finding Dubrovnik (2018)

The view of the medieval city walls was quite different to how it had looked the day before, when they’d walked its perimeter over several hours, taking in, from above, the maze of narrow cobbled alleyways within.  The old town had suffered its fair share of conflict over the centuries, not least of which the bombardment in the early 90s, when over two-thirds of the historic town’s buildings were hit by artillery during the break up of Yugoslavia. It took a UNESCO led initiative to reconstruct the town back to its former splendour, its turbulent history sand-blasted out of the stone, topped with new terracotta tiles adorning the roofs.

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However for the first time in history, the city walls had themselves received over one hundred direct hits, and from their new vantage point, the scars were there to see.

The opportunity to see the city from the sea was too good to miss, despite the reservations of her girlfriend who had envisaged a rather more relaxing break in the sun.  So, it was not without some trepidation (neither of them having even set foot in a canoe before), they took to the water, under the watchful eye of their tour guide and the rest of the group, far younger and rather intrigued by the sight of two women who should have known better giggling their way out into the bay, struggling to control the direction of their unruly kayak.

Once they’d fathomed how to synchronise their strokes, they’d settled into an easy rhythm, unwilling to admit to their aching backs and knees, sore arms and sunburnt faces tingling with the salty spray.  It wasn’t for the faint hearted, and 3 hours in, paddling against the current, getting back to the safety of the harbour was no mean feat for even experienced kayakers.  And wet didn’t even begin to describe the state of their underwear – perhaps wet suits would have been a better idea! But they did it, and did not embarrass themselves by floating unchecked towards the horizon (it happened) or falling overboard (that happened too)!

And they managed to keep up with the kids! So, in the end, it’s all about perspective!  Like the town wall, they might have been showing signs of having been around for a while, but they’d lived to fight another day!

 

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finding the Northern Lights (2018)

“Life is a choice. It is YOUR life. Choose consciously, choose wisely, choose honestly.  Choose happiness”

(Brionnie Ware, The Top Five Regrets of the Dying)

A new chapter had begun. A page turned.

She’d left a job of the last thirteen years to take another that, she hoped, would give her a better quality of life.  It was a time for change. It felt like the stars were aligned … and she was feeling brave.

Feeling brave is feeling empowered, and so, in that precious week of freedom between leaving one job and starting the next, she pushed her boundaries just that little bit more and booked a flight to the northern most parts of Norway to follow a life long dream to see the northern lights.

Research shows that to stand the best chance of seeing them, there needs to be darkness, and lots of it.  And the best way to find that is to head just about as far north as civilisation allows, to a tiny city called Tromso.  Linked to the main land by a elegant arched bridge, the island of Tromsoya is located over 200 miles north of the Arctic Circle,  where, during the polar night lasting from November to January, the sun does not rise at all.

The darkness apart, never having been a skier, she had also never before experienced a landscape eternally shrouded in its winter coat.  It was difficult for her to imagine, therefore, a land where it is like this for months on end, which is why she wanted to see it for herself.

The flight out of Oslo gave her the first glimpse of what she had been looking for.  In the eerie twilight blue, the jagged crevices and undulating contours of the bleak barrenness were outlined in every detail by the snow, norwegian firs piercing through, standing proud and defiant in this unforgiving landscape, so much more beautiful here than the one she’d left behind still holding up the gaudy remnants of the festive season at home. On they flew, two hours north of Oslo, on and on, north and north, leaving behind day light hours, and speeding towards a land of perpetual dark.

On her first morning, a violent noise, like someone throwing grit at her bedroom window, woke her with a start.  What she’d noticed when she arrived the night before was how quiet everywhere was.  Not only does a colder climate discourage anyone from venturing out, but the snow muffles any sounds, from passing traffic to voices, thus amplifying the strange and foreign sound, which turned out to be the snow plough doing its morning rounds, clearing the road outside her room after several feet of snowfall while she’d slumbered in the early hours.

In the south of England, on a “bad” year, we might do the depths of winter, or at least our perception of it, for a week or so. We momentarily marvel at the white, sparkling beauty of  a couple of inches of freshly fallen snow, then we grind to a halt. We moan that the trains don’t run on time (if at all).  We begrudgingly clear our drives and slip-slide our unresponsive cars onto roads often ill prepared for a cold snap, with gritting lorries cajoling the main arteries into life, but anywhere else left to the eagerness of its residents to get to work with a shovel.  We dig out our warmest clothes, raid the food stores as if the cold snap is unlikely to ever end, become neighbour friendly in ways we never do in “normal” times, start making homemade soup …. and wait for the thaw.

So different there … they are prepared and several feet (not inches) of snow is the norm. As is the multiple layers of clothing required to even step outside the door.  It certainly takes longer to get ready to go out for the day!

Apparently the way to walk best on frozen ground is to walk like a penguin … not something she ever really mastered and even had to be rescued from the middle of a cross roads when she froze on the spot (literally) trying to decide in which direction she would least likely end up on her derriere!  A kindly octogenarian, came dashing across the road with astonishing nimbleness, and came to her rescue.  It seems the key is not to walk like a penguin, but clip on spikes! She needn’t have worried though – by necessity everything moves slowly – the people (it’s all those clothes) and even the traffic!

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Tromso, dotted with centuries-old painted houses, was a centre for seal hunting, trapping and fishing, and later a launch pad for several notable Arctic expeditions. A truly fascinating place to explore in the mornings, the blue twilight creating an enchanting and surreal landscape before darkness set in, and the town retreated to snug indoors by candlelight, in front of cosy fires and generous bowls of steaming reindeer stew.

Afternoons were for sleeping …  for the real reason for her visit happened of course, at night.

She had three chances to see the northern lights.  Three nights to find what she had dreamed of seeing for as long as she could remember …

The first two nights were too cloudy, so she awoke on her final day knowing that it was now, or probably never.  To cushion the potential disappointment of not seeing them at all, she had booked a husky sleigh ride for that morning.  Two to a sleigh, with a team of excitable barking huskies straining at the reins, they left the city lights behind and headed into the snowy barrenness. It was one of the most exhilarating moments of her life – Wednesday mornings would never quite be the same again.

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And so it came to the last night.

Two minibuses set out in search of the elusive lights, higher and higher, deeper and deeper into the icy wonderland, then stopped to set up campfires and wait.  And wait.  And wait.  It was approaching midnight, by which time she had retreated into the warmth of the minibus and closed her eyes, resigned to the fact that it wasn’t to be.  Then there was a loud banging on the door. “Come quick! The lights!”.  And there they were, drifting across the night sky before her eyes in their magical dance, a green luminescent cloud, shifting and undulating like a flock of murmuring swallows.

There were no words …

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finding Myanmar III (2017)

 

Kipling’s “Road to Mandalay” was the majestic Irrawaddy river.  Her route north to Mandalay, Myanmar’s second city, was rather dustier – think long, poorly constructed roads clinging to the hillsides, with motorbikes weaving erratically between the traffic and the potholes,  carrying anything from a family of four to towers of vibrant flowers destined for market.

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It felt like the true beginning of their journey, leaving behind intensely populated and oppressively hot Yangon, to start getting under the skin of this fascinating country.  She’d never before been on a guided trip like this – two weeks where every minute is carefully itinerated.  It would be easy to write about it like a long tick list of places seen … we went there, we did this … but that wasn’t the point.  This was all about having the privilege of visiting a country that, after years of military dictatorship and ethnic feuding, was just dipping a tentative toe into tourism, so rare to find in a world where travel to far-flung places can be done at the touch of a button.

So then, it must come down to the memories that stay so vivid with the passing of time, that they are as clear as if they happened yesterday …

… the long line of saffron-clad bare-footed novice monks, dull eyes, heads closely shaven, queueing with empty bowls for their meagre lunchtime ration in front of a crowd of camera-totting tourists. A life of monastic discipline, cut off from their families and the outside world until they are old enough to decide for themselves which path they want to take.  For those considered fortunate enough to be here, an escape from poverty and an opportunity of an education – in the eyes of a western tourist, a life without freedom of self-expression, a childhood taken, and a uncomfortable insight into a cloistered life, prostituting itself for the sake of a tourist dollar.

… lying in bed in the early hours, listening to the night calls of unseen animals and deafened by the thunder of monsoon rains on the corrigated iron roof of their chalet deep in the teak plantations at Maymyo, high up in the Shan Highlands. Rains .. and sounds .. like she’d never heard before.

… the best part of a day sweltering on a rattan recliner aboard a paddle-steamer meandering it’s way down the Irrawaddy from Mandalay to the ancient city of Bagan, past under-nourished oxen working barren fields, golden stupa jutting above dense, jungle-clad riverbanks, endless rice paddies, and children splashing in the muddy shallows as their mother rinsed yesterday’s longyi, passing snapshots of rural poverty masked in the beauty of this untouched landscape.

… setting off before dawn for a hot air balloon flight over the temples of Bagan. An eerie silence broken only by the hissing of gas as the balloon serenely rose and drifted over this vast plain, over 2,000 buddhist monuments peeping through the early morning mist. And returning later to climb one of the pagodas to watch in awe the setting of the sun over this most ancient of worlds. … magical times.

 

 

 

 

… speeding across the vast serene waters of Inle Lake, fringed by marshes and floating gardens, stilt-house villages and buddhist temples, marvelling at the Intha fishermen, famed for fishing on one leg, and the curious Kayan people, whose woman consider their long necks encased in brass coils a thing of beauty. Such strange and foreign lands …

 

 

 

 

… most of all, the people.  It takes a trip like this to know what poverty truly looks like.  To know how fortunate are those who have running water, a roof over their heads, and  the certainty of another meal. These things so often taken for granted, when so many people in the world cannot.  And yet, they found people who were respectful, courteous and generous with their time … of course, just waking up to the potential riches a visiting tourist could bring, but nevertheless, grounded by their faith, and genuine with their smiles.

Myanmar, such a privilege, such a place … memories that would stay with her forever …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

finding Myanmar II (2017)

What is faith?

She did not believe in a god as such, but equally she had never wanted to believe that the here and now, this life on this earth, is all there is.  She did not think that praying to a greater power was the way to heal, find happiness or seek whatever we are looking for, but she did believe that we all have the power within ourselves to find our path.

Nevertheless, she had always been fascinated by those whose lives are rich because of their faith, who find answers where she had never looked, who believed that a greater power would hold their hand and guide their way.  She did not understand, did not judge, but in many ways envied their total belief that that they would find their way, because they believed.  It is love and it is hope … however and wherever we find it.

Buddhism had touched her life when she had dipped in and out of yoga and meditation practices over the years, and she was curious to see a country where faith was not a lifestyle choice but a life’s journey.  On her travels, she had always found extraordinary, whatever the faith, the desire to demonstrate ones commitment to ones faith by donation, often, it seemed to her, by the most poor to the most rich …. even more extraordinary, here in Myanmar, one of the poorest countries in the world,  to see gleaming gold pagodas peeping out of the vegetation at every turn, as their plane came in to land.

It would be churlish and disrespectful to say that it’s all in the size of your pagoda … or indeed your buddha!  But there are a lot of them, and some of them are huge!

A large shed, north of Kandawgyi Lake in Yangon, houses the impressive Reclining Buddha – 66 meters long!  White face staring benevolently down, a vision of gold robe, red lips and finger nails, and feet so large that a platform has been erected at its feet to read the 108 characters painted on the soles.

IMG_4764.jpgBut this had nothing on the Shewedagon Pagoda.

For a buddhist, especially a buddhist in Myanmar, this 98m high gilded stupa which dominates Yangon’s skyline, is regarded as the most sacred buddhist pagoda in all of Myanmar.

Monks, swathed in their distinctive saffron robes, going about their day, gliding silently amongst those who had come to pay their respects and those, like her, who had come to see this most sacred of shrines as the sun came down.

IMG_4790.jpgBarefoot, she walked around the stupa, gold, resplendent, towering above her.  It was one of those moments when being a tourist feels invasive, out of place.  So important to respect the privilege it was to be there. Everywhere, the offering of prayers and flowers, and the lighting of candles around the vast perimeter of the padoga.  Flames flickered in the sultry evening breeze, the sun slowly fell in the evening sky, its glow falling onto the gold stupa …. a hush descended on the gathering crowds, a moment to be still, to think, to pray .. .

It was spell-binding.  It was faith …. and it was beautiful.

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finding Myanmar I (2017)

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” (Lao Tzu)

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How to begin to describe the trip of a lifetime?

Everything about it would be a challenge …. the place, the people, the food, the language, the climate … but that was the point.  Life for her was, these days, all about finding out about herself by being brave enough to do extraordinary things that she never dreamed she would be able to do, and pushing the outer limits of her comfort zone. Travelling in Europe, often little more than a 2 hour flight from home, had once felt so adventurous, but now she knew that she would probably find enough that was reassuringly familiar … a comfortable safety net wrapped around her travel plans.

So how far to push that comfort zone, how far to step out of Europe?  Well, South East Asia would do it!

Not one to follow the crowd, Thailand, beautiful though it looked, did not appeal.  It’s poorer neighbour, Myanmar, did. A nation whose people would still be curious about seeing Westerners wandering its streets – how amazing in this day and age, where everything seems so accessible, to have the privilege to visit a country still tentatively learning the huge impact that tourism would have on the very essence of its being.

As is often the way when we plan a trip abroad, it seems that suddenly that very place is appearing everywhere in the news. Is it that many of us are so absorbed in the mundanities of our everyday lives, that we are aware but somehow not aware of events in the world around us until they threaten to impact on our own.  How ridiculous that she had read everything from “The Glass Palace”, chonicling Myanmar’s chequered history since the reign and enforced exile of King Thibaw, to the diaries of Aung San Suu Kyi, yet, until she turned on the news a few weeks before their departure and watched in horror the footage from the Rakhine state, she had not registered the ethnic cleansing that had been happening there for years.  Not something you find in the tourist brochures, that’s for sure.

So the decision had to be made – to go or not to go.  Advice was sought, both official from government sources, and unofficial from friends of friends who had travelled there before, or who lived in South East Asia themselves. Safety was always a concern, though in troubled times, security can be far better and in a way, one feels safer for it.  What played on her mind was the political situation and if she still felt comfortable visiting a country in such turmoil.  It was not an easy decision, but in the end, it came down to the hope that, by going anyway, her visit might in some small way make a meaningful impact on the lives of the some of the people she would meet along the way.

And so, as temperatures in the UK started winter’s downward spiral , she and a friend headed to the airport with suitcases packed with sun hats, mosquito repellent and summer shorts. She’d never been on a flight so long that she somehow mislaid Sunday afternoon, on a plane so large that she had to go upstairs to find her seat ….

The adventure was about to begin ….

 

 

 

 

finding The One

How was your day, today, my love?

Was the train on time?
Did your meetings all go well?
Did you work your lunch, or take the time, to look
out of the window at that bluest of blue sky we had today
and wonder if I’d seen it too?
And are you seeing friends tonight?
Or snugging in
with season four, a beer and take away?

My day?

The same …
the train, the meetings all went well, the lunch, the bluest of blue sky,
the friends, the snugging in …
and yes, I did, take time to wonder about you.

I know,
it’s strange
… you haven’t met me yet, don’t even know my name.
Our ordinary days go by, our lives evolve,
our paths wind on their way.

But know that, on just one of your so ordinary days
You will look up and see me there and wonder
is it her?
The one who I’ve been waiting for?

And I will feel the same.

Don’t rush, my love.
That day will come and if the time is right,
There’ll be no need to shout, and wave to stand out from the crowd.
Our paths will cross
And I will know you are the one
And you will know it too.

And there will be no more so ordinary days …
… and you will know for sure that when you see the bluest of blue sky

… that I have seen it too.

x

 

 

 

 

finding Lisbon (2017)

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Latterly known as the new Barcelona, she stepped from arrivals into Lisbon’s midday heat with eager anticipation, and as her taxi wound its way down into its sprawling suburbs, she wondered if it could possibly live up to that kind of reputation.

Choosing Airbnb was a deliberate attempt to be less of a tourist and more of a local, so home was a tiny apartment in a residential area just east of the Lisbon’s oldest district of Alfama, right on top of a hill.

The hills!  She had been warned about the hills, but these were some serious upward climbs!

Though hills, of course, mean stunning vistas. See from above, Lisbon’s faded beauty is picture postcard, terracotta roofs on careworn tile-clad buildings tumbling towards the sparkling Tagus, famous for sending intrepid explorers out into the big blue. The waterfront, to the east, already redeveloped and achingly cool. Centre stage, the long dining tables in Mercado da Ribeira, the converted food market now revitalised by Time Out, the place to lunch. A noisy, buzzing, anything-you-fancy eating experience, sitting in the middle of the historic food stalls, where market traders have sold local produce since the late 1800s.

Nevertheless, thank goodness for the trams. The famous number 28, clattering through the maze of the narrow cobbled streets of Alfama, inching past parked cars and oblivious tourists, was not for the faint-hearted, but far kinder on the feet and the lungs!  On the other side of town, the “hill” problem is overcome via the Gloria funicular or the slightly bizarre neo-gothic styled Elevador de Santa Justa, rising from the Baixa district to the top of Barrio Alto in seconds, so the views are the only thing to take the breath away!

Lisbon’s hills leave a lasting impression, that’s for sure.

As does the food. In any country, there are certain things that never taste as good as when they are eaten there … in Portugal, it’s sardines. Silver slithers of deliciousness sizzling on market stalls, best enjoyed simply with a fist of crusty bread to soak up all the oil. And of course the famous “nata”, a delicious custard tart, buttery flaky pastry, custard just slightly wobbly, and a dusting of cinnamon.  She could have developed a seriously unhealthy addiction – may be climbing the hills was a good idea after all!

She found herself addicted too to the heart-breakingly beautiful fado music that flowed through the open windows of tiny airless bars in Alfama, as the sun sunk low on those early Summer days.  Fado, from the Latin fatum, and the source of the English word for fate …. so profoundly melancholic, it haunted her still.

They say you have to love yourself before you can be loved. It felt as if Lisbon was just waking up to its potential, quietly hiding away its faded beauty like a secret treasure, still wondering if it could hold its place in the hearts of the tourist droves starting to wander there. She left Lisbon, unsure where this fascinating city sat in her heart, but may be that was because she too was still learning to love herself. She wondered if she had given it enough of a chance to show her all it had to offer …. or perhaps it just wasn’t ready to yet.

 

 

finding Positive Solitude

 

 

“Claim your space. Draw a circle of light around it. Push back against the dark. Don’t just survive. Celebrate.”

(Charles Frazier)

 

She had never heard the expression “positive solitude” until a few days before, but it described perfectly the place she was on her journey.  

When she left her marriage, she knew loneliness would be her achilles heel, so had, of necessity, taught herself to embrace solitude.  The thought of a day on her own still had the capacity to leave a dull thud in her stomach and an uneasiness which she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  But, for the most part, she could get through a day alone, in fact, more than get through….

She found that keeping busy, or at the very least, having a plan, was the key.  Yes, of course, those plans very often displayed all the symptoms of running away, to escape the day-to-day, to break the routine where the silence of no early morning message from him would break her heart again and again. And sometimes, those plans were the end result of anger and defiance standing firm together in a “sod it, I don’t need anyone” kind of way.  Of course, in an ideal world, she would have given anything to be with someone who loved her, simple as that. But there is a difference between wanting and needing.  It took all her strength, but it was that anger, disappointment and hurt that gave her the momentum finally to step out into the world and say “bring it on”.

Holidaying alone, of course, was something else altogether, though she found that fear, when you are brave enough to look it in the eye, has nowhere to go.  

Florence was her first solo trip.  Alone, she spoke less, noticed more … and those moments when it would have been so wonderful, later, to say “Do you remember when …?”, sat in her memory bank alone.  More than anything, she came home with a sense of achievement that made her spirits sour, and still the memory of speeding through the Tuscan hills on a Vespa, that life-affirming rush, that freedom of spirit, left her grinning from ear to ear.

And so to Lisbon. A last minute, need to get on with my life, kind of booking … without any preconceived notions of what to expect.  A deliberate attempt not to be too touristy, to step out of her comfort zone a little further than before. 

And so, she sat typing this story, in a sun dappled courtyard just east of Alfama, the hilly artisan quarter of the town.  A local resident, Jose, popped his head out of his window and offered to put on his favourite fado music to keep her company.  Hauntingly beautiful voices, mending all those lost dreams in a soothing wave of melodies floating through the lemon trees, the delicate blues of heady agapanthus and lavender, across the white washed terrace outside her tiny apartment. For all Lisbon had to offer, she would remember most the magic of that moment. It was perfect.

She realised how far she had come.  So terrified before of even being alone, here she was, in a foreign land without a single soul to turn to. For her, this was being brave beyond her wildest imagination, and she knew she would be fine.  That’s quite a journey!

 

finding Mykonos (2017)

It was certainly a bit of a Thelma and Louise moment.  It was probably the pink helmets that did it.

Three days in to their spring break in Mykonos, it became clear that the only way to reach the tiny unspoilt bay on the other side of the island, was to hire some wheels. Whilst a car was the sensible option for two ladies of a certain age, quad bikes looked infinitely more exciting.  And so it was that they edged their way out into the morning traffic, with nothing but a rudimentary map and a vague sense of direction to guide their way.

They had happened upon Mykonos purely because the right travel deal came up at the right time.  Its reputation as a party island preceded it. Party girls they were not … but pictures of the unassuming family-run hotel just outside Mykonos town, low-rise, white-washed and draped in vibrant bougainvillea, lured them to this tiny dot of a Greek island.

Mykonos turned out to be a surprise in every way.

The town itself was a short boat taxi ride across the bay … what a way to arrive! Chugging into the mooring, they got their first glimpse of the iconic paving that winds its way through the narrow streets of the Old Town, inviting them in to explore it’s maze of quirky local bars and high end fashion retailers … this tiny island certainly attracts the money.  Shopping is more about Armani than  trashy souvenirs. Standing proud on the ridge, the time-worn windmills watch the to-ings and fro-ings of this busy harbour, like they have done for centuries past.

The famous party beaches weren’t for them, but the rest of the island remained surprisingly untouched by mass tourism, and the notion of the romantic Greek island idle that Shirley Valentine gave us in the 80s, can still be found in its barren hills, dotted with white-washed rural hamlets and tiny chapels peeping out at every turn.

Giggling with delight at the absurdity of  how they must have looked to the locals, two English woman on a quad bike, pink helmets, old enough to know better,  they jolted their way along the dusty tracks across the island to Fokos, recommended by a friend for its not-to-be-missed taverna.  Just as they arrived,  the locals started to spill in, bearing gifts for the staff on this the first day of opening for the summer season.  They felt they were intruding on a secret party, but were welcomed like long lost friends and beckoned onto the veranda to enjoy their meal lazily sitting in the dappled shade overlooking what can only be described as an island paradise. For the people, for the food, for the place …. it was one of those “do you remember” meals. Total bliss.

Mykonos … one of those places that where time passes so slowly, but a holiday is over so soon.  A definite must-go-back-one-day ….

 

finding Her Path

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“He who is outside his door, already has the hardest part of his journey behind him” (Dutch proverb)

She found herself again on that same bench. It was one of those mornings when Summer isn’t quite ready to let itself fade into Autumn.  

It was one of those days when she woke up, and, despite a good night’s sleep, it felt like being brave was just too hard.  It was sometimes.  With the best will in the world, and despite doing all the right things, some days it really all felt just too hard.  But she did know that one of the right things to do … was to get outside.  

Five minutes from where she lived was the most glorious park that had been within walking distance for the best part of her adult life.  It was the must-go place for firework displays every November, which she’d gone to with her boyfriend, then to be her husband, then the father of her children, who themselves had been thrilled at the ever noisier pyrotechnics.  For the boating lake, always a draw for silly teenage antics, and home to a variety of tail-wiggling ducks and haughty swans, so frighteningly humanised and bloated by the constant availability of crusts from over-zealous toddlers.  For the stunning landscaping, with a clear nod to Capability Brown, it’s perfectly placed trees and gentle hills … hills for screaming down riding out-of-control toboggans speeding to the water’s edge, hills for chasing dogs careering towards the resident geese, hills for pram-pushing a overwrought baby in need of an afternoon nap.  So many memories.

And so, it was almost without thinking, that, on the day she left her marriage, she should find herself there in that park, on that bench.  Back then, so absorbed in the enormity of what had happened, she hardly noticed anything around her.  Passers-by, though curious to see a middle-aged woman sobbing her heart out in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, would have scurried past, best not to interfere.  She could only remember the overwhelming sadness but also sense of relief, like her lungs weren’t big enough, and the total shock and fear, as it dawned on her that she had taken that first irreversible step on her journey.  

The bench was set high up in a dappled grove, tucked away from the activity around the lake.  Today, she could see from her vantage spot, a straggling crocodile of year 8’s, their red and black uniforms appearing then disappearing between the trees as they reluctantly jogged their way around the lake’s perimeter. One athletic boy determined to lap his classmates and show off to the girls, who of course giggled and feigned disinterest.  Life seems to simple when you’re young.  And a lone walker, with a frisky spaniel darting its way between the bushes, determined to catch the waterfowl unawares.  

Back sitting on the bench again, over four years later, she contemplated her journey since that afternoon, and realised how far she had come, and that she had been brave …. and that it was OK sometimes, to feel like she hadn’t the energy to be brave any more.  She sat, closed her eyes, and tried to make sense of it all.  It was at once overwhelming and terrifying all over again, her lungs still did not feel big enough, but for all that, not for a minute, had she looked back and ever thought leaving was the wrong thing to do.

She looked up, and realised for the first time, that the grove was planted with oak trees, growing stronger by the day and standing firm, there at the top of the hill. Oak trees rustling in the crisp morning breeze, heavy with acorns, some already fallen,  starting to spread out new roots, creating new beginnings.  Just like her.