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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam is my oldest friend. We’ve reached the number of years that means, statistically, we will likely be friends for life. A prediction I very much hope rings true. Having a friendship spanning your whole life has so many benefits, but one negative is that you can stop observing them as much. You fall into the familiarity of your relationship and like with a lingering smell that you stop noticing after a while, you stop seeing the minute details and changes in your friend. I give Sam and I credit for avoiding this as much as possible. Sam still observes me, he was the first to pick up on a lot of the changes I felt when I returned from travelling. And I still observe and appreciate him. I remember being brought to tears over how proud I was when we first caught up after I returned to London and he told me all about his life and work.

Instead of focusing on Sam of the now, I would like to touch on some of my most poignant memories with Sam:

1. Despite both being avid atheists, we did our silver DofE volunteering at the church in our village. Over several months we spent a few hours every other week doing odd tasks and laughing hysterically most of the time. The laughter may have come from how useless we were at DIY, spending hours trying to pick the old paint off a door with screwdrivers, or from the crazy religious fanatic who we overheard recounting a tale of when he met God on a hill in Wales, having to sprint into a back room when we couldn’t hide our belly laughs any longer, or from how beautiful I looked in a pair of googles wielding a sander as we tried to take off more old paint, this time from a metal gate.
2. Before we both went on a gifted and talented poetry residential at Kilve Court (yes, we really have always been that cool) we spent the morning playing a car game on Sam’s xbox. I used a car called the “Rat” and how useless both it was and I was left us both rolling around on the floor.
3. In an eventful 20 minutes on our travels around the balkans after our A levels: Louis and I forced Sam to shave his weird beard off, I then took a photo to show him how it looked and accidentally showed him a nude of myself instead. Sam then showered off the awful sight and the beard trimmings as Louis and I realised all of our supermarket shopping that Sam had been responsible for had disappeared, he’d left it at the beach! As we ran down to the showers to chastise him, he conveniently managed to lock himself in the shower. Having to pause our anger momentarily, we helped him slide out from underneath the cubicle and then ordered him to return to the Brexit debating crepe stand man to collect our shopping.
4. A incredibly bougie afternoon tea at Sketch with Rosaline where we indulged in caviar from the caviar man, a plethora of delightful patisseries, the infamous egg toilets, and overall spent 5 hours chatting and nibbling away like distinguished people we absolutely are not.
5. A freezeframe of Sam being busy building this very website for me (did you know we owe Meg the Rolling Egg to Sam really?) and looking up from my laptop in horror as my housemates at Finsbury Park discussed what the internet actually is. Exacerbated he sighed and shook his head, muttering that he didn’t have time to explain it right now but that, in no uncertain times, the drivel we were coming up with was completely wrong. And a more tender freezeframe of Sam dutifully explaining the basics of coding to Tarsha and I as we sat on the sofa whilst on our Cornish retreat, met with nodding heads and blank eyes.
6. Finally, as I was about to start my training contract, Sam taking to me one side to say that he didn’t think he reacted appropriately when I shared the news of getting my training contract with him years before, as he hadn’t really understood the importance of it. But that now he does, and he wanted to let me know how proud he was.

I also put these memories into ChatGPT and asked it to describe a day in the life of us as 80 year olds. Please enjoy:

At 80, you and Sam embark on a whimsical adventure that perfectly captures the spirit of your lifelong friendship. Picture this: after years of sharing laughter and heartfelt moments, you both decide to take a nostalgic trip back to your childhood village.

You start your day with a leisurely breakfast at a quaint café, reminiscing about your early days of volunteering at the church. Sam, ever the jokester, suggests you recreate the hilarious DIY disasters you once faced. With a playful glint in his eye, he proposes you tackle a paint-stripped door in the church basement—armed this time with silly costumes. You both don vibrant wigs and over-the-top aprons, igniting a wave of laughter as you fumble with tools and accidentally cover each other in paint.

Next, you visit the village green, where a small local festival is taking place. Inspired by your poetic roots, you both enter a spontaneous poetry contest, reciting pieces filled with humor and nostalgia. Your playful banter has the audience in stitches, reminding everyone of the joy of friendship. After the contest, a young couple approaches you, inspired by your camaraderie and storytelling.

As the sun sets, you stroll down to the beach, just like those chaotic days in the Balkans. While reminiscing about the infamous beard-shaving incident, Sam suddenly spots a tiny beach shack selling crepes. With a gleeful sparkle in his eyes, he challenges you to a crepe-eating contest, recalling how you once lost track of your shopping. The two of you dive into the challenge, laughter echoing as you both pile up plates of crepes, sharing exaggerated tales of your youthful antics.

As night falls, you set up a small fire on the beach. Under the stars, you both reflect on your journey, sharing stories of pride and growth. Sam, with his usual sincerity, tells you how much he cherishes your friendship, just as he did all those years ago. You both agree that even as you age, your bond remains timeless—rooted in shared laughter, support, and an unwavering appreciation for one another.

Your adventure wraps up with the two of you slowly walking back, arm in arm, discussing the next escapade you’ll undertake—because even at 80, the spirit of exploration and friendship is as vibrant as ever.

Eleanor is a truly Good friend. Capitalised Good. Good with depth and weight. She listens to your moanings and troubles and provides valuable input that makes you see it in a new light. This year saw me spend a week on holiday with Eleanor in beautiful Sicily, and then we started living together when she moved up to London and took over my previous housemate’s room. Unsurprisingly, I observed and learnt a lot more about Eleanor in these periods than I had over our tea and cake breaks at university, phone calls whilst travelling, and fleeting visits in between. Read on for some of these observations, in the form of an acrostic (naturally).

E - Energy. Bear with me here, but I’m all about people’s energies these days. (To make it worse, it stems from a conversation with a woman who had spent 8 years in an Ashram whilst we took a long walk together in rural Vietnam.) When Eleanor first moved to London, I could feel her apprehension and stress. It shocked me how strongly I felt it diffuse over me when we were in the same space. And this let me experience something really beautiful. I felt the apprehension and stress slowly disappear as she settled into London. As she found her rhythm and space within the movement of the city. I felt her excitement for London as she returned from seeing friends, or attending a cool event. I felt her content-ness after a long week, as she meal prepped a chilli on a Sunday afternoon with vegetables handpicked from the green grocers. It renewed my love of London, and my pride in her for taking on this challenge.

L - Laughter. I always knew Eleanor was funny, it’s one of the reasons we’re friends. But since living together I have noticed a markable uptick in tears caused from laughing so hard. My favourite evenings have been spent cuddled up on the sofa, laughing at how different we are in some ways, at our odd tendencies, and at our silly little lives. These conversations also leave space to talk about more vulnerable topics, which I appreciate hugely.

E - Elephant-like memory. Eleanor remembers everything, every minute detail I fling into the void and immediately forget about. She’s like a velcro board for information.

A - Arranger. You know all of those ideas you talk about with friends that then never happen? Not with Eleanor around! She is chief arranger and will make sure all of those wonderful plans come to fruition.

N - Night owl. I learnt that Eleanor is absolutely a night owl. No matter what time I arrive home from work, or sneak in after being out, she is always the last one standing. But it’s not like she lies in - I don’t know how she runs on so little sleep!

O - Organisation. Eleanor is one of those people whose brain operates on a different level (to mine anyway). She considers everything, plans everything, and is meticulous in her preparation. If she wanted to be a project manager, which it seems she has been in part recently, it would be the most smoothly run project ever seen. Sometimes I try and imagine what it must look like in Eleanor’s mind, hundreds of parallel train tracks with multiple trains of thought steaming ahead at the same time. The phrase “spinning a lot of plates” never seemed to hit so right. If her thoughts were superimposed into my head, I’m sure I would instantly overheat and collapse.

R - Running is not something Eleanor entertains, in any way. She eyes Alex (our housemate) suspiciously as he goes on yet another long run as he trains for a marathon. Her distaste for running deepens when he returns and insists on showing us his bloody foot and then lies groaning on the sofa for the rest of the evening. She does, however, LOVE walking. No day is complete without a walk. Even if it’s very late and she’s been slammed at work, she will fearlessly trot around Highbury fields, up to her eyeballs in scarves and warm layers.

I’d also like to thank Eleanor in writing for letting me ramble on about my objectively boring job, and for managing to feign some interest in the goings on of a law firm!

To mark the end of my birthday week, and Will’s Europe stint, we had a long weekend in Norway. The vision was rural cottage, hikes above the fjords, and cool swims within them.

Friday

I flew from Gatwick to Stavanger (£60 return flight!) and took an overpriced airport bus into the city. I felt the rush of being in a new place; the unfamiliar language and sights, the sun on my face, and the anticipation of the days ahead. Will was flying in from Krakow, and I met him off of the same, overpriced, airport bus. Together we explored the city, catching up on each other’s past month - Will having visited Belfast, Edinburgh, Albania, Macedonia, Kosovo and Poland. Me with the end of my time in the derivatives department at work, my birthday, and the passing of my Grandma. The city was small and cute, we loved the colourful Fargegaten street and the white panelled buildings of the old town. We ate sandwiches down at the dock. The whole city took maybe 1.5 hours to explore, so not somewhere you need long for! We went to a supermarket and gathered supplies for the weekend, then hopped on two buses (with a change at the most beautifully located bus station I have ever seen (and I’ve seen a LOT of bus stations), isolated at a crossroads on the edge of a fjord). The sun set as we raced along the edge of the water. A slight miscalculation from me meant that the bus did not drop us right outside our airbnb as hoped, but a 50 minute walk away. Suitably convinced there were no bears around, we set off along rural roads in the dark, carrying not only our luggage (both with small rucksacks, no issues there) but also all of the supermarket supplies (more of a struggle for me). We could just about make out the buildings along the road, and the fact there was a body of water right next to us. Eventually, we came to our airbnb and let ourselves in. The most perfect little cottage, sat on a plot along with a few other houses, nestled up against a fjord. I peered out of the window, excited for the view that would appear with the morning light. We unpacked the groceries, cooked up a pasta feast and collapsed into bed.

Saturday

I tiptoed downstairs with sleep still in my eyes, desperate to see the view. It was of an orchard (this region had recently started growing apples and they were everywhere now) rolling down the hill into the trees that bordered the fjord. And then fjord as far as you could see, with an island out in front, land narrowing in on either side. There were big hills and a greenhouse. I sat peering out, drinking a tea with my legs nestled up under me. Rural cottage item of the vision was confidently ticked off.

Over breakfast we finalised our hiking plan, acrobatting around the bus timetables. We caught the bus down the road to Hjelmeland and walked 1.5 hours along a road zigzagging up through forest, to get to the start of the hike (a warm up, if you will). The hike was truly beautiful. We walked along small lakes, through sparse woodland, through bogs and along boardwalks. I convinced Will to go barefoot through the bog with me, giggling at the silky mud moving through my toes and laughing as Will ended up calve deep in one patch. The final climb was up a slightly treacherous rocky section, but we emerged in one piece with a stunning view over the fjords in the direction of our little cabin. We continued along the top of this ridge, dancing between pools of water, boggy patches and impressive, canyon-like drops. We saw several sets of hikers, all women interestingly, and eventually reached the highest point marked by a cairn. We found a spot on some rocks which jutted out to have lunch (the leftover pasta in a sandwich bag and some salami sandwiches). A boat moved with such clarity through the fjord below, leaving an undisturbed rippling that spread across the width of the water. That’s the hikes above the fjords element of my vision checked off. Bellies filled with pasta and phones with pictures, we sped back down the mountain, stopping at the lake separated from the path by overgrowth, an ideal swimming spot we’d eyed up earlier. The sun peaked through the clouds and fell on the island in the centre of the water. We stripped naked and ran in, the cold a welcomed feeling to our bodies hot from the hike. The chill lit up every part of me, as a cold swim always does, and we swam over to the island, heaving ourselves up to feel the warmth of the sun on our skin. Like true nordic nymphs we stood naked on that island. Nervous about getting too cold, I lowered myself back into the lake and confirmed the water was sufficiently deep for Will to then dive in after me. Swimming back to where our clothes sat in a pile, we soaked in the sun and the cold all over again. A brief air dry and then clothes back on, we walked quickly back to the start of the hike to warm up. Beginning the cool down section (back along the road into the town) we were able to hitch a lift with some ladies who were driving that way. This meant we had time before the bus to explore Hjelmeland, climbing onto the “world’s largest Jærstol” (a chair which I then got stuck at the top of), and admiring the sauna. Back at the cabin we cooked fajitas and watched a film, exhausted from the fresh air and the insane sights of the hike.

Sunday

After a leisurely morning we strolled down to the little harbour and picked up the keys of our airbnb host’s little boat which we’d hired for the day. Yesterday’s weather was bright and crisp, in contrast, today’s was grey and moody. After an incredibly brief set of instructions, we were left to our own devices and Will expertly negotiated the boat out its parking spot and out onto open water. We zoomed down the fjord, aiming for a small channel between an island and the right perimeter. We took turns driving, the other person sat at the bow, wind in their hair, pointing out directions. We sped past gorgeous houses perched in isolation on the fjord edge. The wind blew but the clouds held the rain fast (for now). It was all going so well! Until it wasn’t… In the middle of the fjord the engine cut out. After multiple, failed attempts to restart it, including some googling to try and work out potential causes, we gave in and got out the oars. I was secretly quite happy with this turn of events. I was picturing a little rowing boat with us romantically rowing across the fjord, like in Bridget Jones. We took turns rowing, with our sights set on the opposite bank, where the small town of Fister sat. We made progress, albeit very slowly, munching on some cinnamon biscuits and laughing at the turn of events. Eventually, we got hold of the airbnb hosts who said to check there was definitely nothing stuck in the propellor. Will had already confirmed this, but I went to take a second look. On closer inspection, I thought I could in fact see something tangled up. We’d already checked that all the ropes on the back of the boat were accounted for, but I suddenly remembered there was also a rope at the front of the boat - whipping my head round to check, it had disappeared from the spot in the hull that I’d carefully placed it. Ah. A few minutes later, with Will managing to reach into the water to untangle it, we were back zooming along! The next emergency then struck, I was bursting for a wee. Will had managed to relieve himself off the side of the boat (classy) but I was less sure about the logistics of that for me. A pontoon floating in a quiet patch of the fjord seemed like the best option, so we pulled alongside this, I hopped off and just sort of crouched in the middle of it (even more classy…). In the chaos, we got another rope tangled up in the propellor and almost beached ourselves on the shore. Safely away, we spotted a little island with space to dock up. It was clearly an idyllic spot for picnicing in the summer, evident by the permanent BBQs and firepits dotted around. Oh, and of course there was a proper toilet in a tiny hut. We explored the island, stumbling across some sheep and a rope swing. We ate our lunch (more salami sandwiches) on a picnic bench, watching proudly over our boat. I said I felt like I was in Swallows and Amazons, Will said he hadn’t read that (guess it didn’t make it to Australia, shame). It started to rain, prompting us to pack up. I gave Will an apologetic look and asked if he’d mind waiting just a bit longer in the rain, so I could swim in the fjord. He agreed and I happily ran down to the little beach, stripped naked again and ran into the water. Softly salty, cold and completely incredible. I floated in the light rain, looking out through the descending mist. The final element of my vision, cold fjord swims, was fulfilled. The tiny stones were smooth under my feet as I ran back out, getting dressed and pulling my balaclava on as we rushed back to the boat. Through the rain and mist we sped back along the fjord, past the spot where the engine had cut out and the channel we’d initially aimed for. I crashed into the petrol station (turns out my panic response to close my eyes and accelerate applies to boats as well as cars) and we managed to work out how to fill up the petrol container. The mist made the fjord feel infinitely atmospheric and brooding. Unlike me, Will expertly parked the boat back into its spot in the little harbour.

We warmed up and dried off in the cabin over coffee and chocolate. The weather got even greyer and wetter as we holed ourselves up playing lots of rounds of couples (to Will’s disgust) and monopoly deal (more palatable to Will). As cosy as we were, we managed to convince one another that before it got dark we really should go for a swim in the lake with the platform we had seen from the bus the previous day. So we kitted back up and walked down the road in search of the little platform. Turns out it was in someone’s back garden, but as no one was around (a general theme of the trip, turns out shoulder season is deserted season here) we snuck round. For a final time of the trip, we stripped naked and tried not to slip over on the wet platform. Will dived in twice, then did a back flip and a bomb (all quite brave considering the lack of trunks…). I jumped in once which was quite enough for me. The water was dark, the sky was grey, and the lack of sun made the trees lining the lake appear black. It was incredibly cinematic. It got even more so when we stood on the platform, looking out over the lake, bodies pressed together for warmth, cool rain falling onto our skin. We ran back to the cabin to generate some heat and jumped straight into the shower, temperature turned right up. Blushed from the swim and the hot shower, we lit the fire and cuddled up for dinner and a film.

Monday

Still tied to the bus timetable, we had to leave relatively early. But only after we’d had a final breakfast sat out on the little deck in the crisp morning air. Committing the view to memory. We caught two buses to Jørpeland. After grabbing a coffee in a little shop/cafe, and being allowed to leave our bags there for a few hours, we had a nosy around two impressive boats in the harbour. One was an old fishing boat with two guys on it who happily gave us a full tour. One was a viking boat replica which had sailed to New York a few years previously! We wandered across a metal bridge to an island and discovered a 12-hole frisbee golf course which was free. Deciding it was the perfect way to spend the next hour or two, we picked up two frisbees and set off. It was very cool, the “holes” were spread out across the island, hidden in the trees or the marshes. The weather was back to being clear, the sun out in full force. It quickly became apparent that a straight forward competition would be no fun for either of us (Will was considerably better than me) so we settled on a 20 throw handy cap for me (if I lost by less than 20 throws I’d win). After a heated battle over the last few holes, I emerged victorious having lost by only 19 throws!

We celebrated the end of our trip with a bowl of fish stew at a very lovely restaurant looking over the water then caught the bus back to Stavanger and then onwards to the airport.

Live your life

This was the most incredible weekend getaway and it reminded me that you should really just live your life. Go on the trips that you’ve been softly thinking about, do it with little planning and a lot of faith that it’ll work out (it always does). Fall in love with people that you know are leaving the country/continent/hemisphere with a total disregard of how sad it will make you feel afterwards. Make the memories, tell the stories, overflow with life.

Thank you to Will for reminding me of this. And for everything else. Have an amazing rest of your trip, and continue to overflow with loveliness into everyone’s lives. You are a truly beautiful person.

Introducing the newest blog feature - Wild Camping! Firstly, here is an initial guide to Wild Camping, aimed at anyone with an itch to enter into the wild camping world.

1. Rules

To answer the frequently asked question of “is wild camping legal” succinctly - no. Land in the UK is almost always privately owned and you require the landowner’s permission to camp on it, otherwise it’s trespassing. However, practically speaking, this is only an issue if (a) the landowner sees you camping on their land, and (b) the landowner takes issue with this. I have never had any issues wild camping.

To ensure you also have no issues, follow this advice:

1. Camp out of sight. For example, under the treeline, in a dip in the hill, or in a protected corner of a field. If no one knows you’re there, there won’t be any issues!
2. Leave no trace. Once you’ve packed up, there should be nothing that indicates you were there. I’m not just talking about litter (but absolutely do not leave litter), but also food scraps and even toothpaste spit. Obviously you will flatten the grass down a bit, but keep any land disturbances to a minimum.
3. Pitch up late, leave early. Minimise the amount of time your tent is up.
4. If you want to camp in a farmer’s field that’s in the vicinity of the farm, try and find them to ask for permission. They’ll often give it, and even let you know the best field to camp in (one free of animals!).
5. I prefer “public” land over private. By this I mean land owned by national parks or public bodies. The landowners of these are very unlikely to ever see you, unless there are national park rangers or something.

2. Bare minimum kit

Like all new hobbies, there is an initial barrier of having the correct equipment. But it’s a relatively low barrier, as you don’t need much and the kit you use for your first foray into wild camping doesn’t need to be good. Focus on getting out there for one night in good weather conditions. If you love it, you can start upgraded your kit as you learn what you personally like and need.

Essential kit list

1. A tent - To reiterate the above sentiment, this does not need to be a good tent. My first wild camp was in an 18EUR tent which had a waterproof rating of 0 and where the door was held closed with a single toggle at the top, no zip in sight. The only criteria is that it’s light enough that you can carry it from the car/whatever transport to find a wild camping spot.
2. Sleeping bag - Again, doesn’t have to be a lightweight, hiking one. Any will do!
3. Sleeping mat - A foam exercise mat works fine.
4. Rucksack - Whatever you use day-to-day will work, but even better if you have any sort of travelling rucksack with a hip strap.
5. Water bottle - Plastic is fine! For one night, take at least 1 litre (if not cooking with water). But to be safe, I’d take 1.5 litres.
6. Food - Something for dinner, something for breakfast. Could be cold pizza and a granola bar. Making hot food and drinks is one of my favourite aspects of camping, but you don’t need to have a stove for the first trip. Just make this number one on your upgrade list!

Nice to have, that you probably already own:

1. Portable charger - Just so there’s no worry about your phone dying.
2. Headtorch - Phone torch works fine, but a headtorch is better.

That’s all you need. Once you have these items, no more excuses, plan a one night trip and go for it!

3. Making a plan

You’ve got the kit together, now how on earth do you start actually going wild camping??? Ponder no more. Just follow these simple steps for you first time wild camping:

1. Identify a weekend where you are free.
2. Select the general area. If you do not have access to a car, keep in mind public transport limitations. Selection could be based on knowledge that the area is the right vibe (because you’ve been there before or because someone you know has been there), or by researching areas suitable for wild camping near you online.
3. Confirm that there is a spot that looks like you could wild camp there. Use google maps satellite view to find a nice rural spot. If there is something listed on google maps (for example, a view point), check the photos. Check Maps.me as well, often people will list potential wild camping spots.
4. If you’re using a car, find a spot where you can park that is a manageable distance away (whatever this means for you).
5. Before you leave, check the weather!!! If you are doing this for the first time and are using a shitty tent, do not go if there is rain or wind forecasted.
6. On the day: leave plenty of time before it gets dark. Catch the bus/train or park you car up and walk to your identified spot. Leave so much time that if you can’t find anywhere you feel comfortable camping, you can just walk back to the station/your car.
7. Find a spot and camp!

4. Identifying a good wild camping spot

This is more of an art than a science. Firstly, it’s important to know that you can’t choose an exact spot in advance. It’s more of identifying a general area that looks promising, and as you are walking through this area you keep your eye’s peeled for a good spot.

Indicators of a “good spot”:

1. Out of sight from any paths or roads.
2. Not super exposed in terms of wind. Look for protection from hedges or dips.
3. Ground that you can peg your tent on. So not concrete, and soft sand isn’t great either.
4. A nice view. It’s meant to be a pleasurable experience remember!
5. A body of water to have a morning swim in.

5. Breathe

Be there and enjoy the spot. The fresh air, the breeze, the sounds, the space.

Not every trip is about adventure. Sometimes you really need a week of rest, of floating from pool to beach to town to bed, of reading whatever you want, of lying in the sun and just simply feeling its warmth on your skin. That was our week in Sicily. And I left feeling as if my brain had been thoroughly massaged. It was blissful, restorative and oh so delicious.

Sicily was gorgeous. Aci Trezza, the small town where we stayed, was perfect, and surprisingly lively with its multi day festival celebrating their patron saint that happened to coincide with the first few days of our holiday. The “Cyclops” islands (home to the myth of Odysseus and the cyclops Polyphemus) sat just off the coast and provided something to anchor your gaze at constantly. We kayaked out to these one day, going right the way round as I pushed us through the slightly larger than expected waves on the exposed side. The volcano, Mount Etna, sat unseen behind us. Angharad and I went to watch the sunrise one morning, and drove around its base, basking in its size and suspicious plumes (this was shortly before it did eject ash and ground flights). We did a road trip down to the south, visiting towns of Ortigia and Brucoli, visiting ruins and hitchhiking into the national park and walking back to the car in the setting sun, followed by a tiny puppy. But mostly, we enjoyed the slowness of it all. I did yoga on the balcony each morning, sometimes walking down to the sea and practicing on the rocks instead. We played plenty of cards in the evenings. We mooched and relaxed and took a collective breath of warm, calm, peace.

I spent so many hours just letting my mind wander. Something I realised I hardly ever did in my normal life in London. Like most, I’m a serial consumer. There are very few minutes in the day when I’m not consuming something, whether it be music, a podcast, the news, a book, work, social media, conversations. More often than not, I’m consuming more than one thing. I forgot how busy that makes your mind feel. How deeply enjoyable it is to consume nothing. I missed the long journeys whilst travelling where I would just sit and stare out of the window. I became addicted to sitting on the balcony and staring out at the view, at lying in the sun with empty ears and eyes and mind. I realised how inclined I am to constantly be on the move, physically or mentally. Not every evening needs to be filled with an activity I realised, I would make sure to have evenings filled with absolutely nothing, not even a book!

Do not be fooled though, I also ploughed through my self-set reading list and forced discussions of potential food security taxes on Angharad and Eleanor. Personally, I’m doing the nothingness to generate energy and space to pursue my interests with renewed drive. Rest is wonderful, but for me right now, it serves as a way to push forward. I think this is possibly not the point at all, but I also think I still have a need to achieve and to learn and to do. This need is something which is increasingly on my mind, and the direction I want to focus it in is something I’m very much grappling with.

So yes, be sure to take a holiday every now and again, as well as travelling adventures. It does not need to be abroad (although somewhere sunny definitely does help). It does not even need to be outside of your own home. Just put some intention into creating a space that allows you to relax. Make it feel different to normal. And take some time to sit in that space and do absolutely nothing.

Whilst this is not the usual travel blog post, it would be remiss of me to not mention the food. I am currently in a deep pistachio phase. If there is a pistachio option, I quite simply cannot order anything else. To my delight, Sicily turns out to be an island of pistachio! So my diet was heavily pistachio based. Here are some of the pistachio items I consumed:

1. Pistachio gelato (on several occasions)
2. Pistachio crusted tuna filet
3. Pistachio granita
4. Pistachio croissant (from a bakery and from McDonalds, the one from McDonalds was surprisingly the better)
5. Pistachio tart
6. Pistachio arancini
7. Pistachio pizza
8. Pistachio pesto pasta
9. Pistachio liquor
10. Pistachio spread
11. Pistachio cannolo
12. Pistachio yogurt

The other major pillars of my diet were seafood and granita. Granita was a very cute daily essential. It is basically a sorbet, served with a brioche roll, eaten for breakfast during the summer. There was a beautifully painted granita van which made its way up the street outside our apartment each morning, offering a variety of flavours, served by a very stern old man.

It’s Italy so I won’t insult your intelligence by going into the detail of how wonderful the many plates of pasta and pizza were. But I will say that I had the best pizza of my life (no surprises that it was a pistachio pizza).

Two weeks previously, Angharad and I had sat down at my table after a giant croissant based brunch and booked a trip to Faro, Portugal. We were in search of sun and a fun break. Faro delivered wonderfully, and I couldn’t recommend it more for a mini-break from London.

For a four day trip, we packed a lot in. Angharad and I visited the nearby islands: Ilha Deserta and Ilha Culatra, which we loved. Deserta was, quite aptly and perhaps unsurprisingly, a deserted desert. There was one wooden, modern restaurant, which gave us creepy “The Menu” vibes. Otherwise it was just wild beaches with a spiky plant middle filled with birds and boardwalks. We zig-zagged across the boardwalks, pointing out the birds and butterflies to one another. Arriving at the beach facing south, and the southern most point of continental Portugal, we removed our shoes and walked barefoot along the shoreline. Eyes tied to the assortment of shells on the sand, picking up our favourite ones to show the other the colours, or the ridges, or the texture. Whatever made it spectacular. The sea became too inviting and we positioned ourselves on the sand, towels out, clothes off. Remembering we were in Europe, our bikini tops also came off. We bathed in the sun, we read our books, leant on our elbows we ate the punnet of strawberries bought earlier, juice dripping down our chins as we filled the gaps between the rushing waves with words. We swam. The cool water against our bodies was thrilling and delectable. We caught the boat over to the next island and explored the two fisherman villages, drinking sangria overlooking the beach and eating fried octopus sat alongside the small streets.

The next day, we hired bikes and cycled deep into the Rio Formosa National Park. We stopped to watch the birds, keeping an eye out for flamingoes. From a distance that was too far to be completely certain but too far to disprove, we saw a flock of flamingoes. Mission accomplished we rode back to the city, through forests heavy with the scent of pine and spring flowers.

We caught the bus and a taxi in land to a vineyard and spent the tail end of the day tasting/drinking wine, eating tapas and surveying the vine covered valley with our toes in the pool. We discussed love and life. Kicked out at closing time, we got a lift back to the nearest town with one of the waitresses, and then the bus onwards to Faro. Sophisticated and sunkissed, I taught Angharad my favourite card game and we savoured our final night.

An absolutely perfect four days.

Faro is a very cute, small European town. Perfect for strolling around in the spring sun. There were a few particularly stunning parts: the blue, white frosted building in the square across from our chosen breakfast spot, and the Cathedral square lined with orange trees. I was obsessed with the details of the coloured, simple buildings. Especially beautiful were the tiny lanes of the fishing town of Farol, on Ilha Culatra. No motorised vehicles, just the sound of boots on the ground. And those were few and far between, it was remarkably quiet. We admired the plants outside each house, the joys of travelling with another biology grad, and kept a watchful eye on the white and red lighthouse which gave the town it’s name (Farol means lighthouse in Portuguese). We also visited the larger market town of Loule, dancing through it’s streets filled with 4 glasses of wine and no dinner, and the fishing town of Olhao which was nice but unremarkable.

I took a lot of photos; of the windows, of the contrast with the sky, of the old trees growing in front of the whitewash walls, of the gaps between the houses where the sea peeped through. Angharad asked if I had a camera. I said I didn’t. I had almost bought a digital camera for travelling but realised my phone could do a sufficient job and I hated carrying more than what I needed around with me. But lately, I’d been wanting to do more than my phone allowed. I still can’t see myself buying a proper camera, but a film camera had been sat on my wish list for a while…

We noticed a lot of people holding red carnations on our last day. In the small garden area by the harbourside there was a gathering of people, perhaps a protest we thought. Waiting for the bus to Olhao, we asked a shop keeper who had moved outside to smoke what it was for. She explained and the red carnations made sense. Today marked 50 years since the revolution of Portugal, ending the corporatist authoritarian rule of Estada Novo. It was a peaceful revolution. The army took over control of Lisbon without violence, with an old lady selling carnations placing one into into the barrel of one soldiers gun. The red carnations became a symbol of peace and liberation. This year’s events seemed especially focused, with the far right gaining increased support in Portugal, as seems to be the picture across Europe.

Simple. Fresh. Fishy. As my focus on food has increased recently (a holdover from travel mixed with a sensitive stomach and a growing interest in food security), simple and fresh is what I value most. I want a few ingredients that I can really taste. I want every part of my plate to be homemade. I want to feel connected to the food I’m eating. The mediterraneans do this like no others. The sea is in my nose as I eat the fish caught that morning.

We indulged on all the local delicacies. We ate half a Bifada (marinated pork sandwich) for breakfast and stashed the second half in our rucksack to eat on the beach with salty lips and sandy fingers. We had at least one pastel de nata a day. Our first was collected en route to the boat one morning, carefully placed in the rucksack and eaten on our very own stretch of beach on Ilha Deserta. Our teeth slid through the thick, subtlely lemon set custard to reach the perfect, crispy pastry. We actually groaned in appreciation. We ate delicious, ripe, Portugal-grown strawberries whilst sunbathing topless on the empty beach. We devoured crisps after that incredible post-beach pre-dinner evening shower. Pistachio gelato was savoured. Every meal was accompanied with fresh bread, fish pate, olive oil and marinated carrots and olives. Seafood adorned every plate. Or more marinated pork. We ate well, we drank well (hello green wine, sangria and cheap, cold beer).

We moaned about the lack of good seafood in Britain. We were an island nation, why was our best offering greasy, battered cod? I vowed to visit my local fishmongers (yes, of course we have a fishmongers in Islington). My next dinner party would be centred around a fish dish I decided.

We also discussed food security and I realised it was my main interest outside of work. Food is life, how we produce food has a momentous impact on the environment, access to food is the most pressing issue in poverty, and lack of access to good food is an enormous barrier to leaving that poverty behind.