okay maybe this was what the rest of us shouted, Iwan is much too polite. But the disapproving stare said enough.

The second talent was a nifty ability to play the guitar! When we returned to Izzy’s farm after a long evening playing skittles and drinking scrumpy, I was initially nervous when a guitar appeared, thinking it would hasten my move to bed. But when Iwan and his friend started playing I was pleasantly surprised, it was actually very good!

So a secret escape room expert AND a musician. I can see why Izzy keeps him around!

Izzy is a school friend, but one that I didn’t really become close with until several years after school. I don’t have a picture in my head of what Izzy was like when we were younger, only her now as an adult (I think I can finally call us adults now we’re in our mid twenties). But the picture of her now is filled with the following: honesty, pure joy, openness, facilitator of excellent summer gatherings, a positive influence and someone I’m always excited to talk to.

Just like I love the way Tarsha talks in facts, I love the way Izzy talks in the full picture. I was recently discussing our tendencies to only talk about or write about the positives, ignoring the less ideal bits that accompany any positive experience. Izzy is single-handedly championing the art of the full picture. And she is the perfect advocate as she shows how fun it makes any story or experience. Any story is said with a smirk and leaves listeners chuckling away as they get to picture the event in full colour, from all angles, even the uglier ones.

I always leave a conversation with Izzy happier and more inspired than when I entered it. A little envious of her perfectly imperfect life filled with auditing struggles and sea swims. Excited to hear future stories of her and Iwan’s life living in a beautifully old house in Somerset. I would love all of my friends to write so I could gain a better insight into their lives, but I especially wish Izzy would. I would excitedly wait for each new piece she published, devouring it over my breakfast, or whilst on my lunch break. Enjoying all of the tiny details of a truly fun, honest life.

The first time Kieran entered my world was on the drive to Snowdonia. He wasn’t in the car, but Tarsha was driving and was telling me all about this guy she’d met at Izzy’s summer camp out. I was still desperately sad about being back home after my trip, so was very thankful for the distraction. We discussed how wonderful he seemed, but also the concerns she had that maybe they weren’t the perfect fit. It’s laughable to think about this now. I have never seen two people more perfectly matched than Tarsha and Kieran. Their whole relationship is so nourishing to see, and it is so lovely to see a friend being loved in such a complete way.

BUT when I think of Kieran, I also think about the infamous story of him attending a big work conference after just starting a new job. Of being invited onto the stage without warning and asked to share something motivational. Of him coming out with the beautifully hilarious phrase of “Nothing matters”. Of being met with a sea of taken aback faces and deciding the only way forward was to commit, and to simply repeat the phrase again, louder and with more confidence. “Nothing matters”. I can’t retell the story with the same hilarity as he can, but I think about it often when anything gets a bit much. I actually completely agree with him. I’m not sure I’d describe it as a motivational quote, but it is incredibly freeing. To realise that nothing matters, so there’s no need to stress or worry. Nothing matters so you might as well just have some fun and enjoy your silly little life. A sentiment which Kieran absolutely nails. Always a bubble of lightness and fun at any gathering. I’m glad we didn’t confine you to a tent on new year’s last year and scare you off.

N.b. I need to inform Kieran that I speak of him surprisingly often. To be specific, any time someone asks me about the best gift I’ve ever received. The answer is my secret santa gift from last year from Kieran - an apron with several hand-painted eggs rolling across it. Meg the Rolling Egg.

Thinking about the person Tarsha is now genuinely gives me goosebumps. As a school friend I’ve known her for many years. But the person she is now is the one I love the most.

I am obsessed with her love for life, her commitment to her own path, her motivation to do things she likes to do, and her ability to make her own dresses. Tarsha has always had this ability to state things about herself as fact. Let me explain. When I talk about my future, the words “maybe” “I think” “something along those lines” come up a lot. Even when I talk about something in the present, I’ll weaken the point. With Tarsha, there is none of that rubbish. She is sure, so she speaks surely. There is certainty and intention in her actions. This isn’t to say she doesn’t change her mind, she definitely does, but she does that as fact too. For example, for a period Tarsha was vegetarian. It was a fact, and you’d be forgiven for thinking that would be a life long choice due to the certainty of it all. But later, Tarsha stopped being a vegetarian, without any doubts or wobbling, this was the new fact. She doesn’t try to hide the fact that she was previously a vegetarian, why would she? She was sure then, and she’s sure now. The subject can change, but the sureness does not. This sureness covers not just her speech, but her life. She wanted to spend more time with her mum, so she lived and worked near home. She wanted to become a teacher, so she did a PGCE. She wanted to live somewhere quiet and secluded, specifically in a barn conversion on a farm, and so that’s where she lives. She wanted to do more travelling, so she spent a summer going on multiple solo trips. She wanted to be in a relationship, so she thought about the type of person she wanted to be with and did not settle for anything less.

Perhaps it is her belief that there is no such thing as a universal truth, and therefore no such thing as a fact (I’m not even sure if she believes this, I just remember a very interesting, very long conversation we had on the topic whilst on our little retreat in Cornwall with Sam), that allows her to be so factual. Because such an act lacks the weight and associated stress that it holds for the rest of us. Whilst all of our minds are cloudy and confused at this transitional age, Tarsha’s just seems so clear. Maybe she’ll disagree with this observation, but I think it holds at least some truth.

I love catching up with Tarsha and getting to see more of her certain and exciting life. I can’t wait to see the moves she makes over the next year…