The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go

So - it's almost here - 15 more days and I leave the UK for 6 entire months! I have been getting a lot of love from all of you readers lately, and I cannot tell you how much it has spurred me on. You're probably all wondering what the hell I got myself into during the last couple of months and without spilling the contents of my personal life everywhere, I can tell you that it was a fleeting, toxic relationship that almost lead to me losing my identity and being left completely used and alone - it almost lead to me sacrificing this ski season that I have worked towards for the last couple of years (I know, I was clearly brainwashed.)

My promise from here on out is never to lose myself again - I'm back with my mental health intact and my mojo very much revived. Now it's time to get restless again, to travel, to meet new people, and on the more concerning side - fit 6 months into 20kgs worth of hold baggage.

I feel as though it's all finally happening, that my life is on the edge of beginning, I'm about to experience quite possibly some of the best days of my life, ever. So, to make sure I do this the right way, I've managed to compile a to-do-list with a sentimental twist.

1. Proper Goodbyes

I know I'm not exactly moving to Fiji for the rest of my days, but I still feel it's important that I say goodbye properly to those I will miss most. I'm spending more time with my family and making time to see old friends, it's always important that we make our loved ones feel loved, regardless of any time apart.

2. Organisation is Key

Yes, I'm a control freak, and Yes, I'm slightly OCD so, boring things like health checks, a good ipod update and making sure all of my information is correct will put my mind at ease before I travel.

3. Home Comforts

So this is the one that's freaking me out slightly - WHAT WILL I DO WITHOUT MY OWN PILLOWS? I am not materialistic or precious but when it comes to my latex foam pillow I am incredibly protective. (Still the best relationship I've had to date). Also, I'll be packing things like photographs, branded toiletries, lots of Ribena, my dog, my campervan, just the basics.

4. Addresses

So it's not like I'm going Bear Grylls on everybody and cutting myself off from the outside world, but I am making sure that I compile a list of addresses of those I will write to during my stay - even if it is just to send a smug Christmas postcard to the restaurant I work at (HA). 

5. Dropping off the baggage

Not only will I be doing this at Manchester airport at about 6.30am on the 17th November, I am also shedding any emotional baggage that I don't want to take with me. I'm 20 years old and I am about to embark on my first great adventure, and I am doing it completely carefree and wide open to anything thrown at me, youth is a time to be selfish and I'm currently realising just how important that is.

6. Get Excited

Finally, when all the above is done - I will allow myself a good few days to be beside myself with excitement, I might even squeak a little bit.

It's funny, how the American outdoor enthusiast, John Muir, had no idea how iconic his words would be when he penned a letter to his sister. He also had no idea how perfect it would summarise my current situation - the mountains are calling, and I must go, I have spent the last 15 years in solid education, I have been in serious relationships since the age of 14, I have just finished an intense, accelerated law degree. The mountains are practically bloody begging me.

In all seriousness, what is calling to me most is my own instinct that this is going to be the start of something amazing. A work colleague said to me that I should go on this ski season because 'that is you, that is what is inside of you, and you can't be ready for anyone else in your life until you have done what it is that makes you yourself' and I couldn't agree more. Work and relationships can wait - putting myself first can't.

A Lesson Called Heartbreak.

So, I knew that I was pretty lucky to get to the ripe old age of 20 without having my heartbroken. My own impulsive choices and reckless acts went unpunished and I often turned my back on things without a second glance because there was something new, something attractive and shiny dangling in front of me.

I have never had to play the broken hearted girl, until now.

But the thing that saddens me the most in all of this is how I have made other people feel - I have broken some people and left them to pick up the pieces - and that makes me feel like a monster.

So to you - the ones that I tore apart, and to everyone who has ever had to nurse a broken heart - I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the tears you shed wishing I would call. I'm sorry that I turned my back on you so coldly. I'm sorry for every night you thought the loneliness might choke you, for every night that you prayed for the sickness in your stomach and pain in your chest to stop - even just long enough to get to sleep. I'm sorry that I didn't care enough to check how you were getting on. I'm sorry for every flash of white hot optimism you had when you got a text. I'm sorry for the hours you spent looking at my old messages, wondering if the words were really true. I'm sorry if I made you question what love even means. I'm sorry for those truly desperate, desolate hours where you dreamed I would show up at your door.

I'm sorry, because, now I feel it too.

Being heartbroken has not made me bitter - it has not made me believe that love isn't real. It has made me realise that acts have consequences, that fairy tales don't always have happy endings and it has also made me proud of how strong I know I can be. I was alone when I penned this post, alone, desperate, tears flooding my face and sobs reverberating from my chest. I gagged, heaved, praying that some of the nausea would leave my body, but it didn't - and it still hasn't. Healing anything takes time, and this is something that will take a while.

I have cried, I have collapsed into my bed, I have practically had my parents and sister put me on suicide watch. I have pulled myself together, smiled into the mirror, reminded myself that I am more than this, more than how I was treated. I have put on some make up, showered and cleansed my skin, I have listened to 'Boss Ass Bitches That Could Destroy Your World' playlist on Spotify (seriously recommend if you're going through hell) and I have remembered that time will always pass, that I won't feel like this forever.

Finally - to the one who has broken me, I hope that you can one day stop lying to yourself and everyone who tries to love you. Thank you for making me momentarily weak so that one day I can be stronger than ever. I know that hope is a dangerous thing but I will always continue to have hope that we will all meet someone capable of returning a love that makes us forget any suffering we faced at the hands of others.

Room 351

I love you.

I miss you.

I need you.

Three things we all long to hear. Three things that, when said, erase all doubt, suspicion, desperation. These things move through your ears and straight to your heart, they bypass the brain completely, they slip through the lips like honey. Three things that shouldn't be said lightly, or half-heartedly, or manipulatively.

Three things that can be full of empty promises.

I can handle someone who cheats, I can handle someone who argues, I can handle someone who is cold, but I can't handle a liar. Lies are the most toxic thing we can do with words. Lies fill you with false hope, false security, lies make you delusional, crazy, psycho. As soon as someone is prepared to lie to you, you should be prepared to walk away. Don't get me wrong - I've been naïve, I've encouraged dishonesty and welcomed it, accepted it almost.

I understand that just because someone lies to you, doesn't make you love them any less, if anything, it can make you love more fiercely. Nothing in this world weighs as much as a heart that knows it is being lied to, and I have carried a heavy heart around for some months now, and it's time that it was lifted. It's not something that is going to happen instantly, and I don't even know how long it will take but what I do know is that I need to set myself free. I've been lucky enough so far in life not to have my heartbroken, and the real ironic thing is that, even now, I've done it to myself.

Just because love feels like the best you've ever had, the most passionate, beautiful thing you have ever experienced, doesn't make it right for you, doesn't make it healthy. If I stay in the place where this love has brought me, I know that I will be torn apart even more than I already am.

We have to make decisions in life, we've always been making decisions since the second we were born. Big and small, easy and difficult. Some of them are the easiest we will ever make, some of them we make without even realising it - and some of them will change us right to the core, they will make us weep for 40 days straight, will make us instantly regret what we've done, but eventually, we will thank ourselves.

Self worth is something that comes above love. Self worth is something that comes above every single 'I miss you, I love you, I need you' - we have to remember that. When I fall in love, every part of my being falls with me, my brain, my soul, my body, everything changes, everything wraps itself around that love, I become consumed by it - and so far nobody else has matched that level of dedication. You deserve someone who is infatuated with you, who would move mountains for you and who would call at 4am just to hear the sound of your voice. We all deserve that. But we also must be prepared to give it back.

I'd like to think that one day, someone will make me fall in love without me giving up my own self-worth. Someday, someone will be infatuated with me, someone will adore me, protect me, empower me and honour me with nothing but truths.

Solace in the City

I've always told myself I hated London - I went for one weekend at the end of the summer a couple of years ago and found it congested, oppressing and stifling.

Then I managed to land myself a work experience placement at a very popular UK magazine (I don't know either) in London.

And now here I am, falling hopelessly in love with the dynamic, exhilarating capital. I left home yesterday under some heavy circumstances and sat staring motionless out of the train window for the entire 2 hour journey down, but by the time I was hustling my way out of Euston station I finally felt alive, lifted and almost happy - it was good to be in a different place again. I have missed travelling like I would a lost limb, I have missed being a stranger in a strange place.

Life recently seems like a series of badly timed events - I find myself awestruck by the ability of fate to leave me blind, deaf & dumb at what it throws at me, but when I walk the streets of London I feel all of my senses coming back to me. The heart of the city beats along to my footsteps, the people are diverse, beautiful, interesting. There is noise and colour at every corner, opportunity awaits every person who dares to seize it. This trip comes at a peculiar time of my life that I never anticipated - I had stalled at a crossroads and now I find myself taking a welcome detour into the city. It is undeniably a welcome distraction, a bustling hub of electricity that has no time for sadness or reflection, it's exactly what the doctor ordered.

I take comfort from being alone and surrounded by strangers - us humans are living, breathing proof that life goes on, despite adversity, the world keeps turning, the trains keep running, the sun still rises everyday. It is nice, sometimes, to be nothing but a spectator in a world full of performers.

As for my work experience, I was apprehensive that it was going to be a Devil Wears Prada remake and I would be running around with Demelza's Chai Half-decaffeinated Macchiato (nope, that's probably not even a thing) with tears in my eyes and some bitch on my back; but the awful truth is that everyone has perfectly normal names, is absolutely lovely, and drinks tea. I even got to write a few pieces that will hopefully go up on the company website. It was amazing, to actually work doing something I love, researching, contacting publishers, checking facts and asking for high resolution images. At one point I was writing an article on slippers, and I promise you, nobody has ever been so damn excited over slippers.

I can see now how easy it is, to lose yourself in a career - like a relationship, when you find the right one, you just want to go further and further into it, hoping that it turns out to be a lifelong passion.

I'll admit, with every high comes its low, and I have had an awful, suffocating sinking feeling when I have returned back to my empty apartment (as nice as it is - it has a HAMMOCK) but most of this is down to what is happening in my life right now and how much my heart longs for the comfort of someone. Being alone in a city full of people gives you a true sense of irony, but also of solace. I know that the streets are there, just down two flights of stairs and out of my front door, the tube (chancery lane) is a two minute walk away and then about 5 minutes (if that) to Oxford Circus, where I can be surrounded by people and noise and life and bustle and forget what it was that was weighing me down.

Life hasn't been easy recently, and the worst isn't quite yet over, but I am now forever in debt to London, I have found a soho state of mind here, I have found solace in the city.

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

When did we become so lazy with communication? When did we lose the desire to make an effort with our words? There is nothing sweeter than receiving something in the post, handwritten, feeling that person reach from the page in the creased, worn paper, hearing voice in the sloping of their scrawls. A text message - albeit instant - is not quite the same, electronic words on an electronic screen with no personality, no warmth. Letter writing, like every other romantic gesture, seems to be a lost art.

The greatest love letters of all time are handwritten - have you ever heard of a text or email that went down in history as one of the most heart wrenching, warming texts ever created? No. And that's for a bloody good reason - it doesn't matter if your a world renowned calligrapher or if your handwriting looks like spiderman flicked his wrists all over the page, the first step to showing someone how passionate you are about them is writing it down.

Arguably the best love letter of all time comes from Johnny Cash, who wrote to his wife June on her birthday:

"Happy Birthday Princess,

We get old and get used to each other. We think alike. We read each others minds. We know what the other wants without asking. Sometimes we irritate each other a little bit. Maybe sometimes take each other for granted.

But once in awhile, like today, I meditate on it and realize how lucky I am to share my life with the greatest woman I ever met. You still fascinate and inspire me. You influence me for the better. You’re the object of my desire, the #1 Earthly reason for my existence. I love you very much.
Happy Birthday Princess.
- John"

Just imagine for a second, how it feels to receive such a gift. A persons' most intimate thoughts and feelings written down in their hand, for you to keep forever.

Sometimes a letter is also the best option for declaring something other than love - Ghandhi even wrote a letter to Hitler that questioned his savage acts, and appealed to him to use his power for the better, This was futile no doubt - but the power of a letter is knowing that the other person has received it - has seen the words written in your hand and forever has the proof, forever has the message in their mind; regardless of whether they choose to respond or not.

Writing to an old friend is something I like to do. Someone whose personality jumps from the page in their similar language and words, so much so that you can hear them in the room with you - tell me, can a text do the same job? A letter is something sacred that you can carry forever, and draw comfort from the pages when you most need it. People find comfort in the familiar scrawl of those they love, just like they do in a scent or a song or a place.

These letters don't have to be a scripture of undying love, you don't need to rewrite the constitution of the United States of America. Sometimes just leaving a post-it-note in the most suprising of places with a quick quip can be enough to remind somebody that they are the centre of your universe. What i'm trying to say is - somebody somewhere loves you, be it your lover, your best friend, your parent or maybe just the crazy old lady down the road, so every once in a while, leave them with something that they can hold on to.

Night Running

With the black skies of winter now firmly pressing down on me, it's safe to say that come 8pm I am dying to get out of the house and feel some fresh air, some life. It's been about 2 years since I've ran regularly but last night the natural desire, drive and instinct all came back to me in a burst of adrenaline. I had to go, get out and run as far and as fast as my feet could take me. I wrote this shortly after I came back, (on a slight serotonin high so please embrace the poetry I conjured out of just going for a short run).

Tonight I ran

I ran into the black night

Furiously, determined

Chasing my demons away

Under a starry chandelier.

Running used to be my escape

When I run there are no headphones, just the rhythm of my feet hitting the floor and my breathing fluctuating.

There are no walls, no blocks, no boundaries, my feet can take me wherever I wish. My mind isn't focused on anything but the finish line, my mentality is to get through the space between my moving body and that place. 

I ran in an athletics group for a while and found the competition as stifling as the four walls that drove me to running. Running is my escape, I don't do it for medals or for glory, I do it for sanity. I used to hate it, back when I was competing, it was me against the clock, me against the person next to me, hearing their breathing just as practised as my own. That's the thing, when I run I fall into a rhythm, the breathing and the pace come back to me like old friends, the familiar circuits I do welcome me at every turn. Of course I time myself, to keep an eye on my own personal fitness, but the real reason I run is to clear my head with the fresh air, to get out of the four walls that lock me in every day, to see how far my feet can take me before my legs buckle, to test my body and my mental strength. 

I choose to run at either the crack of dawn during the summer months, or late at night during the winter. It is during these hours of the day when everything is still and sleepy, even if there is something slightly horror movie-Esque about a young woman running late at night (you would reinforce this point also if you ever saw my hometown and its inhabitants). It is a time when most of the world is sleeping, or safely inside but yet there I am, wide awake, alert, mind focused and sweat covering my body, happy, elated and alive. I see the things at night that nobody else sees, I hear the first song of the birds that nobody else hears. I think it's important that sometimes we do things that make us feel like we are the only person on the planet, because in our own lives we are number 1 - and I don't think we can never really appreciate that unless we isolate ourselves every now and then. 

5 Weeks//6 Months

If someone were to say to you, how long do you think it would take for your life to change forever? I'm guessing you might say one second, you might say one year; depending on your answer and the imaginary circumstances surrounding it.

From raw, recent experience, I can tell you that it took mine about 5 weeks.

Slowly but surely I lost the firm grip I had on my life and spiralled into all sorts of emotions I didn't think I was capable of feeling. Now I'm left in a confused mess wondering what the hell to do next, waiting for my life to feel normal again. Nothing is at it was, and won't ever be the same again.

I fell in love with every fibre of my being. I fell in love the way you fall asleep - without protest, helplessly and easily - without even really realising it.  I can hear your thoughts - this girl has just come out of a relationship, this screams rebound blah blah blah - but I can tell you that this feeling is entirely new to me, entirely different.

This love is one that shouldn't have happened - on paper we are so wrong and there are so many obstacles in our way but somehow we have made it to this point and I have gone through things in the space of 5 weeks that most people don't even go through in 50 years. It has been a love I have come close to losing, a love that looked like it had no future, a love that brought me to my knees with tears down my face and dangerous thoughts in my head. The circumstances surrounding this situation have made me 10 years older overnight, I have experienced emotions and scenarios that really required me to put on a smile and get on with things when my world was upside down and inside out. I have stayed awake all night with the darkest fear that the light of the morning might not ever come, I have felt a sense of euphoria that I didn't think possible.

So now, the question is - Do I pursue my ski season and disappear for 6 months, as if nothing ever happened? As if my whole character hasn't been changed or altered in any way? How can I now walk away from something so precious and delicate?

If I were to explain all of the circumstances to this scenario - I can confidently say that 9 out of 10 people would probably urge me to leave the country for 6 months - they would probably say that the timing is ideal - and I know this, but I also know that leaving will shatter my heart beyond repair.

During this particular 5 weeks I found myself in hotel rooms and sat in my car in the black of night, praying that everything would be okay, praying that this love would be strong enough to even make it through another crazy 24 hours. I'm not overexaggerating when I say that at times it has been a matter of life or death. How can I walk away from that, from everything that has happened, for half a year in a different country?

I know that I am like a wild animal - if you lock me up, if you try and contain me, try to keep me in one place, then I will break out and react and never come back. I know that I have just got out of a 15 year struggle in education - I know that 6 months surrounded by mountains is probably something that I need. So why did fate put me in this place? Why, on the most desolate of days, when I was leaning against a bookshelf attempting not to cry, did I look up and see my Nanny's very rare name emblazoned across a book in front of me? What does this all mean?

I feel like I need a sign, I feel like this decision is not one I can make myself. I know that I'm being weak here, but all I've done for the last two years is make all of the decisions, call all of the shots - and I'm tired of that. I feel like I want to throw things into the wind and see what comes back to me.

Summer's Descent

It's October.
No, seriously, it's OCTOBER.

Where did the summer go? Where has the warmth gone? Why is the sun suddenly deciding to set at 6pm? I didn't have enough time! All of these thoughts fly around my brain at this time of year, I feel winter creeping up on me like a pressing weight on my chest - I'm never ready for it. In the short 20 years I have spent on this planet, I have learned that I really really don't like winter. I briefly enjoy the vibrant displays that the trees put on for us (If I can ignore the fact that this means they will be dropping soon.) The bright orange pumpkins and explosions of colour across the night sky on Bonfire Night go some way to console me, and Halloween is me in my creepy, witchy element but THAT IS IT. That's all over by mid-November and then I find myself thoroughly miserable until about May.

I don't go all gooey eyed over Christmas and I find it excrutiating when you're innocently doing your shopping, having a nice browse and WHAM, Michael Buble is cranked up and suddenly everyone is jolly and bells and whistles about Christmas - NO! It's cold, it's raining, it's depressing. Fair enough if we could all expect a thick blanket of white sparkling snow, and for the general public of the UK to actually not freak out about it, but I just feel that the UK is not the place to be at Christmas time.

So, i'm getting sidetracked by Christmas (see! it's on the brain!) when really this post is about Winter in general. I belong in the summer, where my feet are bare and my skin is brown. Where my glasses don't steam up the second i'm greeted by the whoosh of hot air from inside, where nobody has the flu. Summer is all about long hot days and blue open skies and winter is all about getting fat, depressed and staying indoors. I feel trapped at wintertime, like a puppy that hasn't had it's vaccinations and can't go outside. This is probably all very melodramatic but I can't explain what it does to me, I hate the thought of the sun setting and not really rising properly again for months.

My spirit soars under the sun, under a clear sky that stretches from blue, into pink, then into burning oranges and reds at 9.00pm, and doesn't go any darker than a deep purple until dawn at 4.30am. Winter means that the night is as black as hell and the lights are only on from about 9 till 4. Winter means damp, cold, condensation and grey days, just like this one.

I hate to be so pessimistic about it but I felt like this vent was blog worthy - just don't be offended if I choose to console myself by knocking your PSL out of your hands or strangling you with your tinsel.

The Places We Run To

Sometimes the greatest days aren't the days we make memories, they are the days we have to waste. The days where we have no commitments, no lunches to get to, no washing to get done - the days where I can just be a girl walking a dog in a forest, or across a beach, or taking a swim in the wide open sea. The days where our identity and troubles leave us and we just become a soul in a body, surrounded by nothing but nature. The days where I can sit and stare and contemplate nothing but how I am feeling in that exact moment - where I'm not worrying about what is to come or what has been done. Living in the moment isn't always the easiest or the right thing to do, but in order to stay sane in this messed up world, it's necessary. 

Spending time alone is the closest thing we can get to pressing pause, to be left alone is to find comfort and clarity in our own minds, to breathe in air that is only ours. 

My instinct is often the need to retreat when things get heavy, and I find solace in three places, the forest, the coast and the open road. I like to get to higher ground, to feel like I'm physically on top of everything that could possibly be weighing down on me - that might sound stupid but for me it works. 

In the forest, it's the stillness that speaks to me, with nothing but the occasional bristling of branches with a passing breeze, or the busy twitter of unseen birds. The density of the trees blocks out all the noise of life and lets in what we need most - rays of sunlight, hope shining down on us in the purest form. 

The coast, however, gives me everything. It gives me chaos when I feel angry, crashing tides and howling winds to contend with my rage. It gives me the serene sunrise on the still horizon when I am content, it gives me crystal clear waters to bathe in when I need clarity. The relationship I have with the ocean is eternal - it will forever be where i run to in order to seek sanity. It leaves me with salt on my skin and balance in my mind. 

Finally, the open road for obvious reasons - it is endless and I'm (usually) concentrating on driving rather than getting distracted by petty worries. On the road you can go anywhere, you could be anyone, you can just keep going. As long as you have gas in the tank (*and a half decent car*) the escape never needs to stop. 

The places we run to could be anywhere, but they are important. 

The big old L.

Since this breakup, all the thinking has made me realise - you know what is never found or lost at the right time?

Love.

Like an Arriva bus, love turns up when you least expect it, ploughing into you and splashing you with that dirty rain water or blasting you with such a gust of air that ensures everything goes everywhere. Or you lose it gradually when you're trying your best to hold on to it, running down the street with your shopping bags, red in the face and chasing something that is already gone, desperately trying to get there in time and failing. We are completely out of control as to when these things happen. (If you're a UK resident you will surely appreciate my Arriva reference... Never. On. Time.)

When you're single, settled and have managed to put off the urge to buy 50 cats and hole yourself up in a castle in Scotland, nothing comes, no spark, no electricity, nothing. But when your life is as complicated as it can possibly get, and there are so many doors of opportunity open to you, BOOM, there goes the fireworks, the whole bloody shebang, that love is there, that person, that being, that aura is yours - but it is never yours for the taking because the timing isn't right.

What does this lead to? Obviously you would say heartbreak, confusion, missing out on an opportunity because you were chasing something that was transparent? But what if this wasn't the case, what if the risk was worth taking and the gamble paid off, making you happier than you have ever been? What if the timing is only wrong because we tell ourselves that? When is it ever a good time to fall in love? Well I'm an incredibly overenthusiastic romanticist and I say when is it a goddamn BAD time to fall in love? Love is beautiful and amazing and shouldn't be taken for granted or pushed aside, it should be embraced and shared and we should all be dancing and singing and celebrating love because it is what outweighs everything else. Love overrides looks, money, war, time, circumstances, even death.

And what about lust? When does sex turn into making love? Is there a reasonable time scale for this or can it happen overnight?  Can a whirlwind romance stand the test of time? I would like to think so. I've got an old head - whilst I appreciate that it's good for some people to sleep around and experience things, I am a firm believer in fate and honestly I have so far lived a life like a movie, a tear jerker, a tragedy, a horror and a comedy but I can truly say the best part is the romance because it is unpredictable and surprises me every time. I'm not of the era where I desire to have multiple sexual partners and dates, I love the idea of keeping my numbers low and finding the one early so that I can spend more years with them and look into their eyes years from now and feel the same electricity as the first time they met. This idea is regarded as outdated and old fashioned but I believe in it.

Whilst we are on the topic - Without wanting to sound like a John Green/ Nicholas Sparks novel, What can we do, when we feel like we aren't good enough for the love that someone gives us?

When someone amazing enters your life and you feel utterly incapable of giving them the love they deserve. Someone inspiring, strong, selfless and amazing bursts into your life like colour into a sepia picture and you are completely at a loss - sure you give them what you can, what you think they need and want, but somehow it still doesn't feel enough. This doesn't always have to be wth sexual relationships either, recently in my friendships I have felt that I am undeserving of such attention, patience and unconditional love.

I guess this is when we don't feel worthy of someone because they are so above us, so we try our best to give them absolutely everything. When someone this amazing comes into your life, I think it's important that instead of stressing over what we can't give them, we should cherish every second with them, linger with every kiss and listen closely to every laugh and heartbeat, because we are lucky enough to have found such love. We are only a speck of dust on a tiny planet in a greater scheme of things, so when something truly amazing comes by, shouldn't we embrace it and feel it?

15th September

Today is the day of my Nanny's birthday, my kindred spirit who I lost last year. I always feel a confusing mixture of all consuming grief and intense happiness when I think about her. I miss her more than anyone but yet I know she is somewhere amazing, smiling down on me, reunited with the people she loved and lost. She lost a lot of people that she loved far too early on in life and I think she spent the rest of it knowing that one day she would see them again.

My Nanny had an ethereal aura and nature was her solace when things got tough. She could make anything grow and bloom beautifully, now I'm just left here wishing she could have been around long enough to watch me fully grow and hopefully one day bloom with her help.

Today is all about remembering her and the things she loved. The birds seem to sing sweeter today, the sky holds warmth and hazy sunlight. She loved the outdoors, being as closely connected to the natural world as possible. She loved music, singing, dancing, wildly enjoying the moments in life that won't come again. She enjoyed spending time with her family, and I have never seen someone's eyes glow so fiercely with love as did hers when she looked at me, my sister or my mum. She loved colourful, floaty clothes and dainty floral perfumes. She was forever young and beautiful and smiling - she fought cancer right up until the end with painted light pink nails and a touch of lipstick and a smile.

When we lose someone who is so closely connected to us, I don't think they really ever leave. I feel my Nanny everywhere I go, I feel her taking in the sights I'm seeing, spurring me on, laughing at me or tutting with a smile when I would do something wrong. I know that wherever I go and whatever I do she will be watching it, and that's why I intend to travel far and wide, to experience things that she never got to, just so she can see it through my eyes.

That's why I choose to celebrate on the 15th of September, in a similar way to how she would, to walk barefoot on the grass, to dance, to laugh and to remind my family of how much I love them. Instead of being awash with grief or anger, I try to be greatful that this incredible soul was one that nurtured me.

The Good Gone Bad

So, when I started this blog - I promised you it would include all of my ups, downs and in-betweens. Currently, I'm on a rollercoaster that is throwing me all over the shop from natural turns in events.

However, on Saturday night, a particularly nasty event occurred which was all at the hands of another person, Kai - my ex - was up in Glasgow for the weekend visiting his Uncle. He had told me this plan earlier and I thought it was good, I'd rather him be surrounded by people that care about him than be by himself any time soon.

I thought we had ended things pretty amicably, despite the circumstances. So WHY did his 40-year old uncle feel the need to act like a complete juvenile and post a picture of Kai with another girl (who, by the way, looks completely out of both of our leagues) and the caption 'First hit and he strikes gold!' - Actually he made a typo and put 'he's strikes gold' but let's ignore that -  I was surprised because I didn't get the lurching sick feeling in my stomach at the sight of him with another female, I just felt incredibly, incredibly pissed off. I thought there was going to be a much higher level of mutual respect? Did the 3 years really mean nothing? What had I done to deserve to be made to feel so worthless?

It wasn't as if I had been posting pictures of me with other men on social media or slutting it up around town, I've actually been practically living at work trying (and failing) to dig myself out of my overdraft. The ironic thing is, earlier that day, I had actually began to miss Kai for the first time in a long time, but the post soon put a stop to that.

And now I realise, this is a natural (albeit unnecessary) part of the break-up process. Of course, on Saturday night, I wanted to retaliate, I wanted to go out and sleep with 15 people and send Kai and his Uncle a lovely documentary of the entire thing, but ultimately, I can use this situation to be the bigger person here and walk away from it all, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less or that I am any less angry. In order to move on, the love that we felt for that person must turn to hate, briefly, so that we can detach ourselves from them and find something in someone else. I just didn't expect something so nasty and childish from someone who has only ever treated me with respect and love, but I guess we all go through phases and changes. I also HATE how in every breakup, social media is used to compete with each other, who can move on first, who can go on the most nights out, who can get the most attractive rebound shag - the only reason you're doing it is because you're still so wrapped up in what the other person is doing and thinking - it's the opposite of moving on, put the phone DOWN and go spend some time with yourself!!

Maybe this is karma for things I did in previous relationships, but I refuse to rise to someone's petty insults and snipes, I'd rather take a step back, breathe, and carry on moving on. But now I'm faced with the absolute dilemma of knowing that I have to spend 6 months in the same ski resort as Kai - when this ski season is supposed to be my getaway from everything. From his recent behaviour I'm guessing he mustn't be thrilled at the prospect either, but I guess we will find out as it goes on.

Is anybody going to ask for the film rights to my life yet or shall I keep going?

The Human Race

What does it mean - when we willingly embark on a path to self destruction?
When I spend 3 years building the foundations of my house, my future, just to take a sledgehammer to it and then dance on top of the rubble in a confused daze of dust?
When I purposely light up a cigarette and suck out all of its poison with no one to witness but the stars and the sky?
When I break somebody's heart and my own in the process?

Does it mean I am a total, unfeeling bitch?
Or does it mean I'm human, and on the edge of a great change?
I didn't know this was going to happen, I didn't expect it, it crept up on me like the dark creeps up on the sun, slowly chasing it until the golden light is devoured by black. I've been distant, cold and confused for months. I found myself no longer seeing things the same way, or feeling the same way, but when the odd off day turns into an off 6 months, you know it's time for a change.

I didn't want to end my relationship - but I felt like I had to. Kai is still my soulmate on many levels, and maybe when we are both older we can perhaps come back to this more travelled, aged and wiser and pick it up again. Of course I'm devastated, heartbroken and confused but I also know it was the right decision.

The worst part of all of this is the changing involved. I thought the whole awkward adjustment period occurs during teenage years but I was wrong. A good friend told me that her dad gave her some sound advice that 16, 18, 21 and 30 are the years to look out for, and it's safe to say I'm now dreading hitting 30 more than ever. I hate nothing more than being unsure of myself, out of control, the feeling of free falling and spiralling into something unfamiliar is not something that sits well with me, but at the same time, I hate routine, I hate normality and conformity - I hate being bored and comfortable.

I'm not saying I got bored in my relationship but we definitely took each other for granted, perhaps me more so than him. I keep rewinding it all in my mind - wondering where the happiness got turned off but I can't find it - it was gradual and like I said, crept up on me. I never once wanted or intended my feelings to change because I was convinced that this was the man I was going to marry, have children with & grow old with. Where there once was an absolute bonfire of passion now flickers a warm glow of gratitude and respect.

So now I'm single, for the first time since the age of 14, with the desire to stand alone for a good while, and probably not enter into another relationship until I'm 80. I have a sense of loneliness and weirdness, sure I do, but I also have a sense of complete contentment - I've always been happy in my own company and for anyone who knows me, even just the sound of the phone ringing has been known to enrage me. I'm taking this change as a sign that I need to be alone for a while, to put myself first and prioritise what I want to do - to be selfish and careless and maybe slightly idiotic.

I was thinking - (something I've been doing a lot of lately) - about the term 'The Human Race' and I actually think that some eccentric crackpot had a right laugh when they coined the expression. Forget the connotations of ethnicity or skin colour and concentrate on what it literally means. We are all humans and we are all racing - through life, work, relationships - to our death. It's called a race because we are all so caught up with the concept of time - its time for me to get a job, its time for me to settle down and get married, its time for bed, its time to eat. We restrict our lives because of time when that's the one thing we shouldn't do with it. Time is short, time is precious, time is always running out, time isn't actually ever reachable, because when you get there, it's already gone. The Human Race is racing towards something that we don't even know exists - so what's wrong with hitting the big red button and saying 'fuck it'? because really, at the age of 20, time is still mine to play around with, and I intend to be very selfish with it.

Wilder Minds

So, you're probably like me and 80% of other people, have Netflix. A while back, whilst browsing late at night (when else do you watch Netflix?), I found myself momentarily intrigued by a film cover. It featured an unkempt looking guy atop a beaten up old bus and it was called 'Into the Wild', I almost went for it, but I was tired and probably chose some light-hearted chick flick featuring Reese Witherspoon and a convertible.

Afterwards, I completely forgot about my late-night moment of wonder. That was until recently, when my friend Ed brought the film up in conversation saying how amazing it was, and then I learned that it was based on a book so naturally, the book was ordered within a day or two.

Well, the book came yesterday and I've read 144 pages out of 205, and nothing has ever resonated with me so deeply. So much so that I feel compelled to spread the word of this book, I want to shout out passages in the street, I want to buy 10 million copies and throw them at people. The author, Jon Krakauer, analyses the incredible story of Chris McCandless, constantly posing the ultimate question of whether what he did was amazing or stupid.  He sums up the entire story in the first four lines of his 'author's note' at the beginning of the book:

"In  April 1992, a young man from a well-to-do East Coast family hitchhiked to Alaska and walked alone into the wilderness north of Mt. McKinley. Four months later his decomposed body was found by a party of moose hunters."

If you've seen the film, this might shock you - because the film doesn't tell it as a documentary - it follows Chris along his journey and you find yourself rooting for him, heartbroken when he dies from picking the wrong berries and poisoning himself. If this was a spoiler, I'm totally not sorry because you should always read the book before watching the film anyway - duh.

This Jon Krakauer guy, he really seems to get it. He paints Chris out in such a light that I feel like I know him. There are excerpts from Chris' journal to help flesh out the bones of the facts, but you really get the sense that the author is on the same wavelength as his subject. And I am very much on that wavelength too.

Chris hated almost everything about the comfortable American existence. He studied racism, apartheid, starvation and suffering, as well as politics. He spent his Friday nights in the pits of the town, surveying homeless people and prostitutes to truly appreciate the segregation in wealth; he hated any unnecessary show of wealth and turned down his parents' offer to buy him a new car because the beaten-up old one he had ran perfectly fine. He was searching for something deeper, more real, he hitchhiked up and down America for two years, making deep and real connections with those he met on the way, and left an imprint upon those people. I can say that I've never met Chris, and I don't know everything about his amazing story, but he has truly already left an imprint on me too. He gave himself another name, the name of Alexander Supertramp, he burned all his money and forms of identification, he left it all behind.

The first passage I highlighted from the book was from a letter written by Chris, sent to an elderly man he met whilst hitchhiking, who formed a deep love for Chris, proposing to adopt him as his Grandson, following Chris' advice to give up his comfortable conventional life and travel round a bit, even when he was into his late 70s/early 80s:

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future."

Read that over a couple of times. Do you get it? Do you agree? Does it fill you with a fierce empathy for this long-gone man and his ideas? Because it does for me. I couldn't have worded my inward thoughts more perfectly. I feel like I should have been sat with Chris in that bus, I feel like I should have met him on the road somewhere, and I feel like we could have talked wildly for hours, non-stop, both on a higher level of consciousness, with a wider view of seeing. I feel that there is a palpable loss for this human being in the world, or at least a lack of those who share the same outlook.

Krakauer goes on to talk about other explorers who did a similar thing, He talks about Carl McCunn, a photographer who at the age of 35, chartered a helicopter to a remote lake near Fort Yukon, Alaska, and for some unknown reason, failed to organise his return trip. He'd flown out at the beginning of August, and sometime in late November, killed himself with a bullet to the head. He also talks about a climber, John Waterman, who once spent 145 days alone to climb a mountain. Parallels have been drawn between these people and Chris because, quite simply, does to much time in the wild - make us wild? When the mind is left to wonder and the comfort of conversation isn't available, what do we do? We are left to be our own best friend as well as our own worst enemy; we are left only with our thoughts, and some of us have darker thoughts than others. Chris even said so himself in his final desolate days, with the words "Happiness is only real when shared."

Two other adventurers are compared to Chris also, Gene Rosellini, a.k.a Mayor of Hippie Cove, who despaired at the modern world and devoted more than 10 years of his life to an experiment with the aim of seeing if the modern man could live like a caveman. In a letter to a friend, however, he revealed, "I learned it is not possible for human beings, as we know them, to live off the land." I must say, although I do agree with this observation, the key phrase here is 'as we know them'. The sad truth is, us human beings have advanced so fast and so far that we would find any kind of extreme survival alien. This is why Wall-E depicts us all as fat blobs and this is why the whole Bear Gryll's Island show is exactly what it says on the tin - a TV show - fantasy. As much as I would love us all to return to instinct, like I said in my 'Meat Matter' post, it's entirely impractical and idealistic.

This raises the question - so, what was Chris McCandless trying to prove by going out into the wild completely unprepared? And my honest opinion is that he wasn't trying to prove anything - he wasn't trying to wow us all with some experiment and he clearly wasn't trying to get a big reality TV show contract. He was just living, escaping the cities and the clutches of modern, lazy life.

The other adventurer that Krakauer did his homework on was Everett Ruess. It is Ruess that Krakauer  most closely relates Chris too, and it is easy to see why. Ruess got on the road and hitchhiked as soon as he could - after getting his diploma. He wrote letters in abundance and this is where I found myself going crazy with the highlighter.

"I prefer the saddle to the streetcar and the star-sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities."

These people, are magicians with words, the wilderness turned them into poets, and I feel it doing the same to me every time I gaze out onto the ocean, every time I tread upon the springy forest floor carpeted with pine needles, every time I breathe in the clear alpine air, blinded by snow and sky. I crave a life on the road - a life that is uncertain, obscure, sometimes lonely and desolate, other times filled with faces and noise and chaos. As Reuss even penned himself; "I have always been unsatisfied with life as most people live it. Always I want to live more intensely and richly." 

So, I'm not about to fill my little Herschel backpack with cereal bars and announce that I'm off to fend for myself on Mount Snowdon, but I do feel more full and reassured by the mere existence of these people, by the comfort that their words give to me - I feel a kindred spirit in Chris, and in anybody who appreciates adventure. And so my little part in this is to get out there, like Chris, to LIVE out there, to be wild, to get out there on a ski season this year, to pack my van up next year with Kai and hit the road. I want to shower under sprinklers on private land and be chased off, I want my only source of food to be from natural resources, I want to howl at the moon and survey the stars, I want to come close to death to give me more value to my life, I want to help other people who weren't lucky enough to be born under the same circumstances as me. 

I want to embrace my wilder mind. 

12.2.68 - August 92

If not YOU - then who?

'If not us, then who? If not now, then when?'

The above quote is my mantra. I am not actually 100% sure who said it - although a quick Google search tells me it was either John Lewis or Emma Watson, who are both equally as genius so I'll take it. Anyone who knows me knows that I am wildly impatient and willing to do whatever it takes to achieve the goals I set myself - whether that is to get a law degree (stupid goal) or to make sure the love of my life doesn't get away because I was already in a relationship. - The decisions we make are not always easy, but our own happiness should be the basis of them. My point is, we should be impatient, and we should make difficult decisions - because no one is going to make them for us and no one is going to pull out the golden staircase to our dreams. I want to be a writer because it's my passion, it makes me happy, and enough people have told me I am half decent at it so I know I stand a chance of making a living out of it. My parents and several of my friends don't take me seriously when I say I would be happy just getting by if it meant I could be a writer - I don't expect a huge movie deal within 12 months of me publishing my first book, I don't expect to be living in my Malibu beach home penning the next worldwide bestseller by the time I'm 30 - but I will sure as hell work towards it.

When I was younger, if I wanted something, I relentlessly pestered my parents until I had it. Although it probably drove my parents to believe that I was Satans spawn, it has instilled in me a self-motivated work ethic and the belief that you can get anything you want if you want and work hard enough. Take my van plan, for example, before Christmas I was printing out pictures, making mood boards and dreaming of the day I could call one my own, in reality thinking that it would be a few years, but nevertheless keeping at it - and look at me now, just a few more months and my van will be ready for her adventures next summer. I got it because I WANTED IT and because I WORKED FOR IT, not because someone handed it to me. Don't get me wrong, if I happened to bump into John Grisham at tesco (unlikely I know) and did him a favour which he offered to return, I would use that to further my writing career (not talking sexual favours here) because I believe that if you positively believe and try to achieve your dreams, you will attract opportunities that help you do this.

I was working at the restaurant a few weeks ago, and was laughing and chatting to a particular group of customers who then asked me what I was up to. I told them I had just finished law school but had been put off that area due to a disheartening talk on why being a barrister is a bad idea in the modern world. One of the women on the table instantly grabbed my hand and told me all about the fact that she had studied law with dreams of becoming a barrister but had given it all up to become a full time housewife and mother to her children. She revealed to me that she 'lost herself' in this process and, despite having several glasses of wine, gave me one of the most inspirational speeches I have ever recieved from anyone - albeit loaded with expletives. She urged me to follow my dreams, regardless of what anyone says or does to put me off track, and with every inch of my being I told her thank you, And that that is my plan.

Maybe I'm too much of a dreamer, too idealistic and maybe I romanticise everything - but I am determined to be happy - and when I am the age of the lovely Debbie mentioned above, I won't feel like I 'lost myself' in some rat race process or by having children who then define me, I will urge people to follow their dreams also, because it gave me more happiness in my lifetime than imagineable, like it has already.

If I were to die tomorrow, I would be pleased at what I have achieved so far. Despite the mistake of choosing law school, what other 20-year old can say that they studied law in 2 years and converted a van into a camper with their dad? And travelled to south east Asia with one of the best people on the planet, and had already spent 3 amazing years with the love of their life? There are plenty more dreams inside me, don't get me wrong, but I already feel blessed to have had so many of them come true.

If you were to die tomorrow - could you say the same?

The Meat Matter

I recently gave up eating meat, and by recently, I mean a few months ago. The main question I have been faced with ever since has been 'Oh my god, why?' followed closely by, 'but, what about bacon?'

And the truth is, I've wanted to give up meat for years, but I didn't really think my parents would respect my decision and because I'm still living with them, I didn't want to make mealtimes any more work for them than they already are. Its one of those things people always see as a 'phase' and never really take seriously, like that friend Jenny who goes on a complete juice detox for a month every now and then, you know she's going to give in at some point.

But for me, like everything else in the world of Holly Price, it really does have a deeper meaning. I could never shake the guilt off when I ate meat, I was always picturing a poor, helpless and innocent animal who was raised from birth for the sole purpose of slaughter. Some of you cynical realists out there will be shaking your head at me now, I know, you'll be saying 'well that's what happens in the real world, in the wild' and I'd just like you to stop right there - because it's not. You're telling me that Barney the lion just pops down to the butchers to grab himself a nice leg of antelope? or that Frieda the crocodile ventures down to McDonalds for her 20 chicken nuggets? No, in the wild, these animals are hunted, naturally, not raised in some harsh steel factory and overfed and then executed; because the human race is now too lazy and civilized to hunt, as well as too greedy to give anything up.

I know that what I am asking for is incredibly idealistic, and it wouldn't be entirely practical for suited up entrepreneurs in London to grab a spear and go chicken hunting, but it wouldn't hurt them to consider for a second where their food is actually from.

I am not some angry animal rights campaigner demanding you to give up meat this second - I am justifying my choice and expressing my love and compassion for all things with a beating heart. I'm not stupid or naïve, I know that me, just one person, giving up meat will not stop the entire industry, but it has made me happier than ever to pursue something I believe in, and maybe this will influence someone else who has been borderline pescatarian/veggie/vegan for years. I saw something today that triggered the need for this blog. A baby rabbit, in the centre of the road, taking it's last, shuddering breaths with it's insides spilling out over the concrete. I only saw the movement for a split second as my car passed over it, but I felt sick, I wanted to stop, pick it up and soothe it until it died. Again, an idealistic view, because I can't go stopping for every single roadkill victim I see because I'll end up one of them myself. My point is, I just don't agree with the unnecessary suffering of animals, and that's probably rooted within my childhood dream of being a vet, which was crushed when my mum revealed this job included putting animals to sleep - (not to mention the 7 years at university).

It's the same when I see people wearing fur or real leather. I can hear the squealing of that animal as it is skinned, or I can see a lifeless body, slumped and hairless, all for the sake of someone wearing a fucking coat or a hat or a scarf, and I think to myself, I'd like to see you skinned alive so that we can give out handbags to Minks. (I'm looking at YOU, Kim Kardashian.) I'm not trying to prevent people from wearing fur, but I do wonder why there is any need when there is incredibly realistic synthetic fur - I personally think that it's archaic, ugly and inhumane.

Also, what is really ironic about all of this, is that the animals were here first. This world was not ours to come and ruin, and take for ourselves, we have evolved from these species, and now we are killing them. Currently I still eat fish, but the effects of overfishing are ringing in my ears, and also I try to avoid using or eating palm oil where possible because of the devastating effects of deforestation - and my plans one day to work for a time at an orangutan centre. I feel so strongly about the natural world, animals, and what was here before us that I despair at almost everything about the industries of today. I can see how much we are destroying what is truly beautiful about this planet and I wish that I could do something to stop it, so this is my small, lifelong stand against that.

(I'd also just like to add that stopping eating meat has made me choose much nicer options on restaurant menus - go and be creative and brave and try something other than the burger or chicken wrapped in bacon.)

The Local Tourist

So, rewind a few months this year, around April time, I had just got back the worst results of my degree, was at the end of my mental tether and quite frankly, needed some sun. Me and one of my closest girlfriends, Gabs, said what the hell and found a relatively cheap holiday package for a week in June/July to a place where we were guaranteed some sun and fun, Ibiza.

I'm going to be honest - my expectations were low, from what I had heard, Ibiza was all expensive nightclubs, adolescents, and 60 euro bottles of water. How wrong I eventually was.  The obvious mistake was the 'package' part of the holiday, but it was a cheap way to get everything sorted and to get out there. After 4 sweaty hours on a bus (the transfer was only supposed to be 30 minutes) with a non-English speaking driver who couldn't find our hotel, we dumped our suitcases in our room, and soon realised that this 4 star holiday was looking more like and 2 and a half (at a generous push). The initial Copacabana-banana holiday optimism had long wore off, even before we had to part with 20euros for wifi that didn't work (except if you hung around in the marble lobby looking like something inbetween a lost child and someone's mislaid mistress).

With me and Gabs both being over-organised, slightly neurotic law students, we had obviously done some research and put together an itinerary so we had planned to visit an amazing secluded beach club called Amante Beach, to watch the sunset from the reknowned Café Mambo and finally to visit a hippy market that I was pretty excited for but neither of us knew much about.

Amante Beach - Near Cala Llonga
We went to Amante Beach club on the first night for a 'movie night' that I had been super excited for since we booked it in May. We reclined on body sized bean bags with soft blankets, a glass of wine and unlimited popcorn. Until the movie came on on the big projected screen, the only light was from candles that adorned the beautiful scene and the amazing natural shine of the moon and the stars reflected on the sea beside us. The only sound was that of the ocean gently washing onto the pebbled shore and the distant murmur of guests dining at the restaurant at the main building. I felt truly relaxed for the first time in months, so much so that by the time the closing titles of 'Goodfellas' rolled onto the screen, I was ready for bed.

The next day we were back there, reclined on beds overlooking our own little slice of the Mediterranean sea, and I felt that horrible feeling creeping up again. Other girls in bikinis and my history of self esteem didn't go so well together, constant comparisons always led to zero self confidence - and I was travelling with an ex-Miss World contestant. But after a couple of days, numerous compliments from the said Miss World contestant, as well as her choosing only the best angles when taking my picture, I was surprised to see that my waist was much smaller than I thought, and my legs maybe weren't that bad after all, for the first time in years on holiday, I felt confident enough to pose for pictures, and god forbid - enjoy myself.

 

Las Dalias Hippy Market - Sant Carles - Saturday & Wednesday

Las Dalias hippy market was heaven on earth for me - imagine if Aladdin's cave, the markets of Morcocco and the colours of Asia had a collision, the after effect would be this place. I was instantly intoxicated, sure it was overcrowded and hot as hell, which probably added to it, but my eyes struggled to take everything in. There was stall upon stall, all lined up, going in different directions and stretching for a good half a mile in total. This place was a mecca for nomads, travellers and the smiling free-spirited. I felt like I had found a home. Colours and patterns adorned the walls, handcrafted goods and jewellery tempted me from every angle and brown-skinned foreigners with dreadlocked hair and wild eyes gazed into my soul. It was here that I learned Ibiza was actually one of the early hippy hotspots of the world, an island of sun, music, psychadelia and undoubtedly, sex. I discovered that the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin at one time both called Las Dalias home and performed there. I read that hippies from the USA arrived in Ibiza and were known as 'Peluts' and found haven there, and I couldn't help but feel a longing in my heart to have been part of that generation.

It was at this point that my perception of Ibiza changed, It was no longer just the crazy, overly-expensive party island - it had an entirely more profound personality. I longed to visit the Island back in the 70s, to walk barefoot on the scorching sand with dreadlocked hair and brown skin, to swim naked in the sea and to be amongst people of my kind, the free ones who are 'mad to live' as Kerouac so perfectly put it.

Café Mambo

So obviously, we had to venture at some point over to San Antonio - who goes to Ibiza and doesn't party? Waiting for us at Café Mambo was a table for two overlooking the best views of the sunset on the island, music good enough for anyone's taste, and a lot of people who were severely intoxicated. By severely intoxicated I mean struggling to function, dancing exuberantly and gurning for Great Britain. Despite my lack of desire to pop pills and party, these people looked like they were having the time of their lives. People of all ages, walks of life, backgrounds, were all here for one reason - to have a good time. Although not of the same mindset - to that I could relate. Ibiza gives off this unescapable vibe of wanting to forget reality - it really is no wonder that the likes of Dylan and Pink Floyd chose this magical island as their retreat.

As our week dwindled down to the final days, we looked forward to heading back to Amante Beach club for our final day in paradise. This, however, was brought to an abrupt halt when Gabs discovered the Island of Formentera whilst flicking through a tourist book at the hotel on one of the last evenings, she passed the book over to me and after reading "waters clearer than the Caribbean" and "The first island of freedom" I was sold. And so that was it, we walked down to the ferry (30 euros each for a return ticket) and we were blasting across the Med on a catamaran with overly-friendly sailors.

Playa De Ses Illetes - Formentera

After disembarking the ferry, and catching the L3 bus to our chosen beach, (8 euros each return but you could walk/cycle it on a budget) we were slightly disheartened by the fact that every inch of the beach seemed to be taken up by overweight alabaster tourists with cameras and coolboxes. We retraced our steps back to a smaller, secluded beach that the crowds had strolled past, and it was here that I felt it.

The sun beat down on us like castaways marooned on paradise. For miles all that lay before and behind us was white sand, golden rock and the ocean of every colour blue. There was the most intense turquoise that just hit your eyeline, which was surrounded by a navy colour hinting at deeper waters, there was sapphire and cyan, teal and azure, every shade of blue lay before me in a sparkling, rippling blanket. I have never been so overwhelmed by a sight. The shallows were perfect pools of liquid glass, so clear you could see all the treasures beneath. I felt as though I had been transported to a different time, where there were less people, and the only hope of survival was to use the fat of the land. It seemed untouched and remote, even with the glittering sea dotted with super yachts, it didn't feel like a playground for the rich to boast of their wealth, it just simply felt like we were all pirates in paradise who had found the treasure. At that moment, I missed the person I knew would appreciate this beauty as much as I would, my soulmate. It was a moment in time where he was supposed to be with me, drinking in natures beauty and not quite believing his eyes.

I couldn't help but feel some sense of impending doom, almost as if I knew it was only a matter of time before a tsunami of tourists swept the place, leaving behind litter, tourist guides and garish umbrellas - then I realised they were all already here, on the next stretch of sand. That gave me a pang in the chest again, one that left me wishing I was on this Island 40 years ago, when the early 'Peluts' descended and found their own private hippy-hideout, when the yachts were just fishing boats, and the tourists were just Spanish locals.

And now, sitting here back in dull old Wales with the exciting prospect of working off my overdraft all summer, I realise that a big part of me belongs in Formentera. It itches to seek out other places like this around the Mediterranean and claim them as my own, who knows, maybe I'll even start my own hippy-writer-musician-surfer refuge for likeminded people and we will all live harmoniously until we are sought out by the authorities or worse - by tourists. I guess the irony here is that I am a tourist attempting to become a local, I haven't up to now really felt like I've belonged anywhere other than in the arms of Kai or on the never-ending road, but a cheap impulsive package holiday might have just led to me finding a home.

 

(All pictures are my own)

The Van Plan

It probably started years ago without me knowing, my desire to rove about, travel, see things, do things and try things. It's a product of my parents, dragging me around France for the summer, as well as all around the UK for the rest of the year, to see medieval towns, churches, beautiful beaches and historic monuments. I enjoyed every second of my childhood, even if there are a few infamous family photos where my sister and I are scowling outside a cathedral or even more dramatically crying halfway up a hill.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt at home on the road. Sleeping in the back of the Landrover on the way down to catch a ferry in Portsmouth as dawn crept upon us has slowly turned into me hopping into my Suzuki swift and racing to the coast, even if just for a couple of days. I feel like it's almost my duty, to continue this journey that my parents started me on, the never ending road trip.

And then, of course, I decided I wanted a camper. It started with an unhealthy obsession for the vintage split screen Volkswagen's, which apparently gave my Dad a headache straight away because he told me that he 'wasn't spending his summer lying on his back underneath one of those rust buckets' - so, with a heavy heart, I realised that wasn't going to work. Then I moved onto the Volkswagen Autosleeper Tridents, which are a ready made camper, produced in the late 80s and early 90s. But it still wasn't exactly what I was looking for. So Dad, being the all seeing, all knowing Dad, who was significantly worn down by my persistent whining, suggested that we find a modern-ish van and convert it.

There were many times I had thought I'd found her, when it turned out it had already been bought, the advert was 2 years old, or that it was a dodgy Irish import. I was beginning to give up hope and ready myself to move on to the next daydream when I found her. Sky blue, a ridiculously low mileage, and just over two hours away. It took a couple of days of relentless 'Can we go and see it?'s and a lot of finger crossing from me that she was still for sale until eventually, on a rainy Wednesday morning, me and Dad hopped in the car and travelled to go and look at her.

Obviously, for me, it was love at first sight. After a test drive and a little haggling with the garage owner, I had put down a deposit and she was mine for £5,800 (which in VW talk for a long wheel base transporter with just over 34,000 miles on the clock, is nothing short of a miracle.)

So, we got her home, and work was started the next day by my dad. He was up, cutting down the ply ready to make way for the windows. I wiped my savings completely out with buying her and so most things bought from here on out are an ongoing debt between me and the ever reliable bank of Dad.

The first thing we discovered was that there was a slight leak coming from somewhere and collecting in the cab underneath the mat, so out everything came for us to investigate. After several hours and plenty of swearing later, Dad and I found a tiny hole under the bonnet on the right hand side, we tested that it was definitely the culprit by firing the hose down and sure enough, the water came trickling down. We sealed this and on we went with the insulation. (For anyone converting a van themselves, the insulation we used was called 'veltrim')

 

 

As we continued with the conversion, I was becoming more and more amazed at just how much Dad knew. Spending this time with him and listening to his methodology has trebled my respect for the man that I already relied on for everything. If anything goes wrong, I ask Dad, if i'm not sure about something, I ask Dad. If something breaks, be it the TV or my delicate excessively priced sandals from Accesorize, I know Dad will be able to fix it. I value him more and more everyday, and I know that I'd be stuck somewhere in a lot of trouble if I didn't have him. 

 

Of course, Dad made sure we both cut out for the windows and fitted them ourselves, (Good prices from a company called Van Demon with the fitting kit too) He bought an air nibbler and some suction handles and we were away. 

 

Carpeting the van gave me the first real insight into what the van was going to look like as a finished product, just knowing that I'm going to be sleeping against that exact carpet when I'm travelling over Europe gives me so much excitement as to what the van is going to see, where its going to go, the meals I'm going to cook, the starry skies I'm going to sleep under. 

 

Being a long-wheel base, the van gives me even more space inside, which straight away means a bigger bed and more living space. Not wanting to be like every other conversion, I'm going for a long bench seat down the side of the van in order to keep my space maximized and also so that when lying in bed, somewhere completely off the grid in Europe, I'll be able to open my big sliding door and look out at the amazing views that she's going to take me to. I took a lot of inspiration when dreaming up my lay out from a van called 'The Rolling Home' and I'd recommend checking the book out if you appreciate beautiful images and travelling. 

 

Despite me feeling like I'm a pretty good driver, like all Dads, mine reassures me that I'm not. In order to help me adjust from driving my little Suzuki swift to a long wheel base van, Dad wired up a reversing camera for me and fitted a touch screen radio which was pretty difficult to find for my particular van as well as bloody expensive. Despite me feeling somewhat useless when I'm watching Dad work, his colourblind-ness allowed me to help him out for a couple of hours when wiring the new radio up. 

Even now, I like to lie on the ply floor in the van and look out of the window, just to imagine what I'll be looking at next summer, and plenty of summers after that, through the very same window. 

 

We fitted new seats that both recline and are slightly comfier than the original ones. These were sourced off ebay and mean that you can also squeeze through the middle of them to access the back without getting out of the van.  

 The next stage of the conversion is to get the bed built and then we can arrange the rest of the layout around this. Once the bed is in, shes sleep-able and I can't wait. Getting the bed welded together will be the only part of the conversion me and Dad haven't done ourselves yet, and although there's still a long way to go, I hope you can see the hard work and love that's gone into it so far. The van as she currently stands is below, and the panels you can see inside are the roof - which needs to be cut so that the spotlights can go though and then covered in a nicer material. We will then need to buy a gel or dry cell leisure battery which will fit under the bed and the floor lining can then go down.

It's been an amazing journey since she came home on the 2nd April, and every time I look at her I know she's raring to go, to see the coast, to travel around the mountains, and to show off the amazing rare sky blue colour that she has been sprayed (she started life a deep red colour and was sprayed by the company who kept her at RAF Waddington, where she was used to transport parts.) But one thing that has happened along that journey, is that I lost one of my travel companions that has been with me for as long as I can remember, all over the country. Floss, our family dog, who was 15, had to be put to sleep. She had a brilliant life though, and so when Dad asked me what I was going to call the van, i knew straight away what to say,

"Floss, so that she can even have more adventures."