Since December 2019 I've been writing the 'Characters of the Cut' column for the Towpath Talk Newspaper. Each month I feature those who live their life on the canals of England and it's always enjoyable and fascinating to write their stories.

Having previously lived afloat for a number of years myself, narrowboating as a way of life is endlessly appealing to me. And by writing about others, it allows me to keep my hand in on this unique lifestyle!

So far I have featured roving traders, artists, signwriters, environmentalists, families in search of a simpler way of life... do visit my Characters of the Cut page to read their stories.

You can also read a few articles about my own narrowboat life, here.

On our last morning in the UK I walk my dogs alone around the two fields near my caravan. I wonder if it will be the last time—ever? Or for some time at least… The long grass is heavy with dew, but still I can make out the well-worn path. My flip-flops feel cumbersome, so I slip them off and walk barefoot.

For me, there is nothing like that feeling of freedom from the ground up. It’s something I work hard to remain connected to—the surge of nature to keep me rooted to what is real. There is nothing more real than the solid world beneath our feet, is there? TV, books, social media—they show us things, inspire, but equally they detach us and allow us to simply become receivers of noise. The force-feeding of ideas and beliefs can play havoc with our true sense of freedom and so, as much as I long to stay connected, I ensure I remain disconnected, too. I try to remember to stand on the earth. Root down. Jump inside my body and mind and say, “Hey, Alice, what are you feeling? Deep down? Truly?”

What I’m feeling right now is discomfort—in this moment of walking barefoot; in this moment of life. I look at my dogs walking ahead and wonder if they too feel each sensation: each thorn, each soft spot. Do long lengths of grass wrap themselves around their toes (paws) trying to catch them out too? Do those same toes feel like individual ice-cubes as we step into the shade? For a moment I walk, feeling little sensation, only an all-consuming coldness and I ponder whether to slip my flip-flops back on. I persevere though, and as I round into the second field, I feel glad because this perseverance has connected me right down to that discomfort again; allowed me to get in touch with myself.

I know I am fearful. I sense I too have been pulled into the panic of this virus. Friends and family express their concern over our packing up and heading off for an unspecified time and I know the worries of my community—the world—have permeated me. But I can’t stop; something drives me forward. The other day I turned to my husband and declared, “I feel like I am sleep-walking into this next chapter and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
​
Things are strange everywhere right now and sometimes it’s hard to make out what is real—what will truly affect—from everything else and so, as focused as I am about following my path, don’t ever think there is not fear. Just as with everyone—choices are sometimes hard-won. The emotional and physical drain: heavy. And sometimes, it is only by walking barefoot—by reconnecting with the solid earth beneath—that the true way becomes clear. It’s not always well-worn or obvious. Sometimes it’s downright prickly and uncomfortable. But often it gives way to softness and moments of sheer delight and I’ll take that, because I believe there can be nothing true that does not bring both discomfort and pleasure. 

For anyone moving to—or dreaming of moving to—rural Portugal I would like to introduce to you my very dear friend, Joana, who has just launched her new business:

Portugal Green Heart

This new venture will see Joana offering Property Finding & Translator services to help you achieve your dream. In addition, she is also available to help businesses with Virtual Assistant and Art Services.

Joana is one of life's warm, kind, genuine people and I feel honoured to have called her my friend for more than a decade. Her passion for promoting rural Portugal is infectious and I know she will inspire you to explore the natural, slow and healthy pace of life to be found there!

Do check out her website for more information and find her on:

Facebook
Instagram

and here is a little photo of us together back in 2013!

My daughter has now turned 13 and I can hardly quite believe it. There are days when I long for my little baby, yet I remind myself that I have enjoyed every moment as much as possible. But still, time passes and I can't help but want to slow it down a bit.

Noting down some feelings about this stage—this stage of home-educating a teenager—I decided to send them to Ross Mountney. I've enjoyed sharing our home-educating journey on her blog over the years and you can read my latest post here:

Reflections on the Early Years

Ross's writings on home-educating are an inspiration and comfort to many and I always recommend her books to those dipping their toe in!

I have been sharing my story on Instagram in recent months… just working through a kind of potted history of my life so that people following can grasp who I am quickly in a series of short posts. It’s been quite a fun process, to ponder on the junctures in time that have most shaped me and to get those thoughts into a succinct 2,200 characters! I thought it would be nice to collate them all together here… I’ll add more as I write more.
 
Part 1: From the age of eight I grew up on an estate of straight roads and roundabouts in the centre of the new town of Milton Keynes. At one end of my street was a bridge leading to a mirrored mile-long indoor shopping centre and at the other, a path to a long-forgotten wood; a left over relic of an age before. This wood is the place that nurtured in me a love of nature. It was my quiet space, a place I could belong. Somewhere where nothing was expected of me, where I didn’t have to decipher feelings, instead I could just be. 
 
For me, seeking out time in nature means the melting away of everything: all tension, frustration, feelings of being overwhelmed by expectation and instead, giving myself over completely to the mountains, forest, sea – whatever it may be. It has always been a physical thing, a palpable slowing down of heart and mind. My body, coiled and tightly woven, slowly unravels, eases and unfurls. 

Throughout my life I have gone-a-wandering in order to attain this feeling because despite making conscious efforts to switch off, opt out, retreat from the incessant noise of everyday life, I still find myself submersed on occasion – rushed along with the tide – and always it has been my ability to disappear for a while that has kept me balanced. 
 
Sometimes it is still that snatched hour in the woods, but other times I need to go further, for longer, to achieve that sense of solace. To seek out the quiet and a place where I can think, undisturbed and un-swayed by the relentless drenching of the world out there. In nature there is space to be open, creative and unabashed, to let go of irritations and angers, escape judgment and feelings of inadequacy and when I am in that world - wholeheartedly submersed - I am free.
 
Part 2: When I left school at 16 I had no idea what to do, I knew only that I loved art and that it was one of the few subjects I did well at in my exams. I had a creative, wild mind that wanted to be challenged, excited, inspired... and so it was that I went to art college, but within a month that little journey was over. I felt stifled by the lack of individuality, controlled by the herding of creativity. I wanted to live; truly live, wild and free, so it’s no surprise that I chose love and music as alternative avenues for artistic expression – fuelled by a 9-5 secretarial apprenticeship – over the classroom. 

It was a crazy few years until my early 20s, where I lived the exciting and intoxicating life that happens in those hours when others are sleeping, but always – always – it was meshed together with taking myself out into nature even though, outwardly, that was not the world I was inhabiting. Something about the wide open sky, rippling water and overhanging trees where I would park my bike on the way home from work and lay for a while, alighted in me the ability to dream about the world and all its places and people.
 
“Let’s give up our jobs and flat and bus our way around Spain” I said with energy and excitement, but this wasn’t how it was to be and my dreams were shushed, so instead I would go from work to the library and devour books about people and place and observe the desire for more, begin to take root in my heart. It had been fun, living for the music, the night, the love... but it was no longer enough and so it was that through a chain of changes, I ended up at 23 on my way to Japan for six months. 

The new sights and smells played havoc with my senses... ramen noodles cooked ferociously for impatient businessmen in backstreet restaurants where grease and smoke clung to the air with a heavy sweetness, twilight strolls through Kyoto where Geisha girls moved hurriedly along cobbled alleyways, heads bowed. My hunger to see new corners of the world was finally being fed and I felt inspired and excited and... ALIVE.
 
Part 3: Six months in Japan confirmed to me that there was a world beyond what I had known, and I was hungry for more. I felt alive with possibilities and returned to my hometown with a spring in my step and a belief that I would get to my next adventure.

It was a dinner with ex work colleagues that eventually set me on a new course. “What job would you do if you could do anything” was the question and when it came to me I said, “travel writer”. Everyone laughed, “how on earth could you do that?” For a few minutes I felt embarrassed as I hadn’t told any of these people about my writing, but I proceeded to tell them that I’d just walked my way around London posting some of my published-in-the-local-newspaper snippets through the doors of travel magazines asking for a job (none replied). They all thought I was bonkers; all but one and sometimes, one is all you need.

As it turned out, the daughter of one lady had come along to the meal and she worked in the admin department of a company that published travel guides. “Let me put your CV forward” she said and a few months later, after an utterly nerve-wracking interview and training process where I felt completely out of my depth, I landed my dream job.

Canada, America, Thailand, Austria, Italy, Denmark, Greece… the list goes on. I travelled my way around these places with a backpack, notepad and pen, and a computer to type things onto at the end of each day. There was no phone, internet connection, satnav (yes I am that old) and it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
 
When I eventually moved on from this job they said, “if your CV hadn’t come with a recommendation that you were truly passionate for this, we would have binned it at the first round for lack of degree and yet, you’ve become one of the best we’ve had.”  The lesson to take from this, I think, is: shout loud, be proud of who you are and what you want, know that you are worthy of your dreams and believe you can achieve them, because you just never know who is listening and taking notice of your unique, passionate self.
 
Part 4: By age 27 it was deemed by those around me as time to quit the travel writing job and ‘settle down’. As any wanderluster knows, this is not a phrase that sits well but, sometimes loved ones can overpower our thoughts… and I was lost, flailing about trying to form a picture of what a free-spirited life might look like and at times, acknowledging that the vision felt scary.

Settling down meant safety, didn’t it? It meant marrying my good solid boyfriend and having children. It meant the security of a nice two-up, two-down. It was what everyone around me was aiming for. This was it! So why did I feel empty when I considered that scenario?

It took a lot of dithering and heartache before I found the courage to say, “NO, this isn’t for me.” What I wanted was to be free: to walk, fly, take train rides, camp out under the stars, live in vans or on the side of mountains. I had no real plan, I knew only what my heart was hungry for and that I had to find a way to live that wouldn’t quash those desires.

But, like most people trying to follow their hearts, there are crappy times where you give up because, frankly, the what-you-know option feels like the easier option. So renting a room in a shared house and working a temporary office job I hated, was not the scenario in which I imagined meeting my now husband. But meet him I did and 17 years later, here we are.

In him I discovered my dare-to-dream-soulmate and within a year or so we were travelling to a Greek Isle to buy a little house in a village on a hill. This became the place to which we would return with our baby daughter, where we would marry and have a good ole’ party, dancing barefoot in our favourite restaurant to the tunes of a local bouzouki band. It was the starting place of our wandering family life; a life I had been led to believe wasn’t possible. But that’s how it started... and if there’s anything I would share from my experiences it would be: TRUST IN YOUR HEART. It’s not always easy and sometimes, honestly... it leads you in messy directions, but it is always exciting and energising and challenging and all.those.things.that.make.life... LIFE!

Part 5 to follow... #aliceisinwanderlandhistory

It’s 7am in the morning; dark skies and mizzly rain were not what we were hoping for. My husband, Scott, is rushing around in the stables with a headtorch on fishing out his toolboxes, our packed up awning, a chest of draws from my childhood and a table made by his Grandad, so they can be stored in our caravan that we leave here on this Buckinghamshire farm whenever we go away wandering.
 
Ideally the furniture would be in storage, but we can’t afford a storage unit big enough because already we’re taking money out of savings to pay for the small space we do have for our keepsakes. As tensions build and I get cross at Scott because he’s telling me to tip the sofa cushions up so he can pass things in - as if I’m not doing anything at all to help - I feel overwhelmed with our life and not for the first time, I imagine the simplicity of a 9-5 with a house and running hot water.
 
Our daughter, Isabella, is already nestled in our loaded car with the two dogs. At almost 13 and having spent her whole life packing up and un-packing to accommodate our travelling lifestyle, she knows now that the best thing to do in these moments is sit it out in the car. I trail back and forth, in and out, with last-minute bits, ‘I can’t fit this bag in the car’ I shout to Scott whilst simultaneously trying to slam shut the boot in frustration. I can almost look down on myself and see my eyes rolling, can feel the agitation that I’m directing towards him for no other reason than I’m tired and overwhelmed with the fact that despite supposedly being good at living with little, we still seem to have too much stuff. I want to stop myself, to slap myself and tell myself to stop being a petulant child trying to shove the blame, but there is nobody else to direct this frustration at. Our family and friends have no sympathy; this is the life we choose and rightly so, but when I think of all the delightful #vanlife and #simpleliving posts on Instagram, this scene is not what immediately springs to mind.
 
It’s hard being a travelling family, never quite staying put long enough for roots to take hold, never knowing where you might be from one month to the next, never knowing where your next pay cheque is coming from. The packing up and packing down is endlessly exhausting and at times I’m so angry at myself: angry for not being able to just get on, for the fact that I bore easily and never quite feel like I’m living if I’m not pushing myself to do something on the edge. As we finally close the boot and lock up the caravan door I know I should feel ecstatic relief, but instead I feel longing as we drive by the big houses in the village with warm welcoming lights on as people eat their healthy breakfasts before hopping in the car with their nice hair-dos and fancy clothes and going off to work. I want to feel release, but I don’t. Instead I immediately start outwardly panicking to Scott, reeling off the monthly outgoings we’re having to pay for, the storage, caravan, blah blah blah and knowing that my meager current earnings as a writer will only just cover this. ‘How will we pay for food? How are we going to live?’ I bemoan pitifully.
 
Scott stops me straight, he’s always good at that. I’m a blatherer, a day-dreamer, I get myself in an anxious tizz quite easily when it comes to mundane everyday stuff and he’s my leveler. ‘Look’ he says in a calm but firm voice, ‘we’ve made the decision to do this. We’ve made the decision not to get jobs and buy a house, not to get another boat. We’ve made the decision to keep going with this life and to go on this adventure, so let’s try and enjoy it, not talk ourselves out of it before it’s even begun’. I feel reprimanded, but know that he’s right. We had sat together and said we’d rather take money out of our savings pot to do something that feels right - right now - than take the safe option and try and do something a bit more settled.
 
Walking 994 miles to Portugal was a mad idea that I had back in December ‘why don’t we just walk back?’ I said flippantly as we talked about perhaps returning to a little village where we had recently spent a month in our camper, ‘we’ll walk back and rent a place and see what happens’. It all seemed so easy then, to just say it and then suddenly the dream takes shape and all the reasons why we want to do this snowball like; we might not have another perfect time like this again. Our older dog might not even want to be pushed in a buggy in another year, Isabella may want to stay put to study for something and and and… so we said sod it, we’ll spend the money and we’ll have an adventure! But right now, right here in this car, I’m thinking of how the hell we’re going to do it. It all feels too big, too scary, too unknown and whilst I’m trying to believe and listen only to Scott’s voice, my inner voice is panicking and I know outwardly I look frantic.
 
Then out of the piles of dog blankets and bags and food in the back of the car, pipes up Isabella in a funny long drawn-out voice, ‘all we need is each other’ and I see the white star glint on her teeth as if she’s in an American advertising campaign. We all laugh hysterically and it’s enough… It’s enough to remind me that life is short, that we are going on an adventure, that no – it’s not perfect and that yes, it would be nice to have a bit more money or less crap to store, but we’re doing it. We’re going on a walking adventure and we’re all together and we love each other and that after 12 years of wandering as a family in campers, caravans, narrowboats, volunteering and working and learning and growing, we’re taking it to the next level. We’re challenging ourselves even more and we’re going to find out how nice or horrible people are and we’re going to get to know ourselves even better and we’re going to delve deep, we’re going to connect and it’s true, we only need each other.

994 miles doesn’t seem like that far, when you break it down…
 
As a writer/researcher for a travel guide – way back when – I walked everywhere and would plan for around 1 mile every 15 mins. So, by that reckoning (and maybe my maths is bad)…

But given the fact I’m now in my mid-40s, certainly less fit and therefore probably can’t keep the pace of a mile every 15 minutes (and my husband falls into that category too), plus the fact that our 12-year-old daughter won’t want to keep that pace… and then add to that our two dogs – one of whom is nearly 14 (and when not walking will be pushed in an adapted mountain buggy) and the fact that we’re not planning to walk continuously every day, my thinking when I woke up in the early hours back in December consumed with the idea of WALKING… was that we could probably walk the 994 miles between Vimoutiers (the town in Normandy, France where we will leave from) and Penela, (a little town in Portugal that we’ll be aiming for) in around two to three months.
 
One foot in front of the other… slowly… how hard can it be?
 
I have dreamt of doing something like this for so long I can’t even remember… since I first read about Laurie Lee, who one sunny day in 1935 left his Cotswold village to walk to Spain, or Patrick Leigh Fermor who walked from Rotterdam to Constantinople in 1933, or Robyn Davidson who walked across Australia in 1977. 

The list goes on.
 
For me there is something so freeing about just walking. It’s time for the mind to uncoil, the body to unwind and feel connected: to landscape; to those we walk with.
 
It’s liberating to have nothing but a tent to sleep in, a small fire to cook on and a stream to wash in… but alas, I act as if I know about this day after day, night after night, when I don’t – and that’s the problem. I don’t want to not know anymore… I want to understand what it feels like to walk across a whole country, I want to soar with the eagles in the Pyrenees instead of just driving through the cuttings made by humans and I want to push myself through difficulties and feel real achievement.

I want to truly live in this present moment.
 
There is never a right time, I’ve come to realise. There is always something that isn’t quite right… but I just can’t wait another year. My husband is up for it, my daughter – on the verge of being a teenager – is eager to go on an adventure and considering that back in October I found myself crying because she was growing too fast and too far; it seems like a gift to spend this time together, doing something utterly life-changing.
 
So, that’s it. I’ve said it out loud. To myself, to my family, to YOU and that means it’s a dream set in motion, that I can’t now not go through with it and so I’m thinking of that number ~ 994 ~ and wondering what might happen in there - in those miles underfoot - and I’m excited and terrified and inspired and sick with fear.
 
But I’m going to do it, because life is so damn short and I can’t stand the thought of not trying, of not having a go.
 
I’m going to (attempt to) walk 994 miles to Portugal. ​

​A decade gone, a new one to begin and somehow it feels far more momentous than I had even really given thought to… to look back over ten years and think ‘what has it all been about; what will it all be about’ is quite something and it feels important to note down where I went, what I felt.
 
I remember back to the start of 2010 when, after returning from travels we sought to find a new way of living in the UK. We bought our first boat, renovated it and lived on the fringes glowing in the happiness that was discovering a world within a world. It was the year I first explored my local home-ed community, taking my then three-year-old daughter to a meet up where teenagers and toddlers played together, sloshing around in a muddy pond, talking with passion and liveliness and I thought, ‘we could do this’. We travelled to Norway to stay in a remote cabin with a four hour round walk to the shop, we camped our way through Germany, Belgium and The Netherlands. We spent sunny afternoons lounging on the towpath and the coldest winter I can remember, frozen in from November to January with no water and just the sound of ice cracking around our beds.
 
2011 was the year that felt tightened, where we bought a camper for trips around England to temper my flighty spirit. I tried hard to stay put and for a while it was important and necessary, to care for my best friend, but once she was better the familiar flutterings couldn’t be tamed and by the beginning of 2012 I was driving to Italy with my daughter to volunteer on a farm in the Appenine Mountains. It was here that I first began to explore my journey from vegetarian to vegan as I saw things up close and personal. It was here that I knew I simply couldn’t settle for just one kind of life.
 
In 2013, with a need to get away, to switch off, to inspire myself, I turned to my husband and said ‘I want to ask my Dad to go on a trip with me’ and he replied, ‘then do it, you might not get another opportunity’ and when I now look at my aging parents, I understand the preciousness of that experience. Me, my six-year-old daughter and my 74-year-old Dad, a plane to the bottom of Spain and a journey across and up by train and bus into Portugal… Notebooks filled with scribbles about life and loss and love and all that good stuff that is the fabric of a person that if we don’t write it down now, will unravel and be lost forever.
 
That trip led to the taking off once again of a family in a van… we travelled the UK, we travelled south: to beaches and forests, mountains and olive groves. We lived in a cabin near Carcassonne until we realised that for our daughter, it wasn’t enough and so 2014 became a tale of two halves… of trying to balance a life between another boat in the UK to suit her needs and the open road to suit all of us. It was driving north to south and back again, it was sleeping in our car in the Pyrenees, it was travelling by boat from Milton Keynes to Wales and back again, it was dusty tracks and watery roads, it was the nurturing of friendships and the blossoming of hearts.
 
By 2015 we had found a place to rest in Portugal - our quiet quinta - and so we continued the back and forth never knowing quite where we belonged or if we even needed to. It was chestnuts and horseriding, wild Welsh beaches and cityscapes, cooking on fires, here there and everywhere and then it was the longing for water again and by 2016 we were travelling from North to South on a narrowboat that had once been a floating hotel, to re-connect with our own country, our own people. Ourselves.
 
2017 saw more camper travels but hiccups and drama meant tiredness and apathy for our wandering life – it seemed the road was against us at every turn and the exhaustion pulled us down. We sold our dream in Portugal, breathed deeply in Andalusia at a place that is so special to us it’s hard to put into words and than in 2018 we ran back to lick our wounds in the UK close to those who needed us; and whom we felt we needed. The North York Moors became my blank page, where I could walk barefoot and write out endless sentences in my head without a soul to cloud those words. Where I could explore the meaning of family, the meaning of rootedness, the meaning of home.
 
2019… well, that’s just been about the journey within. It’s been – without my even realising it – the launch pad to a new decade. It’s the year I focused on yoga and healing whilst friend-hopping around Spain and Portugal with my daughter. The year I finally lived in the Scottish Highlands and it's the year we took a few months out in (another!) motorhome to recover from personal summer struggles and health issues, seeking out old friends and sharing many healing meals around many tables. It's the year we stumbled upon an amazing community in Portugal, a place we see ourselves going back to, but overall, 2019 has been the year that I made bigger decisions about my life, about who . I . really . am. 

Sometimes you have to go to places you don’t want to, uncover truths that are painful, to make decisions about what you really need and so I’ve let people gently fall away from me this year and I’ve sought out those who I know nourish me, reaching out for their love, support and encouragement. I’ve realised that blood is not always thicker and that that’s OK.
 
I’ve realised that I am OK.
 
So a decade… what does it mean? I’ve lived in France, Wales, England, Portugal, Scotland, Spain; in boats, caravans, campervans, cabins, cottages, tents and houses. I’ve taken myself away to be quiet, to reconnect. I’ve been in the thick of it, laughing around tables, sharing food and conversation. I’ve watched the most bouncy, fun-loving happy little girl evolve into an-almost-teenager who has an untameable spirit and an unstoppable passion that I know I helped ignite and I’ve never felt more proud of anything in my life. The dog that turned four in 2010 is now almost 14 and that makes me sad, but also incredibly lucky and of course, I’ve become Mum to another little pooch, sent to shake things up a bit I reckon. I’ve realised that I can commit, to a man I have loved for 16 years and that; THAT is home.
 
I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, I’ve screamed, I’ve fallen down, I’ve got back up again and I’ve FELT the beating heart of life all around me.
 
Some might say I’m scatty, unable to stick at anything, lost or just plain confused. I say I’m living. I’m just trying to find my way and when I sit here now; writing, reflecting, I think – how could it ever be any other way? There is a world out there. There are people just waiting to be met, experiences to be lived. How can I not have a hunger for it?
 
And so, 2020 is about clear vision. It’s about more adventures and whilst I can see what I’m aiming for with clear intentions, I’m not naïve enough to think I won’t be pulled off track along the way. And that’s OK… it’s all OK… because if I can reach 2030 with as much to look back on, as many smiles to re-live, as many great people to call my friends and with a continued openness to new ideas and willingness to work on myself, then I’ll take it.
 
Wishing anyone reading this a wonderful 2020 filled with amazing adventures and healing energies. May you have the strength to take leaps of faith, to try things and not worry about if they don't work out, because they ALWAYS work out as they should in the end. And may you believe in yourself, know that you are amazing and good enough for whatever it is you want to be or do.

May 2020 be the year we all strive for that which is important to us, without fear of anything at all. 

Exhausted from a broken night’s sleep in our van due to the relentless hum of an adjacent building, the morning sun lifts our spirits gently as we stroll down towards the Rio Tejo.
 
As we near the water there is a beautiful garden in bloom; bright orange flowers to the backdrop of higgledy-piggledy aged-terracotta tiles atop a crumbling white-washed cottage, and another, and another… all staggered downwards toward this magnificent body of water. We peer over the wall of the garden and spy neat rows of vegetables, trees laden with fruit and flowers bursting from pots and crevices.
 
The owner of the garden – his shirt front soaked with sweat, strong arms pulling an aged wheelbarrow behind – wanders slowly around the corner. He smiles at our admiration, lowers his barrow, removes his grubby straw hat and wipes his tanned forearm against a glistening brow.
 
He is slow, methodical, his soft voice like balm. “Falar Português?” he questions… and so we speak. With small sentences broken by actions he tells us how he has lived here for 24 years, at peace, happy. I envy his love for – his utter comfort with – being here now, perhaps forever. He talks about rain coming and how water from the mountains passes by his house like a torrent down to the river providing plenty of nourishment for his abundant garden. Mimicking rowing a boat down to the bank, we all laugh.
 
I could have stood with him for hours: his patience with our Portuguese, the mesmerising softness of his manner, the happiness that comes from standing in the glow of someone in love, and as I walked away I wondered if I might ever be lucky enough to find a place I love that much, a place to make me stay.