I’m not quite sure where to start, so I’ll just start.
Life has been tough this past year. I cared for my mum and then she died. Just three weeks later my 34-year-old niece died, too.
In the throws of unimaginable grief, my dad went into hospital and thus followed months of caring for him. I can’t even begin to express the stress of trying to walk through six months, grieving for two people I was close to, who I spoke to on the phone every few days, whilst making endless phonecalls, writing numerous emails, chugging up and down the motorway to give 24hr care, and fighting to get my dad what he needed.
To add to that there was the sorting and packing up of the family home for sale, whilst simultaneously moving myself and my own family from the Highlands of Scotland (where we were previously cosy in our yurt), back to the South of England and onto a narrowboat that was riddled with teething problems—no running water, no electricity, cooking by head torch, you get the idea—so that we could be closer to the support network our daughter (our sweet daughter, who is always bubbly and happy but who, despite outward appearances, has felt these tragic losses very, very keenly) so needed.
And all of us, frankly.
In the middle of all this I got sick. Really sick. For a month.
I can’t quantify the emotional heartache, the physical toll, so I won’t try. But needless to say, since I crashed at the end of December as my dad finally settled into his new flat and recovered, most of my hair has fallen out, I suffer with what feels like physical pain, and some days I struggle to find joy.
Other days I do discover it, of course, by focusing on the small things.
My days look like this:
I don’t put any more pressure on myself, and seeing other people? I just can’t right now. It’s not because I don’t love friends, or that people haven’t been sweet souls, it’s just I don’t have the energy for conversation. And here’s the thing: people offer so much when you first face the death of loved ones but within a few months I feel my own unsaid rule descend, that I shouldn't be still whining on about how low I'm feeling.
Yet grief—real grief—for me, has come six months after the losses. This could be partly because I didn’t have a choice but to plough on for my dad, my daughter… But it could also be that we can’t process—don’t want to process—loss, until much later. That’s when, one day, six months on, you wake up in the night with grief tearing at your insides and you don’t know how to stop it from dragging you down. And yes, I know people die every day, and people contend with unbelievable traumas in every.single.moment, and I’m lucky to be here! But when something is clawing at you, you can’t always fend it off no matter that insight. Right now I also think things are compounded with the loss I feel for the life we once had. Our life of freedom, of travelling Europe in a van pre-Brexit and pre-Covid. As well as processing the absolute stress I put my body through last year. Ooof, life heh!
But the one thing (aside from work, walks, family time) that helps, is writing. And not Instagram posts, I’ve found. But real, intentional, heartfelt writing. The kind of writing that might belong on a blog. Which people take the time to visit only when they truly want to read your words. So I’ve decided to pour my thoughts into blog posts, and my time into working on short stories, poetry, articles, as well as working through the first draft of an old (unpublished) book with a red pen.
An acquaintance demonstrated pretty much how I feel about social media right now after they “liked” an image of my niece. A few days later in a message exchange, they said, “Oh, I didn’t realise she died, I just liked the picture.”
What have we become?
I’m done—for a while anyway—with scrolling, swiping, liking. I need something more nourishing. I’m longing for the more heartfelt connections of the blogging world that once was. Is it still out here? On my first foray back into some blogs I once enjoyed, it seems there is a similar feeling floating around, which excites me because I need to be nourished by words. And, right now, I need this space. A place to hold my messy, grammatically incorrect but RAW thoughts. A place that might not always be pretty, but is my place to say what I like.
Even writing this now. Hammering at the keys. Letting it all pour out. Goodness, I had forgotten how freeing and therapeutic blogging was! Back in the days when we didn’t care if editors were loitering. And no, I’m not saying we can’t make meaningful and wonderful connections on social media—of course we can! It’s just that scrolling to get to the essence is tiring. And I’m tired already.
Maybe some of you are out there still. Maybe not. But I’ll be here, and on my newsletter, sharing snippets of life.
I’m pretty certain future posts won’t be as rambling as this one, but when it’s been a while and you know you have to say something but you’re not entirely sure how to say it, bashing it out feels good.
So thank you to anyone who has read this far, for allowing me the space to empty my mind.
I think I’ve just fallen back in love with blogging.
The smell of woodsmoke on a dank late afternoon, eerie plumes snaking their way across the darkening canal like thoughts I no longer want emptying from my mind.
Wet ropes, cold fingers, old gloves—there is no fashion show needed.
The joy of leaping from deck to towpath, easing our hulk of a home to its mooring. Metal on metal rings through the air as I bash pins in; the delicious weight of mallet in hand.
Looking around at the view — a new view, every day if the fancy takes you — and spying a "sunshine" tree right outside our window.
Being rocked to sleep as a boat passes slowly in the darkening night. Waking to watch the sunshine tree come to life at first light.
The sound of ice cracking around my ears in winter, fish and ducks nibbling at the waterline in spring and summer, the raining down of magical leaves in autumn.
Reflecting in the watery ripples that soothe my mind.
Then there is the shunting, rocking, manouvering - the throwing of ropes, jumping to other boats, ducking to tie up; slipping on mud.
Mud. Mud. Mud.
The smell of a boatyard—heavy, oily, like my dad's workshop—the cheery faces, "just chuck us a fiver mate."
And the peace. Always the peace.
The taking ourselves off to the countryside where we watch the sliver of a moon appear and disappear behind cloud, our gaze stretched across endless fields—from pitch black to orange glow.
But being in that glow if we want. And after the year we have had, perhaps that's the main reason afterall:
A home that moves, so we can be close to loved ones as we need and wish.
Nothing can replace our beautiful Highland hideaway - our yurt in the stone circle. But at least we experienced it, no matter for how short a time. And if there is anything I have learned this year, it's that our time here can be short so we must grasp every opportunity and absorb it with utter delight, yet not be afraid to leap as needed.
So now; now it's back to boats, to living afloat. And trying to write words again that right now feel jarred—lost somewhere in the depths of my mind but somehow, slowly finding their way out, albeit in mixed-up ways.
I walk early, before the world wakes. I want to stride out and feel nothing but joy for the hedgerows brimming with summer flowers and grasses that wave; knowingly. But instead I saunter silently, my beloved four-legged friend by my side, methodically plodding.
We learn from our friends—both animal and human—and right now I am open to receive those lessons: to slow, listen, be kind to myself.
Some days I do yoga in a daze, looking out to the green with a hunger to feel something. Anything. I fall asleep in meditations, lost to lingering longings. On other days I bounce and smile and laugh, gulping up each drop of delight.
Because life’s like that. Isn’t it?
And so I am grateful for friends who share this journey. For souls who dig deep, see beyond all that we—all of us—put on display. Friends who welcome and share, who do not hide behind walls for protection. For friends who are open and honest, wild and free; who give their love without question.
But mostly, today, I am grateful for the most loyal friend of all, and the walks we still get to share, no matter how slow.
Words: 1 July 2021
Photo: June 2009, French Pyrenees.
And so it is, that I went away and then came back—both on screen, and in reality. And both leaving and returning at times feel like being submerged in water, gasping for air as the onslaught of expectations, responsibilities, ideas and thoughts drown out all sound.
So when I can I have been sitting here, quietly staring out. Sometimes in tune, sometimes so out of tune I’m not sure where I belong anymore.
I miss the road. I miss the freedoms I took for granted. I miss being able to run away when I need to. I miss those first few delicious moments that can stretch into months, when you travel slowly. Those moments where everything is new and clean—like snow—with no mistakes.
But I know we cannot always run. Sometimes we must sit; sit with the heaviness of what is required and expected. Sit with the parts of ourselves we do not care to remember, or sometimes even dislike. Sit with all the junk this stirs up in our minds and try to make some kind of sense.
Sit and simply be until something takes shape beneath restless feet.
We are right where we need to be—I keep telling myself this. And right now I am here in this space online, here in this circular space looking out, with my oldest dog pressed against my side following a mini-stroke and, when I can be, I find myself by the side of my poorly mum, too.
And I’m sometimes happy, sometimes sad, sometimes calm, sometimes mad…but here all the same.
I sit on a stone from a long time past, hands cold as my fingers dance up and down the recorder. Dried gorse rages the fire into life and our friends walk from across the way, smiling through the dark to Highland Mary.
The moon glows in her halo of gold—of cold—and looks down knowingly. The pitch black sky stretches out across the glen; wide and open, long, and filled with possibility. But we… we sit in the warm embrace of this circle of trees, this circle of stones; a circle that has called us home.
Juliette de Bairacli Levy (a herbalist and wanderer I greatly admire) once said that wherever she travelled there was always a little corner of land, or a simple home, available to her. Well it seems our joyful (yet unexpected) return to this croft in the Highlands of Scotland, has brought us to a corner where we can now rest our own weary feet a while.
As Juliette also said:
“Every land has its own special rhythm, and unless the traveler takes the time to learn the rhythm, he or she will remain an outsider there always.”
It has been a while since we have felt the pull to root down, but now the feeling is so strong that as I write this my heart feels light and fluttery, yet my feet—grounded. This land is special and I am awed every day as we walk through winter in her embrace. Trees call to me, earth grasps me, and the sky envelopes me. We are still travellers, but here we are, ready to throw down anchor long enough that we may know and learn the rhythms of this Highland space.
We have come to rest a while; the land says so.
And so that means a dwelling, one fit for these nomadic hearts that so long to stay connected with the earth. One befitting this circle of ancient stone and tree, where robins dwell and hearts swell; where all feels drawn from each corner of our life, towards this central point. So we asked,
“But what shall we live in dear circle?”
And she replied, “Why, a house of sticks of course!”
Driving into the Cairngorms on a day of snow and spectacular skies, we visited a man about a yurt and now the course of our life has taken shape and we have never been more glad, more excited, more in tune.
As poems flow this Burns night
As music dances in our circle
We know we have come to rest
Amongst this land and people.
There is a deeper whisper
There is a hidden call,
And if you listen carefully
It says, “Here you are home.”
And so this Highland Glen
And so this Northern sky
Upon and beneath
We will rest a while.
The other day an interview I took part in twelve years ago was brought to my attention. I ended it by saying,
“I don’t fear change; I embrace it. Whatever happens it will always lead to something else and I never want to live my life wondering what would have happened ‘if’ … the day I don’t follow that if, is the day I will feel that I’m not really living.”
Wise words from my younger self, and so we are embracing this unexpected change and throwing ourselves wholeheartedly into log cabin extensions (facilities) and a yurt base, ready for the arrival of our new home in the spring.
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.
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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.
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and here is a little photo of us together back in 2013!
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)…
994 miles divided by 4 (4mph) = 248 hours.
Divide that by 6 (average hours walked per day) = 41 days.
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.
Driving the road we felt ourselves lean into each bend and curve, felt our ears pop as we edged higher and higher… me and my girl, journeying to find the end of the road. I needed to find the end of the road because for a change, I wanted to be somewhere. No onwards, no through, just the destination.
When we reached the silent village teetering between mountains I immediately pulled a chair outside the front of the tiny schist cottage we were renting and let the sun warm my face. I could hear nothing but the tuneful bells that rang every hour and the sound of a breeze blowing through the pine trees.
Shortly, an elderly lady strolled by in a black shift dress, jumper, wellies and a hat pulled down firmly over her sun-darkened face. A bucket of greens swung in her right hand and her mouth sang a happy “Boa tarde”.
I smiled and thought, ‘this is just what we need: Silence. Gentleness. Simplicity.’
When you live at the end of the road it seems that nothing else matters because all life is where you are, and why go backwards? As I watched daily life unfold I wondered if I could live in such a place; if I might ever find myself contented at the end of a road.
One evening by the light of the Wolf Moon we opened the door to traditional singers who sang happy words whilst thumping a paper drum, holding out a cloth bag for pennies. Neighbours leant out of top floor windows to shower down coins and we stood, mesmerised, watching and listening as they trailed through the village along the narrow cobbled streets.
The following afternoon as we walked our dogs around the surrounding hills we came across an old lady dressed all in black walking up the winding road back to the village, a two-foot pile of cabbage leaves tied to her head. We walked together for a while and with our combined Portuguese and Spanish abilities I discovered that she was 82. When I remarked on how fit she was she told me it was the mountain air that kept her strong and stopped in the middle of the road to do a sprightly little wiggle, arms and thick-fingered hard-working tanned hands outstretched, her face beaming.
As I look around I see people that are always striving for so much more: more belongings, more speed, more space, more likes, more filling-in-of-time and so many of us are always pondering as to if we – and our life – is enough.
It seemed to me during my time in a village that the map told me was the end of the road, that enough is that which keeps us sprightly, makes us smile, and it seems that perhaps it is found when the road reaches its final destination and we stop, look around and say: ‘this end of the road will do for me.’
In February 2022 I moved my blog to Substack. There you will find weekly writings (with audio option also), plus you can sign up to have them delivered direct to your inbox.
I hope you will join me there!
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