I spent basically all my time in Pakistan in the northern region called Gilgit-Baltistan, and the majority of it in upper Hunza. This area is populated by people who are ethnically Wakhi, the same people you will find spread across Afghanistan, Tajikistan and Xinjiang in China. They speak Wakhi, live in Pamir houses with a particular design featuring five pillars, a sunken living room, and a pentagon shape in the roof with a window in the centre. Their religion is Ismailis, a sect of Shia muslims that is incredibly liberal. They do not have mosques, the women mostly don’t cover their hair, and women have (almost) the same rights as men. Whilst I also met a lot of Pashtun people, also from Afghanistan, the Wakhi are who I spent most of my time with.

Some general observations about this northern region of Pakistan:

1. People are incredibly friendly and hospitable! I never felt unsafe here.
2. Towns are filled with the following: small shops selling snacks, fresh fruit and veg stands, shops selling light bulbs and electrical wiring, shops selling meat, places serving food and a few shops selling clothing and cloth. There is the occasional pharmacy.
3. People are obsessed not with money, but obtaining a visa or a passport for any other country. With a Pakistani passport, it seems that you cannot travel anywhere easily.
4. It is very common for people to be married to their (first) cousin, and everyone in the valley seems to be somehow related to one another. I asked if people were aware that having children with your first cousin could cause the children to be born with genetic issues, and people agreed that this was a very big problem but that people were only just starting to connect the two things together. One boy told me that all of his uncle’s children had died as babies, due to such genetic issues. Several of the shepherd children I met whilst hiking had notable disformaties too.
5. People often referred to life in the valley pre-9/11 and post-9/11, and it was only after this that I considered the knock-on effect that something so globally publicised would do to country. Pre-9/11, the valley had a thriving tourism industry that was on the up. Filled with hiking enthusiasts and overlanders. Post-9/11 and the killing of Bin Laden in a compound in Pakistan, that tourism industry completely dried up. Ever so slowly, it is being rebuilt, but it was obvious that many people’s livelihoods had been destroyed in the aftermath.

I have really enjoyed my time in Pakistan. The hiking was beautiful and I had so many great experiences with the locals. However, it is a place being ravaged by climate change and corruption. And this leads to huge logistical nightmares. The glaciers are melting faster than usual, and this causes flash floods which destroy the roads. It was so strange going to sleep each night, hoping that the road in the direction I wished to travel would still be there in the morning. Corruption results in the roads not being fixed properly, and also constant power outages. Sometimes for days at a time. This also causes phone service to disappear, leaving you cut off from everything. It was challenging to plan travel, it required constant changes in any plan, and just become quite stressful and exhausting. But this is nothing compared to living with this situation constantly, and I felt such sympathy for the locals and the difficulties they face.

A note on the questions I’m asked every time I meet someone new:

1. Where are you from?
2. First time in Pakistan?
3. Do you have a boyfriend?
4. What is your name?
5. What is your profession?

The food

Honestly, really not my favourite. Maybe because I got sick early on and my stomach was dodgy from that point onwards? But I didn’t love the heavy curries, endless amounts of dry roti, oily omelettes and unspiced chai. The best meals I had were whilst hiking - I loved the vegetable curries that often featured. Otherwise, I definitely wouldn’t recommend Pakistan for the food! At least it was apricot and mango season and those always hit the spot.

Will I ever cross into China?

In a word - nightmare. From protests to damaged roads, it felt like I had to manifest with every fibre of my being for this border to be open. And it still didn’t work. Since the beginning of July, Pakistani traders had been protesting at the border over the Pakistani government introducing high taxes on imports, and this involved them shutting down the immigration office and physically blocking the road. I’d heard rumblings of this as soon as I arrived in Pakistan, but also was aware of tourists being allowed to cross still. I was planning to cross into China on Friday 15th August, the day after Pakistan’s independence day (a national holiday which would see the border closed). However, after checking with the locals in the area (I asked the owner of a homestay in the town close to the border) it seemed that the border would also be close on Friday. I decided to push my border crossing to Monday 18th August, rather than dashing to make it before the 14th. This would give me a few extra days in Pakistan to do another multi-day hike, and I would still have enough time in China to do what I wanted to do there. With this plan decided, I booked my trains in China, all the way from Kashgar in the far west to Chengdu. Trains in China book up almost immediately once they go on sale, which is two weeks before departure, so I was already cutting it fine and had to make do with what was still available. I knew that if I missed these booked trains I was in trouble, as I wouldn’t be able to book new ones (they would certainly be fully booked by then). Also, this act of booking trains was made infinitely more difficult by the lack of wifi or phone service in Pakistan…

Monday 18th rolled around and my stomach was filled with minor dread. All weekend people had been telling me that the border would not open on Monday. This was pure conjecture, but it made me anxious. The owners of the homestay also seemed to hold little hope of it opening. However, they said we would still go to the border to see. So after a typical breakfast of egg, roti and chai, we drove the short distance to the border town of Sost. The bus office was closed, not a promising sign, but another bus office was open. We went here and were met with an unhelpful spiel of “uncertain if border will open today” “maybe it will” “maybe tonight” “maybe not today”. I released the control of the situation and decided to accept that I wouldn’t be crossing, but be optimistic all the same. The knot in my stomach dissolved and I thought about how good it was to practice letting go of things you can’t control. There were some familiar faces in the bus office - the little Uzbek guy I’d met in Yak Grill a few days previously whilst we both waited to see if phone service would appear, and the Belgian couple from the hostel in Ishkoman, right at the start of my time in Pakistan. I shared my working phone service with them, and we laughed at the uncertainty of it all. After 2 hours, we were told that a committee of people was coming from Hunza, a larger town lower down in the valley, to have a discussion with the protestors at 2pm. That only after this would there be news. So we drove back to the homestay, with all our contacts in Sost ready to call us if there was any update.

I might have been able to let go of the stress of seeing if the border would open or not, but I was less good at accepting a day of waiting. I hated feeling like I was wasting a day, especially when on a short trip. But it was raining, so I didn’t feel like going for a walk around the town or hills, and I had already done this the previous day. I wasn’t in the mood to write. So I sat in the traditional Wakhi room for the entire day. The young guy from the hostel was happy to play the selection of games with me, so we played pick-up sticks, dobble and exploding kittens. Another guest arrived, a very interesting 60 year old lady from Palau (had to look it up, it’s a Pacific island), called Katherine. She joined in our game of exploding kittens and we played until we were bored. We chatted a lot, I read my book, I practised some dutch. Katherine told me she once dated a dutch man and it was awful, and then he died of covid. There was no news about the border. Before it got dark, I went for a little walk and thought about my options. If the border opened tomorrow, I would miss my first train but I could take a flight to the next city instead and would be able to catch the subsequent trains. If I couldn’t cross until Thursday or Friday, I would go and explore a different valley for a few days, and would then have to fly all the way to Chengdu, missing out on exploring Xinjiang but with no other option. If I couldn’t cross until next week, or not at all, well that would be very tricky!

I did some yoga and Katherine and I played more cards until it was dinner. The day had moments of joy, sharing funny stories, playing cards, but mostly I felt defeated and lethargic from the waiting. I gave up on my chance of crossing that day and went to sleep, with little hope for the following day.

The next morning I crouched on the porch and watched the mountains. I held no hope about crossing today and felt pretty low. The lady from the homestay came out of her room and excitedly said she had received news that the border would be open today! My mood soared as I rushed to pack my things. We ate breakfast and drove back to Sost, and it become certain that the border would be open. The bus offices were mobilising, and I secured my bus ticket and snacks for the journey. Thank god (or Allah)!

We’re crossing into China!

In a way I’m glad that it was such a painful lead up to the border crossing. Because it meant whenever the actual crossing became tricky, I just thought back to how thankful I was to even be crossing the border. The actual crossing was long, but not too difficult. First, we needed to have our bags searched by the Pakistani immigration office, and then stamped out of the country. We loaded our luggage onto the bus, but then had to walk across the picket line and past the protestors, and another 1km up the road. We cheered when the bus appeared and we loaded on. We drove the final bit of the Karakoram highway through the Khunjerab national park. The road was in a very bad state in sections, but passable. My fellow passengers were all Chinese, except for 7 cyclists from a mix of European countries, all in their 50s. When we reached the national park kiosk, us foreigners were charged 30USD as a park fee, a total rip-off seeing as we wouldn’t be getting off the bus, but one I was expecting. We weaved our way up to 4300m and crossed the border under the communist looking archway. The highest paved road, and the highest international border crossing, in the world. There were Chinese tourists in a fenced area, taking photos of the mountains. A short distance past the archway we went through the first immigration point. I felt the altitude as we got of the bus, the air was cold and thin. Our luggage was scanned and then a man went through every item of my bag, but very pleasantly and he seemed quite excited by most of my items. It wasn’t a particularly thorough check despite this, and he didn’t find my penknife which I’d hidden wrapped inside my raincoat. I was then placed on a little conveyor belt, a first for me, which took me through a scanner - quite funny! Back on the bus we continued the drive on the Chinese side of the national park, with an extra passenger of a Chinese police officer (although he didn’t pay much attention to us and spent most of the journey on facetime to someone). The scenery opened up dramatically, to wide plains bordered by snowy mountains. Gone was the tight valley I’d been in for the last week. I happily spotted herds of yak from the window, lots of marmots, a bright yellow bird, and three camels.

A few things happened immediately after crossing the border - my chinese esim kicked in and I had full 5G, and time jumped forward three hours. The phone service made me tut, angry at the Pakistani military for the monopoly they held over phone service in the north, and the poor service they provided. The time difference made me feel strange, realising that all of China runs on one time zone which suits Beijing, so it doesn’t match up properly in the west.

After a couple of hours we reached our destination - Tashkurgan’s immigration point. Our luggage was first inspected by sniffer dogs, then I had my tongue swabbed and my bag was scanned again. And finally, my passport was stamped with a Chinese entry stamp. I felt a sense of relief - I was in! The visa which had been incredibly painful to get in London was all in order. I left the immigration building and immediately felt lost. Everyone had evaporated and I had no idea where to go next. I wanted to try and get to Kashgar that night, but was aware that it was already 10pm (I had left the homestay in Pakistan at 9am!) and the drive was 5 hours. Eventually, I found some friendly Pakistani guys who were also trying to get to Kashgar and we banded together to find a taxi. And so the much less pleasant part of the journey began, with a taxi driver who may have been the most awful man I’d ever met.

One of the Pakistani guys needed to drop by a hotel briefly (I think to drop off a watch, but unsure), which was next to a restaurant. We hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day so we asked the driver if we could quickly grab some food to takeaway. He said no, that there was not enough time. He then got out of the car and went into the restaurant, returning with two boxes of dumplings, all for himself. I laughed at his behaviour, and eventually, after it was evident we would be waiting a while, one of the Pakistani guys ran in to get us all a tupperware of pilaf with lamb and a samsa (all food I’d had before in Central Asia, which made me quite excited!). The next sign of how awful the driver was came when he rolled down my window (I was sat in the front passenger seat) and picked up his now empty box of dumplings. I could see what he was going to do and watched in horror as he attempted to throw the box out of my window and it caught in the wind and hit my head instead. Again, I couldn’t do anything but laugh at this man’s disgusting behaviour. His driving was terrible and I was scared to sleep, sure that we would crash the moment I closed my eyes. We went through several police check-points, which were without incident, and there were hundreds of fake police cars and police officers, complete with flashing lights, all the way along the road. There was a strange box in my glove department which the driver kept stopping the car to look at. It had a green display but didn’t seem to show anything. I guessed it was some sort of monitoring device. The driver repeatedly said we needed to wait before driving again, to all of our annoyance as the hours dragged on. The worst of these was at 2:30am, when he said we needed to wait for 30 minutes. Confused but tired, we didn’t argue. At 3am we gestured for him to continue driving and he then refused, saying we now needed to wait another 2 hours. We were all incredibly annoyed now, we asked him why he hadn’t mentioned this when picking us up? We pointed at the other taxis driving past us to his claims that no one can drive along the road after 3am. Eventually, he continued driving, making lots of loud noises in disagreement about it. At 4am, we reached Kashgar, and were only 20 minutes from my hostel. I was day dreaming about getting into bed when the driver stopped on the side of the main highway. He refused to drive any further. I pleaded with him to drop me off at my hostel, since it was so close, but he just got out of the car and started unloading our bags. The Pakistani guys and me shook our heads in disbelief, all agreeing that this guy was a very bad man. We all stood on the side of the highway, hoping to find a taxi that would take us to our respective destinations. I was so thankful to not be alone. I saw a taxi and waved it down. The Pakistani guys insisted that I take this first one, and I thanked them all as I gave directions to the new driver. It seemed that the road of the hostel couldn’t be driven down, so I climbed out, paid the driver in cash as my QR code payment was working yet, feeling so thankful I had met some tourists who had come from China earlier in Pakistan and bought their Yen from them. I walked the final 10 minutes down the dark street, praying that the hostel was where it said it was. When I saw the sign and pushed open the door I could’ve cried with relief. It had been an exhausting day, and I collapsed into bed happily.

And so the Pakistani chapter was over, and the Chinese chapter began. Not off to the greatest start, but at least I was in the country at last!

Stats

Cars - 11

Motorbikes - 6

Minibuses - 2

Journeys

1 - Gahkuch to Minapin (4 hours) (07/08/25)

The first car that drove past stopped for me. Despite only going 45 minutes down the road, the two men insisted on driving me the 2 hours to Gilgit (which is where I said I was going, as I knew I could then hitch a second lift from here to Minapin, as it was the start of the Karakoram Highway). Getting in the car, I didn’t feel completely at ease with the two men and so, when they asked if I was alone, I told them no, my boyfriend was waiting for me in Minapin. And when we came across some tourist police, I made sure to roll down my window so that they saw me. The police eyed me and the guys suspiciously, and told me that if I had any problems, to just let them know as there were more police on the route. Then they each took a photo with me. Happy to be heading to Gilgit, I didn’t care too much that we went via a random village where we waited for 30 minutes in the car for one of the guys to do something. As we approached Gilgit, they asked if I was staying there. I said no, I would travel on to Minapin. They asked how far this was, and I said 2 more hours from Gilgit. The driver said he would take me there and, despite my protests that it was too far, he insisted. After the other guy got out in Gilgit, we headed onwards to Minapin. We stopped for momos and pizza for lunch, which he would not let me pay for, and he bought me a sprite and some crisps for the journey. The driver was 25 and didn’t speak great english but with the help of google translate we spoke about religion and the origin of man, and he told me that he had spent 2 years in hospital with blood cancer. We stopped so that some boys could take a photo of us in front of his car (people love their cars here) and he bought a lit cigarette from the boy (who was much too young to be smoking). I kept up my story about my boyfriend waiting for me in Minapin, but I could tell it was going to be a bit tricky to make this man leave once we had arrived at my hostel. With some firm google translating that I had lots to do to prepare for a hike the following morning, he ended up leaving without any fuss. I did receive a declaration of his love via whatsapp a few hours later, but I sensed that was inevitable.

All in all, a great first hitchhiking experience.

2 - Minapin to Ali abad (1 hour) (09/08/25)

I started walking along the dirt road out of Minapin to get to the main Karakoram Highway. When a car drove past, I waved it down and hopped in to the main road. The car was going in the other direction to me, so I said my thanks and waited for a car going the right way. The first one that drove past stopped for me. I saw a child in the back and jumped in. The driver spoke very good english and we chatted away for the 45 minute journey. We needed to make a detour to a different village to drop off the other passenger, and the guy insisted we also have some lunch here, so I could try his favourite dish (beef in a thin sauce). It was okay! He then took me back to Ali abad, even though this was slightly out of his way. I took his number and promised to whatsapp in case I wanted him to drive me to Hopper valley.

I’m learning that whilst I will be picked up immediately, there will usually be a detour involved. And also, that it is best to hitchhike hungry, as I will inevitably be taken out for food on the journey!

I had treated myself to a luxury ecolodge in Ali abad, for the grand total of £23. It was an incredible stay, I had my own little cabin with a fully glass front looking through the trees towards Rakaposhi mountain. I had tea and coffee in the room, and a modern bathroom with toiletries! I spent the afternoon chilling in the room, showering and doing some writing and life admin (including applying for my practising certificate for being a solicitor!). I ventured out and explored the town, taking in the slightly manic main street, book-ended with mountains on either side. I bought dried apricots and hand sanitiser, and peered into a bakery. I returned to the hotel as it got dark and had a real feast - a walnut salad, followed by a local dish called Hoi La Garm (spinach with flatbread pieces, a bit like pasta), washed down with apricot juice and finished off with a brownie and mango ice cream. All for the total price of £8. I slept like a baby in the comfy bed and enjoyed a delicious breakfast of pancakes with cherry jam and cream and french press coffee, with a view of Rakaposhi. I very much enjoyed my slice of luxury in the mountains, and thought about how nice it was to be able to treat myself like that. But it was also with a twinge of sadness - I really enjoyed the comforts of my stay, so much that I worried I was growing out of being an absolute budget traveller.

3 - Ali abad to Karimabad (20 minutes) (10/08/25)

As explained below, I had a few hours to spare which meant I had time to explore the forts of Karimabad. I was picked up by a local guy who looked more British than Pakistani (pale skin and gingery hair). He said he could definitely take me to the Altit Fort, and that he even had a surprise when we got there. The walk from the little car park to the fort was lovely, past a large pool of water where boys swam, and the old open court. After a discussion with the guard and ticket person in the local language, we were let in for free, and the guard bowed repeatedly to the guy. Odd I thought! As we walked through the garden and up to the fort, the surprise was revealed. The guy was part of the royal family of the area, and this was his grandfather’s home. His uncle (the crown prince) had given both forts to the local foundation to be visited by tourists, but his grandparents had both lived there. This meant I was given a VIP tour of the fort for free, and the guide kept apologising to the guy when he mentioned something negative about the royal family’s history, and kept checking certain things with him - all quite amusing! The guide also turned out to be an incredible videographer and photographer, so I had a full photo and video shoot in the fort too. It was great to learn more about the history and culture of the region, something I had only received snippets of so far.

I explored the second fort - Baltit fort (baltit means “upper” and altit “lower” in the local language) - alone. It was larger and perhaps even more impressive than the first, with coloured windows in several rooms. I enjoyed walking down the hill from the fort too, checking out the little shops selling gemstones and carpets. I did some admin, negotiating with a shop keeper to give me some cash in exchange for charging my card (none of the ATMs in the area seemed to work with foreign cards) and then collected my bag from the hitchhike guy. This was a bit odd however, nothing majorly wrong, I just started to get an odd vibe, so I turned down his offer of joining the family on a picnic to Attabad lake and went to grab a mango shake as I waited for my onwards lift.

4 - Karimabad to Ghulkin (45 minutes) (10/08/25)

Not strictly a hitchhike, the owner of the homestay I had contacted to stay at in Ghulkin was driving from Gilgit and so could pick me up. He would be a few hours (in Pakistani time, I knew this meant several hours) so I explored the forts and town of Karimabad whilst I waited. He picked me up from here, with his son, and we made one stop to visit his daughter at a women’s hostel. I had seen a few of these around and it was interesting to see what they actually were. It was a place for girls to live so they could attend school or college in the area, when their families lived a bit further away. I spoke to the girls for a little while, who were all excited to meet someone from England, and even more so when I told them that I was a lawyer. They were between the ages of 14 and 17 I would guess, and although the place seemed a bit odd to me, they seemed happy enough.

Once at the homestay, I read my book high above the building perched on a rock. I looked at the now familiar sight of apricots drying on roofs and the backdrop of rocky mountains. The homestay was also a bit odd and didn’t exude the warmth I had been expecting. I ate dinner with the other guest, an Italian guy who had come overland from Italy and we had very interesting conversations about the places he had visited and the state of Europe. He was planning to cross into China the same day as me (the 15th) so we exchanged numbers so we could cross together. He was travelling to Sost (the border town) the following day to try and find out if the border would be open on the 15th, and promised to feedback to me.

5 - A day of hopping around, ending at Passu (11/08/25)

My record number of hitchhikes in one day: 2 cars, 4 motorbikes, and 2 minibuses. One of the motorbike drivers even offered for me to take his bike when he couldn’t take me all the way to my destination as he had to go to work. Sadly, I don’t know how to drive a motorbike so I had to refuse. I think I would like to learn when back in England though…

I first travelled back down the Karakoram highway to the start of a hike to Baskochi meadows. Then back up to a cafe near Gulmit where I enjoyed an excellent iced latte and made use of finally having some phone service to book my trains in China. I also ate a very gooey and delicious brownie, which powered me through the afternoon. I hitched a lift to Hussaini Suspension bridge, so treacherous they give you a life jacket to wear as you walk across. I’m fairly okay with that sort of thing, and even I was left feeling quite queasy and only made it halfway across before deciding that was enough and turning back. I hitched another lift back to the turning for Gulmit, and then another up the hill before walking the last 15 minutes to the homestay. I picked up my bag and paid for the night, before starting to walk back down to the main road, hitching another lift, and then another one once on the main road to the infamous Yak Grill. Here I enjoyed a Yak Burger and wedges, before walking during sunset through the small town of Passu and to the hotel I would be staying in.

6 - The adventures of Irfan and Meg (12/08/25 - 16/08/25)

Whilst relaxing at the campsite on the Rakaposhi hike, I met and chatted to a kid called Irfan. He was 20 and had impeccable english. I found him quite funny, and he reminded me of my younger brother in a way. We exchanged numbers and I said I would message him when I reached Passu - his village.

Staying true to my word, I messaged him saying I would reach Passu the following day, and would check out his uncle’s cafe which he promised me had proper coffee. Whilst at the cafe, enjoying an excellent iced latte, he appeared. From then on, we hung out constantly, for almost 5 days! We messed around and bickered just as siblings do, and it really was like being with a younger brother for a few days.

He arranged for me to stay at his uncle’s hotel (still a construction site really, but with a lovely room with a great view of the Passu Cones). Another uncle was our guide for our hike to Patundas Meadow, another uncle provided us with a tent, and another uncle ran the cafe with nice coffee. It seemed that every man we met was an uncle!

On the first day, he met me where I was eating breakfast and we decided to go back to the nice cafe to get phone service and to have a coffee. Checking his motorbike, he assured me there was definitely enough fuel to get there. Fast forward 10 minutes to the bike spluttering to a stop on a hill, me getting off to walk and him having to push it. “Don’t worry, it’s all downhill from here so we can just coast the rest of the way.” I looked ahead and could see several more hills and rolled my eyes. Luckily, a kind man on his motorbike stopped and syphoned off some fuel for us. After the cafe, and after Irfan had got some more fuel, we drove to Borith lake. It was a saltwater lake, and not particularly beautiful. It smelt like sulfur, and the area was barren around it. I read my book with my feet in the water until I was too hot and hungry. We went to a little restaurant for lunch (we had traditional chap soro, a flatbread stuffed with meat) and then went on a hunt for some fruit. This took us back towards the cafe with the nice coffee, and we found that the road right next to the cafe had been completely destroyed by a flash flood caused by the glacier melting. It was crazy, the road was completely gone, and one cafe had been completely washed away. We thanked our luck that we were on the right side, and felt bad for all those who weren’t. Over the next few days, I met several groups of people who were left stranded, unable to drive south. We eventually found some mangoes and drove to Irfan’s home. His mum cut up the mangoes for us, and Irfan showed me multiple ways to eat them. He showed me his traditional instrument and played this for me. We played with his dog, an energetic cocker spaniel called Solar Panel (because he was black). We sat in the garden with a view of the Passu Cones as I read my book and Irfan spoke at me. We returned back to the broken road in search of phone service, and had some dumplings for dinner. He dropped me back at his uncle’s hotel, where I was staying, and stayed in the room next to me. We would be off hiking for three days in the morning!

Once back from the hike, I decided to stay in Passu for one more night, so the adventures of Irfan and Meg, a phrase we coined whilst riding on his motorbike, continued for a while longer. I knew that, despite being almost 7 years younger than me, he felt like my protector (mostly because he told me this), which made me chuckle but I decided to let him go on believing it. It reminded me of something similar that my brother had said whilst we travelled together in Istanbul.

On the following day, when I was definitely going to leave and head to the next town, I ran into him as I was about to start hitchhiking. He convinced me to stay for a meal with his family and the friends we had met hiking, saying he would drop me at the next town afterwards. Not taking much persuading, I agreed. We returned to his house and relaxed for a while, I chatted to his father as Irfan and his mum prepared the meal (they didn’t accept my offer to help!). We picked up our friends and enjoyed a delicious meal of chinese style curry with rice, traditional pancakes and fresh mangoes and apricots. Irfan’s father spoke about his time working and living in Kabul, and especially the day that the Taliban took over and he and his colleagues were extracted from the city. It was an afternoon of wonderful company.

On our final motorbike journey (or what we thought was our final one…), Irfan said he would have come with me to China if he could get the visa. I said that would have been nice, and I meant it. We got on very well, only falling out slightly once (when he almost pushed me off a cliff), and I had grown rather fond of his company. We high-fived goodbye and I promised to message him when I came to Pakistan again, and he promised to let me know if he ever came to London. I’d agreed to take him to a goth night if he did, as he had decided he was into goth girls and to try and bring him a goth girl next time I visited.

I suppose one of the reasons it was such a lovely relationship was because there was no hint of any underlying romantic angle. It was a pure friendship. The adventures of Irfan and Meg - another highlight of my time in Pakistan.

7 - Passu to Jamalabad (1 hour) (16/08/25)

After the final meal at Irfan’s, just as it got dark, I climbed onto Irfan’s different motorbike. We drove down the lane and I felt rather unstable on the bike, as we drew close to the main road Irfan turned and said “I don’t think I can take you all the way, the brakes don’t work”. I hastily agreed and said I would hitchhike! We hit the main road and a car immediately drove past, which we flagged down. It was the chefs from the infamous Yak Grill that I had eaten at several times - happy to get in with these men I said a final goodbye to Irfan and we left. We chatted away in the car, which I noted was going very slowly up the hills, until we reached the little lane running up to the village and the homestay. As we hit a slightly more aggressive incline, the car had had enough and cut out. The men laughed and I laughed with them as we climbed out and pushed the car out of the way of the lane. I looked up the dark road and felt nervous at the idea of walking alone to the homestay, even though it was only 20 minutes away. One of the men took my bag and gestured for me to lead the way, they said of course they would accompany me to the homestay! How lovely, and so we all walked up together, admiring the stars. There was, thankfully, life at the homestay and it turned out that the owner was the driver’s uncle (no shock there) and so they stayed for a while to eat and drink (chinese wine!) and I joined in, whilst frantically using the phone service which had appeared to sort the remaining things for China and my Indian visa. The two guys had come to the village for a wedding party, and asked me if I would like to join them. I said I would love that, and so we headed back to the village, along with another guy from the homestay who it later became apparent had only joined so he could walk me back later.

We first visited the groom’s side, and we watched the dancing and ate food with them. I spoke to a man who had caught the first snow leopard in Pakistan, and one guy who was living in New York. We went to sit with the groom, who, similar to a stag do, was with his close friends smoking and drinking brandy and joking around. I sat next to him and was included in the jokes and the rounds of brandy. It was great fun! I was convinced to dance the Pakistani style dance with the children, which felt silly but also fun. We saw where the men were preparing thefood for the following day - several boiled sheep. Then we went over to the bride’s side, and sat and celebrated with her too. Both parties were in the traditional Wakhi rooms. It was so cool to experience! The guy from the homestay walked me back and we again admired the stars. An unexpected but wonderful hitchhike experience!

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Overall

Initially, I was definitely apprehensive before each hitchhike. Worried about getting myself into trouble, into a situation I couldn’t control or get out of. However, after the third hitchhike, I realised that the chances of such a situation were very low, and that it was really rather joyful and fun. This was helped by how easy it was, the first car stopped for me every single time bar once (and I think that car was already full). People were kind and seemed very aware of the perspective the outside world has of them, and were very keen to show that this was not the case. They were not, in fact, gun wielding terrorists who frequently committed violence against women. They were kind, hospitable people, desperate for the tourism industry to continue and reach pre 9/11 levels. I had nothing but wonderful hitchhiking experiences, and I do not think this was just me being lucky. I think it genuinely is safe to hitchhike in northern Pakistan!

Beyond the adventure of hitchhiking the Karakoram highway and learning about the culture, the main purpose of my trip to northern Pakistan was to hike. And hike I did! I did 3 multi-day hikes, and several shorter ones - read on for more information about these. Overall, it is very easy to hike in Pakistan, as there are plenty of guides in each town. You can simply rock up and ask a local to help you find someone, and this guide will sort everything needed for the trip. You’ll be ready to set off the following morning. In terms of the prices, except to pay around £30 a day for everything (this includes kit hire, the guide, the porter, and all food on the trek). There are so many hikes available, you’ll be spoilt for choice. They all involve mountains, plenty of elevation, and usually meadows, glaciers and lakes. The food will mostly consist of vegetable curries and dahl with rice and/or roti (made fresh on the trail), ramen, and bread and biscuits. I would really recommend the region for hiking enthusiasts who fancy something a bit of the beaten track. I’d love to go back and do some longer ones, 1-2 weeks perhaps.

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Chatorkand Lake Hike

My first proper hike of the trip. Hailey (a canadian girl staying at the same hostel), our guide (Amar) and I set off at 6am and Sana gave us a lift to the start of the trail. From there, as we would do all day, we followed a gushing river up the valley. First it was on a dirt track which zigzagged up steeply, becoming more rocky as it went, with donkeys and shepherds overtaking us with ease. We came across a small hut surrounded by apricot trees and took a short rest before continuing up the steeper section. At the top, it felt like we had moved fully into the valley, and the path levelled out a bit. We stopped for lunch on a flat section, where the river widened into several small streams and we could paddle and sit on a little island in the middle. A german couple from the hostel and their guide (Hakim) had caught up with us and we ate lunch together (ramen and bread). We continued walking up the valley and I ended up walking alone, behind the speedy german couple but ahead of Hailey and Amar. The path crossed a little meadow, filled with shepherds’ huts. I guessed that the men were all out with the animals as I could only see women and children outside. They ran over when they saw me and gestured for me to sit down with them, which I did. They were filled with laughter and joy as I shook every woman’s and child’s hand. They invited me into one of the huts for chai, and I agreed, ducking my head as I squeezed myself and my bag into the tiny doorway. There I sat on the lifted section of the room, perpendicular to the door and the fireplace, with the women and children lining the rest of the walls. I looked around at them all, all of their eyes on me. I counted 16 women of various ages from 15 to 60 and over 20 children, including one baby that can only have been a few weeks old. It was quite a surreal experience. After 10 minutes I realised there was a chance that Hailey and Amar would walk past without me realising, but as I popped outside to check I saw the two of them being directed into the hut. The ladies had told Amar that I was inside. Together we drank chai, with added salt rather than sugar (the mountain way) and had some biscuits. We were then served metal beakers filled with goat lassi, but not the indian kind. This one was putrid and sour and with large lumps. I tried to hide my distaste as I sipped it and noticed with horror that the cup still looked full. I managed a few more sips before sliding it over to Amar to finish. I gave some money to the women and then we set off until we reached the blue lake. The path snaked through a pine forest and the smell was amazing. We were adopted by a shepherd and his little family on their walk back home. One of the children was around 2 and would crawl up on her dad’s back to be carried, hanging from his neck like a baby monkey. We reached their home and waved goodbye and, to my horror, they ran out with cups of more lassi for us to drink. This one was slightly less putrid, maybe because it was a mix of goat and cow milk, but still wasn’t great. They left the bucket filled with it nearby so I sneakily poured most of mine back in. Shortly after, we reached the blue lake - an incredibly crystal clear lake, lined with pine trees which were reflected perfectly in the water. We walked around the lake until we reached the far side and Amar said it was only one more hour of walking to reach the camp. I was a bit faster than Hailey so decided to walk on ahead to reach the camp. After 1.5 hours more of walking uphill and through woodlands and finally onto a meadow, I started to worry. I hadn’t seen the camp yet, had I missed it? Surely not, so I continued forwards but started to get a little anxious. I could see two children perched up high on the hill surrounding the meadow, and could here them shouting something. Was it encouragemnt to keep going, or warning me of something? In the next meadow I spotted a canvas tent up on a mound and made a beeline for this, surely it was the camp. As I reached it, my spirits dropped as it became apparent that this was a shepherd’s home and not the camp, but the shepherd pointed me forwards and as I followed his finger I spotted a figure stood on top of a hill in the distance. I recognised Hakim’s white cap and felt a wave of relief. I quickly made my way over to him and gasped as I saw the view, another glacier lake nestled right up against the back of the mountains. A cloudy turquoise colour, with the glacier visible on the left hand side. Beautiful. I set up Hailey and I’s tent and changed into my warm clothing, there was a wicked wind here. Hakim and the cook built a stone wall by the tent to block out the worst of it. I sat by the lake shore and took in my view. It had been a long day of walking, 11 hours, 18km and almost 2000m elevation. Hailey and Amar appeared a while later and we ate dinner with the german couple, a delicious meal of rice and dahl. However, as I started to eat I felt my stomach churn, likely from the lassi. Shortly after dinner I went to bed, but was up soon after as I rushed to exit the tent and find a bush. The lassi was not agreeing with me at all… Luckily I had a great view of the lake and the stars to keep me company, and was only up once more during the night. In the morning, I couldn’t not go for a swim. The water was icy cold but delicious and I swam behind a bush so I could do it in just my sports bra and pants (not usually socially acceptable here). We had a simple breakfast of roti with cream and jam before walking around the lake to a viewpoint at the far side, where we could see the glacier better and look back down the valley we’d walked up. With camp packed up, we began to walk back down to the first lake, enjoying the view down the valley. We had lunch here (ramen again) as we waited for Hailey and Hakim to catch up. They arrived 2 hours later - Hailey had hurt her knee and it seemed like she wouldn’t be able to walk back down! After a short discussion it was decided that she would ride the donkey that currently carried some of the kit. The guides redistributed the weight and got Hailey on the donkey, who looked slightly unimpressed (the donkey that is). We set off walking again, but as Hakim and I headed down the slope leading from the lake we heard a cry which sounded a lot like Hailey falling off a donkey. Hakim rushed back and when he reappeared, he confirmed that was exactly what had happened, but luckily a juniper bush had broken her fall! Hailey would slowly walk down the mountain, it was decided, with Amar whilst I went with Hakim and the german couple. And so for the rest of the way down I chatted to Hakim and he told me stories of the fairies in the mountains which he, and lots of other local people, fully believed in. He told me a story about a magic cow which lived in the lake we had camped by that his grandfather had seen. We also spoke about the Ismailis Muslims, which is the sect of Muslims that most people in the mountains belong to. We got back down just as the sunset and I immediately bought a cold sprite. A wonderful hike, although we were all slightly concerned about Hailey. Hakim assured us that she and Amar would spend a night in a shepherd’s hut and continue walking in the morning. So we ate dinner, showered and I slept excellently. In the morning, I was shocked to see Hailey’s shoes outside of her room, but overjoyed that she had made it back safely. She and Amar had walked in the dark down the mountain, with her headtorch, and made it back at around 1am. Crazy! We celebrated over breakfast. A great introduction to the mountains of Pakistan.

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Rakaposhi Base Camp

After a day of rest, spent travelling across to the Hunza valley and up to Minapin, I enjoyed a whole mango for breakfast (the mangoes here were the best I have ever had) before setting off to reach Rakaposhi Base Camp. Rakaposhi is a mountain of 7788m and the 27th highest mountain on earth. The trail starts from the town of Minapin and zigzags up as a track on the base of the mountains. I had a very old shepherd and his cow for company, until his cow wandered off and he struggled to get it to come back. The track became a path and moved through pine forests, with views of snowy mountains in the background. At around lunchtime I reached the lower camp, a green field that jutted out from the hill and overlooked the valley. I had a ginger tea here (my stomach was quite unhappy) before continuing to the base camp. The final bit of the path went up steeply, across a hillside that was covered with little purple flowers, wild thyme and rocks. At the top, Rakaposhi’s peak was visible. It was a great sight. Once at the brow of the hill, I gasped as I saw the huge glacier which filled the valley beneath. This was my first proper look at a glacier and I couldn’t tear my eyes away. They poured over its surface, over the crevaces and pools of water and ridges. It was awesome. Eventually, I walked on, along a narrow path cut into the cliff face, until I reached the base camp. I had planned to stay here for the night, but after taking in the dingy field, crowded by the mountains, and the barbed wire seating area in the middle, I assumed to keep out the cows which roamed around, I started to reconsider. My decision was solidified after I met the men running the campsite, from who I got the weirdest and worst vibes from. So I drank a rose tea, and thought about whether the men might spike me, before exploring the area and walking right up to Rakaposhi. Here I saw one of the men strip into his underwear before diving into a puddle of water, and then summoning a horse to him only to throw his shoe at it. Like I said, weird vibes! I decided the lower campsite was much nicer, and so returned there. I spent the afternoon lying around in the sun, listening to podcasts and enjoying the view, nibbling on the dried apricots that the camp guy had brought over. I shared dinner with an odd Korean man who was on the hunt for a “good place” and thought he may have found it in a village in the valley, or at an empty spot on this hill (although there was a ghost there so maybe not, according to him). I also met some local guys and had a drink of the local alcohol with them, including Irfan (more on him in the hitchhiking post, and the Patundas meadow section below). I enjoyed the stars from my tent, and slept well. In the morning, I had a slow breakfast with the Korean man, who just ate roti for one hour without a break and drank salty water. When I returned to my tent, I smiled at the sight of the cows around it. This became a quiet scream when I saw that one of the cows was actually inside the tent! I’d left it open with some bananas inside, and this cow was obviously feeling rather brave. My scream startled the cow and it tried to go out the back of the tent, hitting the wall. I ran around to the back and hit the tent there, making it leave out of the door. I peered in to assess the damage, my stuff was mostly in tact, although my flowery handkerchief was missng, I assume eaten, and there was some mud tread into the mattress (hopefully only mud…). I packed up my bag and sheepishly told the camp guy what had happened. Luckily he wasn’t too mad, but that might have had something to do with the fact that he had a crush on me, as he had offered to give me a massage the night before (I graciously refused). I speedily descended the rest of the way into the town before collecting the rest of my stuff from the hostel and hitchhiking onwards.

Seeing the glacier was something I’ll never forget, and the views of the green hillside and huge snowy mountain might be one of my favourite hiking views yet.

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Baskochi Meadows

Just a short half-day hike, but one worth mentioning as it felt like I unearthed a paradise on top of the mountain. I hitchhiked to the trail, which left from the Karakoram highway and ascended up the mountain very steeply. There were views of Attabad lake to motivate you, but it was a tough climb up the rocky, dusty mountain. Luckily it didn’t last too long, and in under two hours I emerged onto a plateau, vibrantly green and filled with apricot trees. There were signs of life, with one or two small huts and trays of apricots out in the sun to dry. As I wandered through the greenery I stopped to pick and eat some of the gorgeous apricots and was once again thankful I was in Pakistan for apricot season. They tasted nothing like the bland apricots we get in England, these were bursting with flavour as intense as their colour. I came across some girls picking the apricots further in, and chatted with them for a while. They came up to the meadow in the summer when school was finished to pick the apricots. Sometimes they’d spend a few days up there, sometimes they’d go home each evening, it depended on how much work they had to do in the meadow. They pointed me in the direction of a viewpoint, on top of a rock which stood tall to one side of the meadow. I climbed up and was rewarded with an excellent view of Attabad lake - bright blue sitting perfectly in the curves of the Karakoram valley, contrasting with the brown rock. It was a very recent addition to the valley, forming after a disastrous flood in 2010, and was now a leisure lake with little boats on it. I went back down the same way I’d came, and saw lots of lizards scuttling around.

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Patundas Meadows

After some back-and-forth, I decided that my final three day trek would be to Patundas Meadows. The kid aka Irfan (who I had met at the campsite on the Rakaposhi hike and had been hanging around with in Passu) would be tagging along and his uncle would be our guide. Initially, we had organised a different guide but this man was now stuck on the other side of a destroyed road, desperately trying to save his cafe from the flood water! I’m happy to say that his cafe was not damaged, but another cafe was completely washed away. Another reminder of the damage that the increasing floods bring. After some last minute scrambling we managed to convince Irfan’s uncle (who is a guide) to come with us. He said he would have to get the supplies first thing in the morning, and he wasn’t sure if he had a tent for me to use. Irfan’s other uncle (seriously, everyone in the valley seemed to be some relation to Irfan) had a tent, so we stopped by his hotel to pick it up. The following morning, after a good rest, we set off to the start of the hike, which was at the far end of Borith lake. The drive up the steep, zigzagging track on the back of Irfan’s motorbike was an experience with us both carrying huge backpacks. My core was burning by the end, with the effort of not bouncing off the back of the bike with every bump. Irfan’s uncle arrived shortly after and we set off on the hike. I was glad to have Irfan with me, I really had grown quite fond of the kid.

The initial section of the hike was steep and along an exposed ledge which jutted out from the cliff, with the valley floor below. Best to keep one hand on the wall and stay as close as possible to it, I decided, focusing on my feet and avoiding the drop. After a couple of hours we reached a shepherd’s hut and stopped here for a small lunch of ramen and bread. We met a woman and her guide coming back down. She told me she was staying in Aliabad and I realised that she wouldn’t have heard about the road being destroyed yet. I broke the news and showed her some photos as her guide told her not to worry and that they would find somewhere else to stay this side of the flood. I was reminded again of the impact that these floods were having. We continued on our way for another hour before reaching the point that we would cross the glacier. It had appeared slowly into our view, filling the valley in between our side of the mountain and the opposite side. It looked angry and treacherous and I was starting to feel a bit nervous. As we left the safety of hard rock and moved onto the ice, the nerves intensified and I looked across the huge glacier with a sinking feeling in my stomach. It was so big, and god was it slippy. Then it got worse, as we left the edge and the glacier truly began, its huge crevasses and cliffs became apparent. Now if we slipped, it wouldn’t just be a sore bum but a long fall into nothingness. It crossed my mind that maybe I didn’t want to do this, knowing I’d only have to cross back over the glacier in two days’ time. But I decided that I was safe with the guide, that I could do hard things, and that all I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and go where I was told and eventually I’d be across. Two hours later, that was true. Safely back on rock I was incredibly relieved. But it was a truly cool experience. Being physically on the glacier, seeing up close the rivers that carve their way through the ice, surrounded by pillars rising up and crevasses sinking down. The sun was hot and it made the glacier twinkle, as if it was sweating. Of course it was in fact melting, at an alarming rate, and causing disasters lower down as it did. There was also the sound - cracking and crunching all around us as the glacier heaved under the sun. It was beautiful. But I decided it would be my last glacier hike, as I was truly terrified the entire time. Once back on rock, it was only a short hike up the valley side to where we’d set up camp. A lovely flat area nestled into the mountain, with a view of the glacier one way, and a view down into the valley the other. And we weren’t alone there, there was another foreign couple and their two guides. I flopped under a tree and enjoyed the smell of wild thyme as I ate a cucumber and read my book. After a few hours, the couple emerged from the shade of a shepherd’s hut to say hello. They were Peggy, German, and Cameron, Australian, living in Berlin and in their fourties. Cameron had been travelling around Pakistan for the previous month and Peggy had come to join him for 2 weeks in the north. An interesting but lovely couple, and we joined forces to eat together and hike together from that point onwards. I wandered down this side of the valley to take in the dusk light before dinner, and enjoyed a vegetable curry with rice as the sun set. After waiting long enough to see the incredible stars, we headed to bed and I wrapped up warm for a cool night in my little tent.

In the morning I unzipped the tent to grey skies and the glacier peaking out from behind the ridge. We had a breakfast of roti with jam and chai before setting off up the mountain to reach the plateau on top - Patundas meadow. The original plan had been to camp up on the meadow that night, but the poor weather (it had rained in the morning and looked like it might again in the afternoon) meant we decided to return to the lower camp instead. This at least meant we could leave our stuff down at the camp and hike up with a much lighter load. The path was, of course, steep, and being over 3000m I could feel the altitude. Taking it steady, Irfan and I made it to the top in around 2 hours, pretty quick despite Irfan’s complaints that I walked like an old woman. Once at the top, we reached a shepherd’s hut and our guide appeared from inside with a baby sheep in his arms. Grinning, he handed the lamb to me with a “for you!”. It felt like a prize for reaching the top and I enjoyed showing the little lamb, who was only a few days old and very happy to be in my arms, the views of the glacier on the opposite side of the mountain, as well as the peaks of Shisper and the Passu cones. I handed the lamb over to Irfan eventually, so I could further explore the meadow. It wasn’t lucious and green, but had short, dull coloured grass. It was huge, with rolling hills. There were glaciers in the valleys either side, and snow capped peaks behind us. The sun was very strong and so after we, with Peggy and Cameroon joining, walked to the otherside of the meadow and back, we sat in the shade of a shelter Irfan made with a tarpauline. We ate a delicious buttery, garlicy pasta for lunch, then relaxed with the view. I even dozed off for a bit. After a few hours, and as the clouds began to gather, we set off back down to camp. As I spotted the camp I had a slight panic, as my tent had seemingly disappeared! Quite sure I was looking at the spot where I’d left it, I tried to think about what could’ve happened. Once I got down, Irfan informed me that they had moved it into one of the shepherd’s huts, to keep it out of the rain as it likely wasn’t waterproof. Except they had chosen not a hut, but an animal enclosure with a corregated iron roof. The smell of goat shit was overwhelming so after assessing the sky and deciding that it was probably fine, I dragged the tent back out and returned it to the original spot. Sadly, the shit smell seemed to follow. Another lovely meal and numerous stars, and a few shooting stars, followed before an early night. It was notably colder this time, and I struggled to sleep even with all my layers on. Perhaps it was also the thought of having to cross the glacier which kept me awake…

After breakfast we, as a group, made our way to the glacier. Irfan was walking too close behind me on the dusty slope down to the glacier, so when he slipped slightly he fell into me, upsetting my balance so I then fell off the path and slid down the slope. I managed to stop myself relatively quickly, but not before scratching up my leg. I wasn’t initially annoyed with Irfan, but this changed once he said that he was only walking that close to me so that he could catch me because he could see I didn’t have my balance. As if he didn’t slide into me! We made up eventually, but only once off the glacier. We were crossing earlier than the other day, so the top layer of ice hadn’t melted as much, meaning it was even more slippy than previously. Peggy and Cameroon had crampons and I looked on enviously as they were able to grip into the ice whilst I slid down like a sad penguin. Eventually, the guides gave me some “Pakistani crampons”, aka socks worn over your shoes. I understand in theory why that would help, but in practice I think it did very little a part from making my whole shoe and foot soaking wet and cold. It took us a gruelling 3 hours to cross, and I genuinely hated every minute. I kept sliding and it was proving difficult to find a safe path through the crevasses so it felt like we were going back on ourselves all the time. I was SO glad to be back on solid rock, and wasn’t even mad when I slid on a boulder and got my leg momentarily trapped. At least it wasn’t ice! We stormed through the final sections of the hike back to the motorbike, and after a brief argument with the man collecting fees for the park, caused by him overcharging me because his village has a dispute with Irfan’s village, we were done. And luckily Irfan’s uncle agreed to take me and the bags down to the main road in his car. I don’t think my nerves could’ve taken the motorbike ride down after the glacier!

We all went to the oldest cafe in the area to eat the infamous apricot cake (which was truly magnificent) and wash it down with a cold drink (less magnificent as we were told the only drink available was chai, no cold drinks). A very relaxed hike with plenty of downtime to chill in the mountains. The glacier crossings were absolutely not relaxed and I can safely say that I didn’t enjoy them and will not be doing anymore glacier trekking (except, maybe, with crampons, but even then I will take some convincing). It was great to meet Peggy and Cameron and I ended up bumping into them (and Irfan and the other guides, all by chance) for dinner that evening at Yak Grill for yak burgers. The whole gang of us also had dinner together the following day at Irfan’s home. So a great hike with great company!

The original plan was to drive through Kashmir, something that I was excited albeit slightly apprehensive for. However, heavy rain in the morning had caused a flash flood which damaged the road. So Kashmir was off the cards and we had to go a different route. We were to split the drive across two days, stopping around halfway at one of Sana and Haver’s friend’s hotel. Last minute another guest at the hostel, a 20 year old American guy called Ryan asked if he could also join us, and after some back and forth, it was agreed that he could. So with a full car we set off on the 7 hour journey to Barwai Khar.

We drove through incredibly green areas, saw lots of sheep, even more games of cricket played on roadsides or in fields, and stopped at a garden centre to fill the car boot with plants for the hostel in the north. Haver drove and Sana acted as our tour guide, pointing out interesting features and telling us more about Pakistani culture. We stopped after 4 hours to eat corn on the cob and drink sugar cane juice from stalls along the road, a Pakistani service station if you will. Along one road we opened the sun roof and I stood out of it, one foot balanced on the passenger seat and one on the driver seat, the sun roof edge digging into my back. I looked around at the mountains and dusty road, and waved at the boys in the back of a truck that drove past. What a life.

We drove up high, over 3000m, over a pass and then started to descend down. Sana turned to us in the back seat and said “This is serious now. If I shout you must jump out of the car”. We looked uneasily at each other, “seriously?”. “Yes, this is the only road that scares me on this journey, if we shout it means the brakes have failed and we will go over the side of the road.” I put my phone in my bag and put it round my shoulder, prepared to jump if needed. Gladly, we made it down in one piece and into a valley which was filled with little houses and men watching the world go by. Notably, there were no women. Sana warned us that these people were the same as in Chilas - insane. Extremists who would kill a woman if she showered whilst her husband was away. The rationale being you only showered after sex or to look good for a man, so it must mean she is cheating. I pulled the scarf I had bought earlier from the side of the road over my hair. He said we should not take photos of any women, not hard to do as there were no women in sight. And that it would be best to not make eye contact, just to make sure we gave them no reason to become aggravated. I peered out, they didn’t seem too threatening, but heeded Sana’s words.

Eventually, after dark, we pulled into the hotel we would be staying in. We ate dinner together with the friend, and after drank chai and smoked hashish. After a long day, I showered (it was freezing) and crawled into my sleeping bag on the hard bed.

One good thing about arriving somewhere after dark is that you can be surprised by the view in the morning - and this view was incredible. A 360 degree vista of arid mountains. We set off earlier the next morning, around 10am, after a slow breakfast and lots of chai. The drive was less green and more dry than the previous day, but the mountains started to appear. Our 7 hour drive became more like 12 hours as we were delayed by a road being rebuilt, a truck that had flipped over, and another truck which had slipped over the side of the road. The truck that had flipped caused the longest delay, and we were stuck behind a truck carrying chickens for around 40 minutes. The smell was terrible, but even worse was when the driver got out and started reaching inside the cages to grab dead chickens, flinging their rigid bodies on top of the truck. Clearly the lack of wind from being stationary, and boiling heat had caused the chickens stuck on the inside of the overcrowded cages to overheat and die. It was not a pleasant sight! We decided to try and sneak our way to the front of the queue of trucks, and managed, with only a bus of frontier guards between us and the way past the truck. It seemed obvious to everyone except for the bus driver that it would not fit past. We realised that if we didn’t get in front of the bus, we would be stuck again. So Sana leaped out of the truck and tried to stop the bus so we could overtake it, when this didn’t work, Sana grabbed an old man who was wandering across the road by his shoulders and manoeuvred him in front of the bus. Finally, the bus stopped moving forwards and we raced around it and past the flipped truck - we were free!

My original plan for this trip was to travel from Islamabad to Gilgit and spend two weeks moving up the Hunza valley, hiking lots as I went. And so, my plan was to hop out of the truck at Gilgit, ready to do this. But after hearing the stories about Ishkoman and the hostel and hiking there, and how lovely the people I was traveling with were, I decided to stay with them all the way there. It wouldn’t be far to travel back to Gilgit in a few days time, and it would mean getting to see another valley in the region. This is the benefit of booking nothing ahead of time, you can be flexible and go where the wind takes you!

All of the delays meant that we didn’t reach the hostel until nearly 11pm. We were all exhausted from the journey and ate some dinner, showered, and had a quick chai before going to sleep. One hour after sleeping I woke up, feeling very sick. I ran to the bathroom and vomited up my dinner. Oh dear I thought, here we go… Luckily it wasn’t the worst bout of sickness I’ve had, and I only woke up four more times to vomit (and later, diarrhoea of course). In the morning I felt incredibly unwell, and sent Sana a whatsapp to say I wouldn’t be coming to breakfast as I was sick. Soon, electrolytes and water had been delivered to my room, and ginger tea was waiting for me when I eventually ventured outside. Again, as we had arrived in the dark, I was surprised by the beautiful view and the beautiful setting of the hostel. High up on the valley, we looked down across the town and up the mountains on the other side. Behind us, more mountains. To the left and right, you’ve guessed it, more mountains. This was what I wanted from northern Pakistan. Green and mountains. This was the perfect time / place to get sick really. I was looked after, was going to spend the day relaxing anyway, and it would (hopefully) mean I wouldn’t get sick again. I spent the entire day lying in the hammock. I called my parents for the first time of the trip, and also Coen. I slept a lot, and just had a blissful time (all things considered). I felt well enough to leave my hammock in the evening and a horse had appeared outside the hostel. Of course I agreed to ride it, and enjoyed walking around the drive way with a mountain view.

Thankfully, I felt much better the next morning and so, after a small breakfast, I set off to hike to the waterfall. I followed one road up the mountain opposite the hostel for 2 hours to reach the impressive waterfall. There were houses and intrigued locals the whole way, and observing their lives entertained me on the walk. Everyone was farming, which was mostly subsistence farming, and men and women could be seen in the fields doing various tasks. Everyone stared at me, but most, after I waved hello to them, waved back. As in Islamabad, the women seemed happier to see me than the men. When I reached the waterfall, I sat on the bridge with my feet in the cold river and enjoyed the spray cooling me down. Then a familiar feeling emerged in my stomach. I knew I had approximately one minute before disaster struck and I frantically looked for a bush or something to squat behind. The only one was quite visible from the path. I decided to risk it and sprinted over. Just as I had finished and was wondering what to use for toilet paper, I heard footsteps on the path behind me and a “salam alaikum”. A new panic rushed over me as I scrambled to pull up my trousers before this man saw my exposed bum, in a place where I would cause a scene if I exposed my knee in public. Embarrassed, I stood frozen as he pointed at the waterfall and then up the path, and then eventually walked back up the path. I returned to the waterfall and had a little giggle to myself. Collecting my rucksack, I continued up the path on the hunt for the meadow beyond the ridge. It was a hot climb and I got lost and ended up in a family’s house at one point, but I made it. I rounded the corner of the mountain and the green meadow opened up in front of me, an oasis in the dry rock. On reaching the meadow, exhausted and stomach cramping, I flopped down under a tree and slept for an hour. On my way back down I bumped into Sana and his partner Alex (who co-owned the hostels) with some other guests. I joined them and nibbled on some chips and figs served by, you guessed it, the man that saw me crouched earlier. They gave me a lift back down to the hostel, and then we all went to the trout farm down the road. They had kept one of the pools free of fish and it was used as a swimming pool - very pleasant in the afternoon heat! They cleared out the local boys so we could swim, but still they advised the women to swim in tshirts. Personally, being forced to cover my body in this way made me feel like it was something to be ashamed of, and again I wondered on the societal impact of forcing women to cover themselves in public. It’s completely different when it’s a woman’s choice, of course. After cooling down sufficiently, we went fishing in one of the ponds filled with fish, and I caught two big ones for our dinner later.

I ended up spending 5 nights in Ishkoman, at the hostel or camping in the mountains. The hostel itself (Coyote Den) was one of the few places in the world that offered a complete sense of peace and adventure. The owners, Sana and Alex, were awesome people and told great stories about their crazy travels and about their time in Pakistan. We played uno lots, drank mango shakes, and relaxed over chai. I’ve come across just 2 or 3 places like it before, and (as silly as it sounds) it feels like a tiny piece of me continues to live in each of them. Occasionally, I check in with that little piece, and I lose myself in thinking about that place, the environment, the people, and the feelings that exist there. I know I will visit this hostel again.

Shuffling down the tunnel onto my second flight to reach Islamabad, Pakistan, I looked at my reflection in the window. A pang of fear in my stomach, I questioned what I was doing. Was I ready for this sort of adventure again? For the hard work and discomfort it would undoubtedly bring? Should I have chosen an easier trip? Making eye contact with my reflection, I smiled. Of course not.

The passport control queue was crazy and took close to an hour. At the booth the man peered around me. “Alone?” he asked. “Yes, alone” I replied. “Where are you going?”. “To the Hunza valley.” “With a group?” “Alone.” He frowned, stamped my passport and wished me good luck. I laughed to myself as I walked to baggage collection, just the encouragement I need! I found my bag quickly (always a concern) and headed out of the airport. The exit was full of people waiting with flowers, children in their best outfits, and excited looking adults. It was calmly hectic, but not overwhelming. My first priority was finding an ATM, and then a taxi. I asked a worker where the ATMs were and was passed to a man who appeared from thin air, he led me to a security guard who pointed us to a second security guard, then another man appeared and led us both to the destination - 2 ATMs! None of which worked with my card. The first man exclaimed that there was no need to worry, that he has taken many foreigners from the airport to an ATM which works with our cards. And he will then take me to my hotel. He showed me his official taxi card and a photo with him and a white woman, I assume to garner my trust. I decided that whilst I would definitely be overcharged for this trip, that he seemed trustworthy and I was happy to pay if it meant everything was sorted. And so I climbed into his car, complete with zebra seat covers.

Surprisingly, the initial nerves wore off in the manic taxi ride, with this man who kept telling me “I know a place!” and the chaotic multilane highway. Not as busy or as hectic as Delhi by any stretch. My favourite sight was a small car with around 7 live geese strapped seated on the roof, their heads bobbing around in the wind. I let my breath settle and felt my heart rate resume a normal pace. I was here, I was safe in the taxi. The ATM did indeed work with my card, and I was delivered to my hostel (with only some attempts to make me go to a hotel instead that the taxi guy knew).

The hostel was beautiful, lots of colour and cosy areas to sit. And so I sat and drank tea, connected to the wifi and just took a moment to relax all the way back to normal. I spoke to a man who was going to the Hunza valley to climb for 2 months, a guy from Afghanistan (Fazley) who was in Islamabad to get his Canadian visa, and a guy from the north of Pakistan (Haver) who was driving to Gilgit the following day. I decided to join Fazley, Haver and Haver’s Canadian fiance (Hailey) to go for coffee and then explore Islamabad a bit. The 75 year old Korean/US lady (Xi) in our room also joined us. We climbed into Haver’s car, which was a very cool 4 x 4 with cow horns attached to the front. On our drive over to the cafe (which was very industrial chic and something I’d expect to find in Hackney rather than Islamabad), Haver and Hailey said they would be driving to the north the following day. When I said that was my plan too, they asked if I would like to join them. I said that would be great, if they were sure! I had some slight concerns over safety, as they were planning to drive via Kashmir and Chilas (both no travel areas on the FCDO website) but I decided that if they considered it safe, it most likely was. In the evening, I met Sana, the final person joining our journey and the owner of the hostel in Islamabad, and another hostel in the north. He was ex-head of security for the UNOP so again, I felt comfortable joining if he considered it safe!

After visiting the cafe, Fazley, Xi and I went to the Shah Faisal Masjid (a huge, white mosque). We explored the outside, burning our bare feet on the hot ground (you must remove your shoes before entering the area). There were lots of groups of women and girls, and these waved at us excitedly. The more brave ones asked me and Xi for photos, which I happily allowed. There were also plenty of men, but they didn’t interact with us at all. After circling the mosque we got a taxi to a bazaar and explored some of the shops and ate some food (lentils and roti). Xi needed to change some money so we went on a hunt for an exchange. This took us down grassy alleys, where we followed a helpful man heading in the same direction. Islamabad was surprisingly green. We had to catch a bus, and there was a separate door and area for the women at the front of the bus. We sat in relative comfort, with there being lots of space, and behind the rope labelled “Women and children only” the men were all crammed in like sardines. There was a similar thing in restaurants - men sat in the front and behind a curtain at the back, women and families sat to eat. When I had breakfast the next morning, I was led to this curtained area. I was very happy with this set-up, it meant I could interact with women and see them being open and comfortable, and didn’t have to deal with being squished next to a man or having them watch me eat (they could be quite creepy). But I think it’s terrible for society in general. It creates a larger divide between men and women and exasperates the idea that women have a set place in society and should not move from that place. After finding a money exchange, we headed back to the hostel, the heat getting to us all.

I had a chilled evening chatting to the other guests and ate some biriyani with Fazley, and then a chilled morning getting some fruit for the journey. At around midday we left in the 4 x 4 and the journey north began!

Overall, can’t say I’d recommend Islamabad. I left a day early, after only spending one day there. There’s not much to see, it’s completely unwalkable (but the taxis are very cheap, 75p for a 10 minute journey) and it was very hot and humid.

It felt good to be back in the swing of travelling however. I thought it would take me a few days to get back into it, but actually it felt like I had never stopped. Just as my 15 months travelling felt like a fever dream when I was back in London, my life in London felt equally dreamlike now I was back travelling. I forgot how easy it was to form a group in a hostel and spend the day together. How interesting it was to hear about different people’s stories (even more so when that story is based in Afghanistan). How funny it is to see people’s quirks - Fazley, for example, seemed to have a deep fear of eating vaccinated chickens. My whole body tingled with the joy of being back on the road.

So, off again! A quick intro and background to the next chapter of Meg the Rolling Egg:

After I returned back to England after the last trip, I quickly moved to London and started my job as a corporate lawyer (yes, the contrast was high). To become a lawyer in the UK, you have to do two years working as a trainee. Once this two years is over (which it now is for me!) it’s common in the industry to take some time off before starting your newly qualified position - around 6-8 weeks usually. After some (read: a lot) of fighting with HR, my team managed to get me 9.5 weeks off. So for context, I’ve not quit corporate life to return to travelling, this is just a fun little break to mark leaving the world of a trainee and (finally) becoming a qualified lawyer.

The plan

Now for the good bit, what I’m going to do with this precious 9.5 weeks off.

1. Amsterdam - The trip begins with a short stint in Amsterdam. No particular reason, just a nod to taking the Eurostar as a first step to any trip, and I’ve heard Amsterdam airport is lovely. Definitely not because of a boy…

2. Pakistan - Leaving behind the stroopwaffles I fly to Islamabad. From here, I’m going to be making my way along the Karakoram highway for 2 weeks. This is an insane road which weaves through the Hunza valley, in the Karakoram mountain range, linking Pakistan to China and following an ancient Silk Road trading route. It is one of the highest paved roads in the world, and the border crossing into China is the highest border crossing in the world. I will spend my time exploring the side valleys, doing plenty of hiking, staying in guesthouses (and perhaps some camping), travelling along the highway by hitchhiking.

   I’ve been getting a lot of extreme reactions to my Pakistan plan, which I will write about in more detail later, but Gilgit-Baltistan (which is the region the Karakoram highway runs through) is incredibly safe and well-visited by tourists.

3. China - I will follow the Karakoram highway over the Khunjerab Pass and into the Xinjiang province of China. This is an autonomous territory populated by a diverse ethnic mix of Uyghur, Tajiks, Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Hans and Mongols. I plan to visit a few Silk Road cities here, and perhaps travel up to the Kanas Lake which is right on the border with Russia, Kazakhstan and Mongolia. I’ll travel east, again for around 2 weeks, using the high-speed trains, into the provinces of Gansu and Qinghai, before heading south into west Sichuan. This is an area that is culturally Tibetan (but not actually Tibet which has stringent visa and other requirements). I’ll do some more hiking on the Tibetan grasslands, visit lots of monasteries, and hopefully see some pandas!

4. India (Yoga teacher training) - From Chengdu (a city in Sichuan) I fly to Delhi and then travel north to Rishikesh to enter the second phase of my trip. Not exactly travelling, I’ll spend 4 weeks doing my yoga teacher training in an ashram in Rishikesh. This is an intense program of 4.5 hours of physical yoga, 2 hours of meditation, and 2.5 hours of theoretical classes each day. Afterwards, I’ll be a qualified yoga teacher (perhaps even more impressive than being a qualified lawyer?).

5. Home - I have a few days between finishing the yoga course and flying back to London, which I’ll probably spend exploring a few nearby towns in northern India. After arriving back in London, I have 2.5 days to move into my new house and start back at work. 9.5 weeks well spent!

Why this plan?

If you are familiar with my previous travel route, where I traced the Silk Road overland from England to Malaysia, this next trip might seem like a logical add-on. Especially when you consider that I flew over and skipped Afghanistan and Pakistan last time, and didn’t touch China. I also felt like it was the right time for me to do my yoga teacher training, something I knew I wanted to do at some point in my life. I wanted to do this in India, so it made sense to travel overland around the surrounding areas to fill in the missing pieces of the Silk Road. When the India/Pakistan conflict kicked off a few months ago, I had to change my travel plans around to fly from China to India, rather than crossing overland from Pakistan to India.

I don’t know which bit I’m most excited for… Seeing Coen in Amsterdam - I mean, visiting the Amsterdam airport? Hiking amongst mountains in the Hunza valley? Experiencing central asian culture in Xinjiang in China and observing how it diffuses into Chinese culture? Visiting Tibetan monasteries? Or dedicating an entire month to doing the thing I would perhaps say is the most important part of my life?

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I will be blogging the entire trip, of course! Although posts may be delayed until I’ve returned to the UK.

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.

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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.