In a couple of weeks’ time, I’m going to be saying goodbye to the car I’ve been driving around in for almost eight years and saying hello to a new one. And though – on the surface of it – this is just a case of trading in one costly clump of metal, rubber and plastic for another, I think it’s going to feel a bit sad pulling up the handbrake for the final time and stepping away.
ThecarthatIalwaysintendedtonamebutneverdid and I have had a lot of adventures together over the years. It’s enabled me to get to many destinations for many different purposes, from rubbish dumps to mountain ranges, and all the places in between. It’s been privy to the worst of my language and the worst of my singing (which is also my only singing). It’s put up with my varied taste in music without casting judgement, and has never really let me down.
In recent weeks I’ve been driving a little more than usual (apologies, environment, I promise it’s just temporary) to enable some final adventures with TCTIAITNBND, and some of my favourite times to do this have been at night, when the roads are emptier. There’s something quite stimulating about it, and when you get a good long stretch of motorway it can almost feel quite meditative. No choice but to focus on the road ahead and nothing else. No phones. No emails. No aimless scrolling. Just the warming glows of blurring lights and the names of nearby destinations passing by, with the occasional illuminated views of people eating burgers in service stations overhead. You think about each of their stories – where are they heading to, and why? – and wonder what the wildest reasons are.
You are locked in the present in ways which can be hard to achieve during other activities, practicing mindfulness without even realising. It’s not always about breathing or colouring.
And when the tunes are blaring there’s the temptation to skip the junction that will take you home and just carry on driving, no particular destination in mind, and just seeing what happens. And you won’t, because you need to get back and fuel costs are still ridiculous, but you promise yourself you’ll definitely do it someday.
This is such a January image. And not just because it was taken in… January.
People seem to hate on this month a lot – a bit like how they hate on Wetherspoons and pigeons (see previous posts) – prematurely and unreasonably sometimes.
And yes, there’s a few things we can rightfully accuse January of doing wrong. Making us feel poor – yes. Being freezing – yes. Having to listen to people who chose to do Dry January moan about it for a month – yeees!
But put these things to one side and I think there’s a lot of nice things about January too.
Winter sun – like what appears at the top of the photo above – might just be my favourite of those things, because I think – like a lot of things – it shines brighter when it’s unexpected. During Summer we’ll moan if it’s too hot – or not warm enough – whereas in January we’re just grateful to see it at all. A welcome break from the grey, and a sign of longer days to come.
And then there’s the frost. Sure, it might be cold to the touch – a bit slippery even – but I love how it makes the fields sparkle in the mornings as they reflect the light from the sky. Maybe we didn’t get the white Christmas we wanted, but maybe we’ll get the white January we need instead. It might not be snow, but they look pretty similar. This iced hill in Kent was the nearest I’d get to mountains this winter, but it helped!
It also feels like a month where you can feel permitted to nest more. To focus on trying to keep warm and save money. To read inspiring books and make soup. Lots of soup. (How do you know you’re pushing 40? Well, you and your friends get massively excited about making different soup combinations, and a growing proportion of your phone gallery looks like bowls of steaming goodness served with bread.)
January is a month of two sides, and one of those is so wonderful it makes the other one worth enduring.
If I could go back in time and tell myself that there’d come a day when one of my favourite ways to spend a Saturday morning is in Wetherspoons, there’d be two kinds of response, dependent on how far back we’d gone:
18-23 year old me:“Ahh wicked, pitcher of Blue Lagoon and some Apple Sourz to welcome the weekend innit!”
23- sometime in the mid-30’s year old me:“Well, that’s just depressing. What a waste of a Saturday.”
I’d assume I had turned into one of those people I pass spilling out of the local establishments having a pint at 9.30am and regretting my life choices. Yes, that would feel depressing if it were so. That’s still not a point I’d ever like to reach.
But that’s not the reality.
I very rarely drink alcohol in Wetherspoons, but I’m here a lot. Usually with a £1.56 refillable coffee and a notebook, and on the really special occasions if I want to treat myself: a bowl of nachos, made to a recipe that hasn’t changed in at least 20 years.
A thoughtful gift from a friend
To me, Wetherspoons is about so much more than the historic connotations with cheap drinks and sticky tables. It’s a cornerstone of the community, a national institution, a place where people from all walks of life can feel that a decent meal out is a bit more within reach than a lot of other places.
Wetherspoons is a place for everyone… except the more snooty among society perhaps. And who wants to be around people like that anyway?
It’s a place that leaves you to it. A place that doesn’t pressure you to leave as soon as you’ve finished your drink so that a new customer can occupy your seat. A place where even the backs of toilet doors will encourage you to stay for as long as you like – undisturbed – if it helps you to feel safe. And often, when I look around, I sense that a lot of the clientele come here for that quality. Like the octogenarian – we’ll just refer to him as ‘G’ – who frequents my local branch for lunch every couple of days and explains how for him, it’s a place where he can come and feel in good company compared to the loneliness he feels at home.
“It helps me feel connected here” G once shared with me, “I love to see familiar faces… there are so many people my age who come here and have so many great stories to tell about their lives. You’d never know just from looking at them just how many remarkable things they’ve done. I’ve found out all about them just by chatting here.”
G tells me his own life stories as we sit and chat. We’ve spoken a few times because our favourite tables are next to each other (by the windows, to enable the act of people watching outside). Although 80% of the dialogue is from G’s side of the script, I find him a joy to listen to, and he always thanks me for the chat as he leaves, even though I’m not really sure I’ve said that much.
A recent study found that around 30% of UK residents experience regular feelings of loneliness. Whilst Wetherspoons may not be the solution for all, it’s important to acknowledge this value when critiquing the place. As somebody who lives alone in a quiet estate and predominantly works from home, I find that an evening coffee trip (decaf by that time) to ‘Spoons is an important injection of life, people and reality after a virtual day, and can understand why many feel similar.
The chain has a lot of critics, for various reasons. One of the more common concerns is that through its cheaper prices, it takes valuable custom away from the traditional, independent British pub. This is a particularly valid concern at a time when the hospitality industry is under enormous pressure – not least from recent rises in alcohol duty – and many of our beloved ‘locals’ are pulling their final pints left, right and centre.
However, what many often forget is that the two places are very different. The top two selling drinks at Wetherspoons aren’t even alcoholic. They’re Pepsi Max and coffee/tea. More to the point, it’s entirely possible to both support your local pub with your custom, and appreciate your local Wetherspoons. I’d usually pick my cosy local if it was something alcoholic I was after or if I was meeting a friend, but I’m not sure my local would necessarily appreciate a whole table being taken up for a couple of hours by someone who’s just after a coffee, and that’s fair enough. You can make the most of both, it doesn’t have to be a case of either or.
The food is another characteristic that often attracts criticism, whether it’s the fact that the chip count can vary (as attested by the 250k strong membership of a particular Facebook group where members share / compare / condemn counts) or that it all tastes like it’s been “made in a microwave.”
Well, so what? I mean really, so what! Quite frankly, if it’s produced in a hygienic environment, is hot, tasty and edible, then I couldn’t care less if it was prepared by a teenager monitoring a microwave or Nigella Lawson poring over her aga oven. At least you always know, no matter what branch you’re in, what you’re going to get. Wetherspoons is a complete opposite of Forrest Gump’s infamous box of chocolates, (unless you’re focusing on the chip count). There may be better quality meals available elsewhere, but the reality is that they’re a lot more expensive, and most people can’t afford this as regularly. Sometimes you just want to have a break from cooking without breaking the bank. Sometimes you just want cheap stodge.
And where do we start with the iconic buildings themselves, and their carpets? It’s a little known – but absolutely incredible no less – fact that each of the 850 Wetherspoons establishments in the UK has its own unique carpet, designed around something to do with local culture, history or heritage. Take a look the next time you go into your local ‘Spoons. I am in awe of the likes of Kit Caless, who visited hundreds, set up a website and even released a book to document them. A book I proudly own and which has taught me a lot about notable figures and history from other areas:
The book really exists, and it’s amazing
As for the buildings, you’ll often find that those now hosting the chain once served a purpose as something entirely different, and the history is usually palpable upon entry. One of my favourite Wetherspoons buildings is ThePalladium in Llandudno, Wales, not least because it means I must be near Snowdonia, but just because of the general feel of the building. Before it became what it is today, it was a 1920s theatre, and as you gaze at the various boxes and balconies around you, you can almost hear the echoes of decades of historic performance. You order your scampi, chips and mushy peas thinking about how the people a few decades in front of you in the queue were ordering their ‘ices’ at the interval, and not only does it feel exciting, but it also feels like a sentimental connection to the local past.
The Opera House in Tunbridge Wells has a similar history, and the reverberations of a former art deco cinema are felt immediately as you enter The Peter Cushing in Whitstable (a branch which recently won platinum prize in the UK’s Loo of the Year awards, in what I’m certain was a ‘sparkling’ ceremony). I’m not entirely sure what my local branch, The Leading Light in Faversham, used to be, but I believe it was a carpet store, which is a little less exciting than those above perhaps, but also quite fitting when you consider the pursuits and passions of Kit Caless and Co.
Should this have piqued your interest in your own local branches, then it’s worth checking out the Wetherspoons website, which contains a lot of contextual information about each branch, including explanations for the name.
Additionally, it’s a firm belief of mine that there’s a Wetherspoons for every occasion, but to take inspiration from the menu and add some variety to this post I’ll represent this as an amateur poem as opposed to a paragraph – a small plate compared to a main – if you will:
Turning 18 with a pitcher of Purple Rain. A bowl of nachos before catching the train. A pre-holiday pint before boarding the plane. A cheap breakfast whilst taking shelter from the rain. Buying a cup of coffee, and filling it again and again…
There’s just one more characteristic about Wetherspoons I wish to praise, out of a raft of many more which I could possibly feature, and for this I’ll tell a true story:
It’s February 2020. Storm Ciara has swept up the UK and caused carnage everywhere, not least cancelling all the trains to London from Lancaster, where a friend and I have been visiting our former University haunts. We’re cold and miserable about it and have had to book an extra night’s accommodation and buy emergency underwear in Primark, as well as inform our respective works that we won’t be able to come in on Monday. Once we have accepted this fate we head to The Sir Richard Owen, which just so happens to be next to our hotel. In the spirit of student memories we order a Smirnoff Ice each and my friend tells me about a trend whereby people post their Wetherspoons table numbers on Twitter and people order food for them via the app. I struggle to believe this is true, and so she offers to try it.
Within minutes of her posting on Twitter, a side of baked beans arrives unaccompanied by anything else, sent by a mystery donor. We laugh. A lot. And then try and work out the best way to distribute them. British tapas.
It’s utterly bizarre, utterly hilarious and also utterly Wetherspoons. Which is a way in which I’d also describe the pandemonium of Summer 2024 when a bird flew into the Faversham branch and mesmerised an audience of a couple of hundred customers, who all got on board with the rescue attempt of encouraging it to fly safely back out, which it eventually did.
And really, there’s so much more I could possibly say, but I’m making myself hungry, so instead I’ll shawarmachickenwrap up this post to include a soft drink. £5.70 each. Ordered via the app.
Last week, as 40 mph winds swept up the country and kept swathes of people indoors, I passed a massive flock of pigeons just sat chilling in the park, chattering away to one another whilst some of them waddled around. They seemed to be appreciating the lower numbers of humans hanging about, and had pretty much commandeered the whole place to themselves. In the context of wider chaos caused by the weather, it made me smile.
I often feel a bit sorry for pigeons. I think they get quite a hard time, through no fault of their own. That’s not to say I’m about to go picking one up for a cuddle anytime soon, but I’m more than happy to co-exist on this land with them, and don’t find them as irritating as a lot of other people do. They’re just living beings at the end of the day, and aren’t we all capable of being a bit of a nuisance at times?
Last Summer I came across a pigeon that had been badly injured and was limping around in circles on a footpath, looking really pained. It was impossible to just walk by, and I spent thirty minutes phoning around local organisations for advice, trying to reassure old pidge that help would be coming and he’d be flapping those wings again soon. Nobody was really interested, and though I can absolutely understand the concerns around the potential to carry disease, it did break my heart a little that I ended up having to walk away from something experiencing clear distress. I’ll never know what happened to my little pigeon pal, but I can pretty much guess.
So call me silly, call me soppy, call me a 39 year old woman who likes cats (which I appreciate is slightly ironic), but now, every time I see pigeons who are bumbling about aimlessly – but healthily – my heart smiles a bit. Just let them be.
Plus, with all those jazzy greens and pinks on their necks, I think they have a pretty funky fashion sense too.
The clocks went back an hour last night and the consequent earlier onset of daily darkness will be the main topic of conversation between British people for the entirety of this week. It always has been, and always will be.
It’s been less than twenty four hours and we’re already feeling it. LED strip lights rising from the ground and suddenly appearing everywhere we turn. A black velvet curtain drawing the days to an early close. Menacing orange and black paraphernalia everywhere, and the inexplicable smells on the streets of metal and smoke.
For me, this time of year often makes me think back to my time as a student at Lancaster University in north west England. I’d heard the expression, ‘It’s grim up North’ numerous times prior to making the move and was determined to see for myself if this were true or not. It definitely wasn’t. Yet whenever I think about the place, it’s usually in the context of a Winter evening, much like this one.
It’s November 2005 and I’m sat on the top floor of a double decker Stagecoach bus that smells of Wrigley’s Orbit, wee, and diesel oil. The wheels on the bus are going round and round, and the lights on the bus are making my hungover head pound and pound as they illuminate the harsh orange zig-zag seat patterns. A Sainsburys bag, fill to the brim with representatives of the Basics range (soups, garlic breads and pastas aimed to last the week), is hooked on to my wrist threatening to cut off circulation to my hand as I cling on to both the bag and the seat for dear life.
Inertia flings me towards accidentally nutting the bell each time the bus brakes. I find comfort in seeing the neon red letters that spell out BARGAIN BOOZE, because it means we’re finally at the bottom of the hill from hell in the Bowerham part of town, and the ride home should become more smooth from here. I may even be able to safely place my shopping bag on the floor before it rips from the weight of all the soup cans and sends them rolling down the aisle like the barrels hurled by Donkey Kong in the retro arcade game (yes, that did actually happen once).
I finally reach campus and step off the bus to walk to my halls of residence, but first I have to have a fag, after all that hard work clinging on to heavy shopping bags and trying to keep upright. As I puff away my student loan (the current me still hasn’t forgiven the younger one for this) I look up at half a dozen kitchen windows and see several episodes of a student drama tv series all screening at once. A couple of lads in striped polo shirts with emo hairstyles are chucking the entire contents of their food cupboards into what appears to be some sort of stir fry. The girls upstairs are dancing around in brightly coloured rara skirts and drinking out of fluorescent beakers. One of them is swapping the CD around in the stereo that sits on the windowsill. There’s another kitchen where the window is covered in a collection of handmade paper snowflakes that gets bigger with each passing day, and a couple of others where the lights are out. All the occupants are either out on the town ploughing through vodka Redbulls, or in their rooms graffiti’ing the reincarnations of forests with neon Stabilo highlighter pens.
I head up the internal stairwell towards my flat, being careful not to step in the congealed puddle of Dolmio sauce that’s been there all week following a drunken dare gone wrong. The unmistakable scents of the tomatoey residue and washing powder fill the air. As I push through the heavy fireproof doors to my flat I’m overwhelmed by even more senses. The smell of Heinz spaghetti and garlic bread being cooked away in the kitchen. The audience of Deal or No Deal gasping as the infamous 1p box is exposed on a flatmate’s tv. Another flatmate on the phone to her mum, assuring her that she’s eating well. The wisps of somebody else’s cigarette floating out from underneath their bedroom door. Somebody listening to Binary Love by The Rakes. The smell of burning garlic bread.
Shit. The smell of burning garlic bread.
The shriek of the fire alarm which ensues. The cackle of students, most of whom are half cut, trying to evacuate the building as the porters arrive to shout instruction in loud, northern tones. We shiver in the cold air of a northern Winter, watching each others’ exhales under the streetlights, whilst waiting for various risk assessments to be complete. Eventually, we’re able to file back in.
“So, what shall we have for dinner?” “Garlic bread?” “Fook off!”
**********
‘The Proust Effect’ is the name of the phenomenon whereby certain senses can evoke sudden nostalgia. The novelist Marcel Proust coined the expression after feeling transported to his childhood following consumption of a particular tea-soaked cake in his later years. It’s a legitimate effect backed by science – all to do with how we process memories – and something I find particularly staggering is how it can appear out of nowhere, all encompassing. Stepping back to a former life. Have you experienced The Proust Effect recently?
This post is dedicated to R.G. 19 years after our shopping rolled out all over the bus as we returned to campus. How we laughed that day x
This Summer seemed to go as quickly as it came, but there are still hints of it here and there (if you search hard enough!).
The other week I particularly admired the resolute energy of this ageing sunflower in a nearby field. It was clearly a bit beyond its best, a bedraggled, hump-backed figure swaying in a lilting September evening breeze, ochre petals that were once lemon yellow wilting and reluctantly falling to join all the decaying neighbours on the ground.
Gastropod inflicted holes. General bit of a mess. I think we’ve all pretty much felt like how this sunflower looks at some point, I felt myself developing a hangover just by looking at it.
But what I liked about it is that it stood tall anyway, desperately seeking out what final remnants of sunshine it could to prolong the time it had left to dance. And dance it would, even though everybody else had already headed home. Even if once steady sways were now somewhat more wobbly.
And maybe – at this time of year especially, as clouds increasingly come to nudge blue skies away – we could all do with being a bit more sunflower. This particular one, ideally.
A couple of years ago, I had a chance encounter with what would end up being retained in mind as one of my favourite ever sunsets, and it reminded me why I needed to try and take the time to see them more often – dazzling light shows on our doorsteps that don’t require a hefty entrance fee or overpriced snacks and ad-filled programmes – what’s not to love?
The amazing sunset at Conyer Creek
Here in Swale (Kent, UK), I’m convinced that there’s something particularly special about our sunsets (the one featured above took place only 5 minutes up the road). This is said without bias – I’m not originally from here and haven’t felt the same about the sunsets in other places lived – but I’ve been visiting Swale all throughout my life, and a great many memories of the place seem to be set against the backdrop of that blushy pink, tangerine and lilac sky that led to me falling in love with the area. I remember first marveling at it as I fed the ducks at Faversham pond with my Grandad in around 1990; I remember seeing it forming silhouettes out of the Victorian streetlamps on West Street one Summer evening round a similar time, and I remember it tenderly contrasting against the sludgy surface of the creek during another brilliant performance a few days after I moved here six years ago.
And countless times in between.
These days, I mostly see it as it crowns the rooftops of neighbours’ homes whilst I wash up at the kitchen window, and it prompts an internal smile each and every time.
There’s probably some geographical explanation about why it looks the way it does here, something to do with the proximities to marshland and the Swale Estuary perhaps, but I’m not sure I necessarily want to understand all that detail. I’m happy for it stay in my head as a piece of magic – nothing more, nothing less – because as with all good magic, when you understand too much about the ‘how’, it stops being as enjoyable.
A friend who feels similarly about Swale sunsets (see, it is a thing) and I were really keen to catch a good one from a particular part of the creek this Summer but at one point it felt like that it was never going to happen. The plan was postponed multiple times due to gloomy weather forecasts, but when the opportunity finally arose earlier this month we hoped it would be worth the wait, and it was. Proof below. Among the multitude of reasons why I love sunsets is that they can bring out a beauty in whatever they illuminate within their path, even something as austere and oppressive-looking as the National Grid:
In remembering why I’d like to make an effort to see more sunsets I thought about how the average lifespan of an individual living in the UK is around 80 years – 29,200 days – or rather, 29,200 sunsets.
It’s not that I suddenly shot up in bed one night with a burning urge to visit Podgorica. In fact, prior to this year, I’d never even heard of it, and probably would have assumed it was some kind of jolly eastern European wafer snack as opposed to the Montenegrin capital.
Our chance encounter occurred because I’d booked onto a group trip to explore the Durmitor National Park to the north of the country, and was advised that I should fly into Podgorica airport to join the starting point. Not knowing much about Montenegro at all, I thought it’d make sense to spend a couple of days in the capital before beginning the trip. The first impressions were good, as I booked a lovely looking hotel in the heart of the city for a mere £38 a night. With the accommodation arranged, I started to do a bit more research.
To say the results yielded from internet searches were disparaging about the place would be a complete understatement. Apparently, I’d just booked a couple of nights in ‘Europe’s most boring destination’, a ‘not particularly interesting’ place to visit, and – better yet – ‘Podgorica is a hole!’. Well. Happy holidays to me! But none of these articles succeeded in convincing me to change my itinerary. Opinions are just opinions, I wanted to see it for myself.
The plane descended from above red-roofed houses that looked like Monopoly hotels scattered over a green mattress and touched down into the airport on one hot Monday in July. The first thing that struck me upon landing was the smell of cigarettes. With the terminal building seeming to be only the size of a saucer, I wondered if I’d landed in an ashtray as opposed to an airport. After the shortest passport control line ever, I stepped outside into stifling heat – a welcome break from the exceptionally wet British Summer – and spotted a guy who looked like a Montenegrin version of Harold Bishop from Neighbours holding my name on a piece of paper. The hotel had arranged a taxi for me, and here was my driver. He walked me over to the taxi and offered me a cigarette on the way, to which I shook my head. At least, I think that’s what he was doing. If he was checking that I was okay with the smoke in the car, he certainly wasn’t paying any attention to my headshake, but – terrible though smoking is – there was something somewhat endearing about the casual nature of it all. I held my breath and gazed out the window at signs adorned in unfamiliar Cyrillic script, and thought to myself, “I have officially arrived in a place some consider to be the most boring in Europe. Hello, Podgorica!” It will take me a few days to learn that the correct pronounciation rhymes with ‘pizza’.
As we reach the city centre, I begin to hear a growing chorus of car horns, and Harold does not hold back either. Beep beep beeeeeeep. We stop in a random street, where another vehicle is blocking the layby Harold wants to pull into, and I realise we have arrived at my hotel. Harold presses his horn firmly, but the driver in the vehicle ahead is playing on a tablet, and has no intention to move. This goes on for a while until Harold is within a fingernail of the rear bumper, which is the same point I notice large dents in virtually all the vehicles around us, including one with its entire front grille peeled off. It doesn’t take long to identify that this is not a city in which I would wish to drive.
Parking melee eventually overcome, Harold kindly carries my suitcase to the hotel reception where I am surprised to see a doppelganger of somebody I work with at the front desk. “Oh, hi! Sorry I haven’t replied to your e-mail yet” I start to say. Well – not really – but it wouldn’t have felt too amiss if I had. Nonetheless, there’s something comforting about this small fraction of familiarity. Entering a new country for the first time can sometimes feel incredibly strange at first, and this was no different, but it would very soon fade.
The receptionist’s name is Teodora, and she is very helpful. Treating her a bit like a genie arising from a magic lamp, I am keen to restrict my number of questions / wishes to three. Not being able to speak a word of Montenegrin, I am reliant upon her years of studying English for our communication to be a success, and don’t want to take advantage of that. I die a little inside every time I see a British person abroad start reeling off demands with no attempt to check that the recipient understands English, and I don’t want to be ‘that person’. I select my questions carefully. Teodora says that yes, I can leave my luggage at the front desk whilst I go and explore, as it’s too early to check into my room, and yes there’s WiFi, but no, they don’t have any print-out maps. I have many more questions, like where’s the best place for a wander, but feel I’ve put Teodora through enough, and head out to work the rest of it out for myself.
I step outside and having no map – either physical or on my phone – make a mental note of whereabouts I am: downtown Podgorica, right opposite Independence Square. I head down a busy road which from memory of Google Maps would take me towards the old town, something I’ve read up on as a place to see. After some welcome moments under the shade of trees in Kings Park – built to commemorate the coronation of Nicholas I in Montenegro – I follow a stony staircase down towards the Moraca River and cross a bridge from which I see bathers dipping into the water. I make a mental note to return here after my trip to the old town, which is now only a few hundred metres away, up another stony staircase.
The old town really is an old town, but not quite the sequence of cobbled squares and Lipton parasols in which I’d been expecting to enjoy some sort of luminous, carbonated citrus beverage. Instead, it’s a scattered arrangement of small houses – some of which are completely dilapidated – and a couple of mosques. I later find out that this is an Ottoman-era neighbourhood which served as the hub of the city between the 15th and 19th centuries before being heavily bombed during World War II. I am struck by the amount of Argentinian-themed murals on display, including a homage to Diego Maradona captioned, ‘Adios El Pibe De Oro’. It transpires that the two countries have long-standing good relations, and that the South American country has the largest communities of Montenegrins outside of Europe. This isn’t something I’d ever have imagined to be the case, but feel so grateful to learn.
The heat is immense and I can start to feel sweat beads roll like rivers down my back, so take temporary solace in a nearby supermarket to stand near a fridge. I use this as an opportunity to officially the declare the start of ‘Crisps Around the World’, which is basically a fancy name I give to the act of ogling savoury snacks in foreign supermarkets and trying to select the most bizarre and unusual to try. Within a few moments of reviewing the offerings I feel I’d have more choice if I were playing a tobacco-themed version of the game… and there are plenty of crisps on display, just none that seem particularly novel. I wander out of the supermarket and begin to worry that I may have lost my bearings, until I see The Hilton hotel up ahead, which I recall passing on my way here. ‘Good old Paris and family‘, I think to myself in a moment of relief. I’m reassured by the fact that if I were to get completely lost and need to ask someone for directions, there’s at least one building here that I know how to pronounce.
I stop in the city centre for a tasty lunch of beef cream soup, bread and Montenegrin Niksicko beer that come served with a bonus waft of Lovcen cigarettes from the people next to me. Again, though part of me thinks it disgusting, another welcomes the sensory reminder of a bygone era, when all holidays smelt like sunshine, chips, and tobacco. I look back over Independence Square and wonder what the name means. Montenegro is a tiny country which could fit into the UK 18 times. Its population is only a little bit over that of Leeds, at 617 thousand. Surely a country of this size has a history small enough to quickly digest? Well – yes and no – but in its briefest form, it was part of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia for most of the 20th century. When the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia was dissolved in 1992, Montenegro joined hands with Serbia to become the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, later known cunningly as ‘Serbia and Montenegro’ from 2003. In 2006, a referendum of Montenegrin independence took place with the results in favour of the country breaking off from Serbia, and in the Summer of that year it joined the UN as its 192nd member state.
After going back to my hotel to officially check-in and change attire, I head for another walk around the city. Njegoseva Street is where it all appears to be happening, and I stop off to refresh and do some journaling in a random bar with a waitress who looks less than thrilled to see me but is polite enough. I find myself thinking back to the spot by the Moraca River where people had set up a makeshift beach and feel it’s time to go back and check it out properly. I’m so glad that I do. By the time I return, the numbers have grown, the music is in full flow, and a bar framed in fairy lights has started selling drinks and t-shirts. A number of people – including some German tourists – swim in the river towards the Blazo Jovanovic bridge whilst their friends sit on the shingle smoking cigarettes, sunbathing, and enjoying loud conversations. A guy with dark, deep set eyes – like that of an albatross – serves me a Niksicko before returning to the riverbank to fish for trout – a favourite on Montenegrin dinner tables – and I sit on a stone wall, taking it all in. It’s strange to think I was waking up in an airport near Horley this morning. Right now, I couldn’t feel further away. The soft air, the excitable tingle from strange surroundings, the setting sun shimmering on the water – this is peace.
I think about what those Google searches said about Podgorica, and already I’m coming to the conclusion that they were a load of rubbish. I fully admit that what I’m experiencing is no Paris, no London, no New York, but there is still something quite sublime here – a city making the best of itself, in an understated yet enjoyable way. I walk back to my hotel via the 17th century clock tower that was framed as one of the key sights to see in Podgorica, a symbol of historic Turkish rule. As with many famous landmarks, it’s somewhat underwhelming, looking exactly the same in real life as it does on Google. You’ll visit Podgorica for reasons beyond this, I swear.
It’s the end of day 1 in Podgorica. Am I bored? No. Do I think it’s “a hole”? Absolutely not.
Day 2 starts with a hotel breakfast of random cold meats, cheeses, olives and pickles. The weather is slightly cooler than yesterday, and I choose to head to Gorica Park, a massive forested hill in the north of the city from which Podgorica gets its name (‘under the hill’). I am quite taken by Gorica Park. There is something quite alluring about its range of green shades and panoramic views of the city, reached by its seemingly endless trail paths. A wire-fenced, brutalist looking football pitch sits at the brow of the hill and opposite is an outdoor gym formed from corroded iron bars affixed to trees, looking a little like something straight out of Pripyat. I give a couple of the pieces of equipment a go before concluding that I should desist; I’ve a physically demanding week ahead, and shouldn’t go breaking my ankles on the second day.
Before long, there are flashes of lightning, and heavy rain sets in. Becoming a bit scared, I retrace my footsteps for about thirty minutes, back to the log-cabin style cafe in the centre of the park where I can take shelter with an apple and peach juice recommended by the English-speaking waiter. Heavy flumes of rain cascade from the awning and a ferocious wind blows menus across the outdoor seating area. It’s quite a contrast to yesterday’s heat, and an ever so slightly welcome one. Likewise, when the heat returns, it will be welcome back, and maybe there’s room in life for both. I sit tending my juice for an hour or so, literally waiting for a storm to pass, and think about how a swooshy font somewhere on Instagram is telling me I should be dancing in the rain. Although that’s a lovely sentiment, in these conditions it’s a pretty dangerous one. It later transpires that two men – one a Turkish construction worker in Canj, and another a Montenegrin enjoying a game of golf on the coastal Lustica bay – are killed by the lightning I watch from the safety of the cafe.
In the afternoon, once the rain has subsided and sunshine returned, I head back to the ‘beach’ at the Moraca River. My new happy place. I sit in a small cove, welcoming its shade, and write whilst looking out over the water. I am very tempted to swim, but on this occasion the voice of caution within prevails. The water moves rapidly, and though it looks nice and clean, I don’t know enough about what’s in it or how fast the current moves. Instead, I watch as a small turtle crawls over the pebbles, basking in the heat. A lady in floral dress then passes by, looking very wistful.
“She’s having a nice moment”, I think to myself, before seeing her partner following a few metres behind her, recording her with his phone.
Instagram influencer.
As for me, I’m just a novice writer whose most regular reader is my mum. I can’t influence you in the same way these perfectly curated Instagrammers can, but hey, at least I can give you a .JPG of Podgorica’s most famous attraction that you can print and pin on your fridge if you feel so particularly inclined.
At this reflective moment, a massive filling dislodges and I have to take a temporary return to reality in order to arrange a dentist’s appointment for soon after I return home. It wouldn’t be a holiday of mine without a dental-related drama! I purchase Panadol and mouthwash and hope for the best for now.
That evening, I head for a dinner of chicken in hazelnut sauce in Njegoseva Street before returning to Gorica Park. It’s still light and the settings are ripe for a beautiful sunset walk, especially with the storm having finished. I am surprised to see another turtle, a Hermann’s tortoise, crossing a path near to the ironwork gym I’d sampled earlier. Gorica Park is full of surprises, and I find myself liking the place more and more. It’s mysterious, it’s understated, and it’s beautiful. As I later make my way out of the park, I notice a small cafe bar – Klub Bocara – decked out in fairy lights and showing the Netherlands vs Romania game, and identify it as a perfect pit-stop. I sit on a table next to two girls who are smoking and playing a game of poker dice, and sip on another fresh, cold Niksicko lager. This place has a real vibe, one that just clicks. The evening warmth, the international football, the multiple languages being spoken, the fairy lights, the swing jazz on the radio, and A CAT! I stay there for a lot longer than planned just taking it all in and absorbing the moment (and taking every opportunity I can to stroke the cat). There’s tonnes I need to do to prepare for the next few days, but it can all wait.
Prior to moving on in the morning I reflect upon the last two days in Podgorica, and think back to those Google reviews. Is Podgorica the most vibrant, exciting place in the world? No. It’s not even the most vibrant and exciting place in Montenegro, as later trips to Durmitor and Budva alone would attest. But, does that mean it’s boring? Certainly not. And it’s certainly no ‘hole’. I’d go as far to wager that if you think that strongly about a place, it’s probably not the place that’s boring, but you. A lot of tourists need to understand that places don’t necessarily have to peacock to please those that visit. If they did, they’d all start looking the same, losing their unique identities to whatever algorithms constitute ‘amazing cities‘. Instead, it’s far better to take the time to really explore somewhere, and see and appreciate it for what it really is. What I particularly liked about Podgorica was that it didn’t pretend to be something it wasn’t. If it did, it probably would have felt like a lot of other places in the world.
Instead, it felt like Podgorica, Montenegro. And I absolutely loved it for that.
A couple of years ago, the watch manufacturer, Timex, took a swipe at the Smartwatch phenomenon by advertising an analogue watch (with actual moving hands!) that could ‘tell the time without seeing you have 1,249 unanswered emails’. The advert won a huge amount of plaudits and was considered to be very clever, whereas once upon a time – not so long ago – the reverse version of that statement would have been what impressed.
Promoting what a product lacks as opposed to what it provides has seldom been the foundation for excellent marketing technique, but in this instance it worked. It got people talking, and considering whether or not society is venturing into an era of digital malaise, in which our dependence on all things electronic is becoming as much of a pain as it is a convenience.
It’s something I have been thinking about more and more recently, triggered in part by the weekly notification I receive on my phone promptly at 9am each Monday. “You spent xxx more time on your phone than last week” it typically honks at me, and I’m never entirely sure if it’s trying to chastise me or for that or instead congratulating me for becoming further immersed into its features (and closer to 1984). Perhaps I should Google it, and see what other people think the intention of this notification is. All I know for sure is that it alarms me every time it includes the word, “more”.
Introverted extroverts like me can often make no sense to those who sit only one side or the other. You’ll think of us as chatty or shy, depending entirely on when you’ve met with us. We love nothing more than to feel connected with those we care about – in fact, we struggle if we don’t feel that – but we also crave regular access to personal space, and sometimes just don’t want to be ‘seen’. We view our phones as both a friend and an enemy at once, and since we need such devices for more and more things these days, we have to continually learn how to manage this somewhat complex relationship.
There are a lot of positives to it all. I think back to friends made in earlier parts of life and how as we diverted paths our friendship was restricted to the occasional letter received every few months (if that). The letters gradually stopped over the years and I could barely tell you anything about what they’re up to now, but had we been able to connect on social media, maybe we’d still be in touch to this day, and that would’ve been nice. I also think back to the times in which I’d only be able to resolve a bit of life admin if I was physically at home, on my computer, logged on to the internet. In many ways, I relish the fact that nowadays, you can tick things off your ‘to do’ list instantaneously, before they start weighing on the memory and mind. Transferring the money you owe to a friend whilst waiting for a plate of loaded fries to arrive. Applying for a postal vote whilst sat on a bus… digital technology is – without doubt – extremely useful.
At the same time, I also worry that with a phone around, there’s never any real escape. We think about breaks – as a general concept- as a bit of an occasional necessity. They are. But is it really a break if you still feel compelled to respond to emails by way of the fact you have access to them 24/7? Or if you’re still reading all the same things that you would at home? I often recall being abroad a few years back and having a particularly lovely day out in which all I really thought about was what was around me in the there and then, throwing myself into the local culture and eating delicious food. I was feeling extremely relaxed and content, at a time when I had really felt I needed such a break.
Then, once I was back on WiFi, I stupidly opened up the Facebook app, and saw posts on local residents’ groups about people bitching about bin collections and the new charges for plastic carrier bags. I also had a couple of emails which prompted some anxiety. Within seconds, a small screen had transported me back to my day to day, the very thing I was trying to take a break from. I felt I may as well have been back at home, and then carried out a further act of self-sabotage by attending a yoga class. Two poor choices in a row!
You’d think the lesson from this would simply be to just not take your phone out, right? And a few years back, that would have felt possible to do, but nowadays – not so much. Going for a walk in the countryside? Better take a phone in case you get stuck or endangered. Breathe in that fresh air and panoramic surroundings!
Then see that text pop up about how your car insurance is due for renewal, and is likely to cost a limb (even switching off your data won’t have with that one!).
Heading to meet a friend? Better take a phone in case your train is delayed. But once you’re there you can put your phone away in your handbag and focus on your friend!
Until said handbag starts vibrating against your leg for too long to ignore, and you have to take the call because you don’t recognise the number, and it could be something important…
Up until it got soaked to death in a storm last year, I used to be one of the few remaining species on the planet who used MP3 players. Remember those? Just music and nothing else. It came with me everywhere for over a decade, and prompted many jokes from others alluding to my apparent love of antiques. Since phones can act as MP3 players these days and that’s what most people use, my traditional one was pretty impossible to replace, and so I succumbed to the trend. It’s been better in many ways, having no end of music to access thanks to Spotify and a decent data plan, but do I miss the days of being able to zone out to music whilst on the go without the fear of intrusion from emails and nuisance callers? Yes. Very much so.
If I sound like I’m bashing on technology too much, know that I believe the pros of it fully outweigh the cons. I would feel quite stuck and probably quite isolated if I didn’t have my phone.
But that’s precisely the problem.
Song of the Day: thenightsky – Lost Ocean
I can’t tell you anything about this band, as when I tried to find out more about them I got taken to a bunch of websites about custom star maps. Anyway, this is a nice Summer tune recommended to me by Spotify this week, so here you go.
sophiekemsley 