“EUROPE’S MOST BORING DESTINATION”? THE SURPRISE OF PODGORICA

| sophiekemsley

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.

THE DIGITAL DICHOTOMY

| sophiekemsley

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.

Photo by Tim Gouw on Pexels.com

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.



WALKING THE ELHAM VALLEY WAY

| sophiekemsley

When a friend recently asked me if I fancied doing ‘a really long walk’, it didn’t take much convincing. Not only do I really like walks, but I particularly love ‘really long’ walks – the sort that make your legs feel totally jellified by the end – and at 35km, the Elham Valley Way walk is exactly that. We would walk and walk and walk, from Canterbury – with its impressive Cathedral backdrop – to Hythe, before celebrating with a mini pork pie and tin of beer by the sea. Perfect.

Our route followed the trail of what had once been the Elham Valley Railway, a commuter line which had ran between Canterbury and Folkestone from the late 1800’s until the 1940’s. The line is known by most for the role it played during the second world war, when it temporarily stopped its passenger services to assist with national defence. Three guns were mounted at various locations along the old track, the largest of which (known as the ‘Boche Buster’) was capable of firing shells a distance of up to 20km and could – and did – cause damage to many nearby homes when set off.

I’m no railway buff by any means. I leave that sort of thing to my Dad, who relishes in it. Yet, something about the Elham Valley Railway – or rather – the remnants of it, has always intrigued me. Not far from where my parents live in south Canterbury, down a litter-strewn alleyway that otherwise seems to lead into a rural nothingness, can be found a glorious old honey-toned Victorian railway bridge at the bottom of a steep verge. This was one of the first bridges that trains would pass through having departed from the city centre, and the fact it’s still pretty much intact today – albeit clad in litter, graffiti and discarded Vapes – feels incredibly romantic to me. Absorbing historic architecture – viewing the same bricks as those who came before us – is probably the nearest we will ever get to travelling back in time, and so it’s important that we preserve what we can of it.

My friend shares similar sentiments. She likes to imagine that when walking along a former railway line, personal artefacts may emerge from the earthy banks: an engagement ring, hastily tossed out the carriage window following a fractious conversation between lovers; a pair of binoculars dropped by an excited youth leaning out the window to take a closer look at the rolling hills of Kent; an old shoe – because they somehow manage to get anywhere – or any other signs of an Elham Valley Railway passenger.

In reality we found no such things during our eight hour trek, but that in itself felt remarkable. Today, there is stillness in coordinates that were once the site of so much movement; peace in a place once associated with war. The Elham Valley Way is one of the most beautiful walks in Kent and a virtually bottomless trove of delights, boasting panoramic views, ancient woodlands, butterflies, cowslips and bluebells, among many other goodies! We ate our packed lunches rested upon a fallen tree surrounded by sheep and spring lambs, most of whom surveyed us carefully as we entered the field, before turning away nonchalantly. A few moments beforehand we had also come across some highland cows on a hillside, their horns silhouetted against the grey skies as they grazed on grasses several hundred miles away from their home. Neither of us had expected to see that.


In the villages that punctuated the journey we passed numerous cottages that gave us house-envy, a former home of Audrey Hepburn in Elham, an ancient well in Lyminge, and a friendly old man in Newington who approached us with an offer of help and a smile after observing us looking a bit lost. The railway museum in Peene had just closed up for the day when we passed but given the lack of engagement rings, binoculars and shoes en route, thank goodness it’s even there at all, to help keep the history of the former railway alive.

Our experiences on the outskirts of Hythe included being out-stared by a group of stern-looking cows the other side of a fence we were looking to cross, and wandering through a misty golf course, fearful of being concussed by a mis-shot. That wouldn’t have been a great ending after the best part of 35km, but fortunately was not to be the case. As we finally heard the lapping of waves and smelt the sea air we knew we had accomplished our mission for the day to reach the coastline, and both the pork pie and the beer lived firmly up to expectation.

Not only had this been a lovely and long walk, but it had surpassed all expectations in terms of what we would encounter along the way. In an age where digital technology attempts to simulate on screens as much of the world around it as it can, walks like this serve as a timely reminder of why it will never be able to fully do so. All the YouTube, Streetviews and online guides in the world cannot replicate reality, no matter how much you zoom in, nor can they tell you everything about a place. There will always be room for wonder and surprise.

There is always so much more beyond the map, just itching to be found.

Song of the Day: Kettel – Duck

Kettel is an artist from the Netherlands who specialises in playful and melodic electronica. Perfect for accompanying Summertime exercise!

S-PEAKING WITH A MOUNTAIN

| sophiekemsley

There is a particularly famous Chinese proverb which we are probably all familiar with:

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

We can probably all see it right now, written in a swooshy font, pasted over a picture of a mountain range or the sole of a battered old hiking boot stepping off into a sunset, and posted somewhere within our social media newsfeeds. It’s arguably so over saturated a quote, that the impact has probably been diluted over the years. Yet, as I stood at the foot of Moel Siabod – the tenth highest mountain in Snowdonia – looking up in slight dismay at the height of the summit I was aiming for, that very same proverb was one of the first things to spring to mind, and it set me on my way. Albeit quite gingerly at first.

I was walking the mountain alone, a context which I knew wasn’t ideal but which was also a driver behind the determination to do it. I had been debating with myself for a while and the internal dialogue had gone something like this:

“Could I do it?”
“…Maybe it’s safer not to. Go for a coffee and do some writing, instead!”
“Okay then, I’ll do the mountain.”

(Writing and coffee almost always win, usually)

I wasn’t completely naive to the challenge and risk of doing a mountain hike alone, and carried out a fair amount of research beforehand, equipping myself with all the right safety gear for if I were to get stuck: first aid kit, plenty of extra food, an emergency whistle, bright attire to be visible to rescue services, a power pack to charge my phone, and a headtorch for if I were to get stranded into nightfall. All the gear, and definitely some idea, although it’s also fair to admit that despite this I’d still underestimated quite how challenging the walk would be. Having done Snowdon several times I thought I’d have no trouble with a smaller mountain, and that was rookie mistake number one. The height is one thing, the accessibility is something completely different. In selecting to ascend Moel Siabod via the eastern Daear Du ridge I’d chosen a route which would involve a lot more physical challenge than I was expecting. This walk required hands as well as feet, but I wouldn’t realise that until way too late. Nor did I realise that I would be the only person climbing this particular mountain that morning. The security of there being other people around had been something I’d naively banked upon, but it was an off-season weekday and I may as well have had the whole thing to myself.

I left my car in Pont Cyfyng and crossed the river, past Rhos Farm, to begin my ascent to a peak I’d been told gave way to some of the finest views of Snowdonia. I’d naturally gravitated towards choosing Moel Siabod for my solo hike. It was close to where I’d been staying in Betws-y-Coed and the route back afterwards would take me past Ty Hyll – the famous ‘Ugly House’ – which a friend had told me was great for cake. Not only that, but it was also close to Dyffryn Farm, the subject of ‘I Bought a Mountain’ and home of the incredibly inspiring Esme Kirby who I had been writing about only a couple of months earlier. Moel Siabod. Alone. It just had to be.

The first couple of hours went by without too much drama, following a steep, boggy and almost waterfall-like in parts path that ran along the left hand side of the mountain. It was strenuous at times and incredibly wet, but I could see where I needed to go at least and that was half the battle won. I kept thinking about the peanut butter and marmite bagel I had in my bag and how despite my lingering hunger I’d save it for the summit, when it would taste even better than it would on terra firma. Food – fuel in more ways than one – the prospect of it keeping me going.


I reached the Daear Du ridge in tired but high spirits. Between lashings of heavy rain and snow there had been gorgeous outbreaks of sunshine that had illuminated the landscape and were able to transform the neighbouring Llyn y Foel lake from a pit of ominous bubbling treacle to a shimmering cobalt masterpiece. Now that I was at the ridge the summit was surely within sight, and that bagel would shortly be out of its foil and exposing itself to the elements… and my mouth.

Except it wasn’t that straightforward, as I had absolutely no idea how to progress along the ridge. A clear pathway was no longer visible; replaced instead with a bunch of rocks and boulders of numerous different shapes of sizes that made it harder to see the way beyond. All I could do to navigate my way was to try and move myself ever-further in the direction of the summit, and hopefully that would work. I pulled myself up the first boulder and just knew it was going to be a long couple of hours to the summit. I knew I was in roughly the right place, but had no idea if the particular boulders I chose to climb were right. It’s fair to say I went down a few proverbial rabbit holes: routes that turned out not to be routes, dead ends, insurmountable rocks, and numerous U-turns. And these seemed to go on for ages. In blizzards of snow which only obscured my vision and froze my fingers further. I was getting tired, frustrated and hungrier.

There were several points at which I sat down and sighed, and deliberated eating my bagel early. It was during these moments that I started to think that maybe I had made a massive mistake in trying to do this alone. At times I felt completely stuck and was convinced that this wasn’t going to end well; either a sheepish (no pun intended) call to Mountain Rescue or worse, my carrion-pecked corpse being discovered weeks or months later, a half eaten bagel disintegrated into the dirt beside me. I considered recording a note on my phone for my family, to explain what had happened and how I was sorry for being so stupid to have come on this walk alone. It sounds far-fetched now; yet at the time it felt so very real. My story had a (spoiler alert) happy ending but a lot of others don’t, and for all the wonders of climbing mountains, it’s important to consider at all times just how dangerous they can be too. Rescues are carried out across Snowdonia virtually every day, and tragically, not all of them are successful.

I had three options. Either I try and go back on myself and head home, call Mountain Rescue for assistance off the ridge, or I just carry on. I knew what I wanted to do, but had to consider whether it was the safest or most responsible thing. Almost immediately, I judged that it was the best option. To go back on myself would involve a risky and steep descent back to the main path and at least two hours walking back, not to mention a feeling of disappointment and failure. To call Mountain Rescue felt a bit unnecessary just yet, and could divert them from greater emergencies elsewhere. I had to just do this. I just had to do this.

At the same time I heard the voice of society within:
“You shouldn’t have done this on your own” it said, “especially not as a woman. What were you thinking?!”
It was hard not to see the point of the imaginary voice in my head. What had I been thinking? If I’d had somebody with me, we would have been able to problem-solve together. Maybe they’d have been able to see the path I’d clearly failed to see. Maybe a big, strong man would have been able to plough on ahead to work out the route and come back to give me a lift-up and encouragement when I needed it.

Or maybe those internal voices are just a manifestation of messages that have been pushed upon soloists – especially female ones – by society for decades. And maybe I needed to shove a dummy in its mouth. In my own head, at least.

I promptly sought out the biggest rock around me and dragged myself up onto it. Then the next one. And the next. I was tired, a bit delirious, and still not sure I was going the right way, but knew that to keep on going was my only choice. Bagel or no bagel, I had to keep moving. The summit may have felt like a thousand miles away, but with every single step west, I was getting closer to it. There would – nor could – be any turning back.

Heavy winds and further snow blizzards set in. They weren’t ideal but the feet and hands I’d previously doubted weren’t failing me, mainly thanks to decent boots and gloves. I was finally progressing along the ridge that I’d thought was going to be my nemesis. Step by step. Rock by rock. One step at a time – that’s all it needed to be. In weather I couldn’t control but just needed to endure.

And then there it was. The trig point marking the summit of Moel Siabod. The finest trig point I’ve ever seen, even if I was too frozen to appreciate it fully. I had made it – I think. My head was completely spun and didn’t feel too sure of anything anymore. Until I turned round and saw the most beautiful rainbow above a snow-capped mountain range:

This may sound a self-congratulatory post, it’s not meant to be. Thousands of people climb mountains every day. Instead, it’s about some of the concepts that arose from the trek and how they can apply to many things in life, something a friend recently described beautifully as ‘symmetries of nature’.

A mountain can seem huge and daunting but when broken down into single steps, not so much.
Equally, we can’t control the weather; but we can control whether we choose to carry on throughout. A glove here; a waterproof jacket there – there are things we can do to adapt – and the heaviest of rain and greyest of skies will often lead only to the most beautiful rainbows. One of the most aesthetically pleasing presentations of the weather is only able to occur because of another that is so often maligned – how wonderful is that? A tough climb makes for an even sweeter summit.

To descend from the mountain I followed a much simpler path on the western side that led down to the village of Capel Curig, affording wonderful views of Llynau Mymbyr and Dyffryn Farm looking down on it. By this point, the cake was almost in sight, and I was feeling that I had really earned it. I was proud to have reached the summit and arguably even more so for having done it alone. Had it really been unwise to do so? I’m not so sure it was. They say there’s safety in numbers but sometimes I think that’s a bit of an illusion; maybe company would have been a distraction, maybe we’d have been so ensconced in gossip that we misplaced a foot and took a nasty tumble, maybe we would have relied on each other too much and underestimated the scale of the challenge, leaving behind the safety gear. Maybe one of us would have slipped whilst trying to give the other a leg-up. Maybe that’s a lot of maybes.

Maybe it’s not always black and white.

I’ll think about Moel Siabod forever.

LESSONS IN WOMANHOOD FROM SOME LADIES ON A BUS

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This month I’ve struggled to unfasten myself from Cheryl Strayed’s gripping memoir, ‘Wild’. It tells the tale of her 1,100 mile hike across America’s Pacific Crest Trail in the 1990’s, as a woman in her late ’20’s.

Cheryl undertook this mammoth feat at a time in her personal life in which she was struggling, having recently lost her mother and divorced from a man she still cared about a huge amount but just couldn’t see a future with. For her, the Trail was an opportunity for self-discovery, and a way to prove to herself that she not only can, but does. I’m only halfway through the book but already understand why it was a #1 Best Seller in the New York Times, and material for a blockbuster movie starring Reese Witherspoon.

It seems quite fitting to be reading this book in the same week as International Women’s Day, a time to revere in all things womanhood, and celebrate those wonderful females both past and present who have ever taken a risk that paved the way for the rest of us to do the same. Women who have ever diverged from the beaten track of societal norms. Women who didn’t – or don’t – allow their gender to determine what they can or can’t do. Strong, loving and caring women who hold their own and have a positive impact on those around them, in whatever way that may be.

I have met many inspiring women over the years, for a multitude of different reasons, and I appreciate their influence every day, but recently – and no doubt inspired by my choice of literature at the moment – I have particularly been thinking about female explorers, a bit like Cheryl Strayed (who I obviously haven’t met, but would love to one day). Women who set out on their own to explore the world around them, even if their bags were painfully heavy (like Cheryl’s), even if their shoes were worn, and even if – by the very nature of being a lone woman in a foreign place – they were at a heightened risk of nasty things happening to them along the way.

There have been a number of inspiring female explorers throughout history. Amelia Earhart or the aptly named Isabella Bird may be among the first that spring to mind, and whilst their influence cannot be downplayed, I often think that among the most inspiring are those who we come across in our day to day. The hidden heroines who come in and out of our lives leaving longer term lessons behind.


I thought back to a trip to Canada I had made in the Summer of 2006, a few months before my 21st birthday. It was my first time traveling without anyone I knew and as such, I had approached it with a bit of trepidation and unease. Overall, I managed fine, but do remember being a little upset one day whilst we were staying in a beautiful riverside hostel at Fort Coulonge – some nonsense to do with a phone and worrying about some administrative issues back home regarding University accommodation for the following term. I remember sitting on the thin, lumpy mattress of a bunk-bed that looked like it could snap should somebody set down their rucksack onto it too swiftly, and crying. An Australian nurse in her late ’30s named Jo – who was on the same trip – saw I was upset, sat down next to me and took my hand whilst listening to me talk through what was – in hindsight – a bit of a non-problem in the grand scheme of things, involving lots of mundane detail. She listened patiently, offering support and assurance throughout, before suddenly adopting a more stern demeanour and heading out the door to join the rest of the group:

“Now, get ya shit together!! You won’t get this moment again.“

And maybe, initially, I was quite taken aback by this sudden change of tone and (also a little embarrassed for having blubbered away at somebody I’d only known for two days). But, within minutes I found myself away from the bunk and plunging into the Ottawa River with my fellow travellers, trying to get back into the moment as we all played a game. I remember feeling rejuvenated by Jo’s laid-back attitude, and perspective on what really mattered and what didn’t. What she had said had worked, and transformed the course of my afternoon, shifting my focus back to where it needed to be. It’s worth noting here that those administrative concerns I’d been so worried about were resolved within a few frantic but otherwise non-descript days of phone-calls when back home a few weeks later, to the point where I can’t even remember what the exact problem was, and certainly don’t hold it to the same historic merit that I do the Canada trip. Yet at the time, it had felt massive. Jo’s perspective had been correct.

On the same trip was Dorothea, a lady from the Black Forest – who was again in her late ’30’s – and would sit on the minibus with her earphones in and just do her own thing, laughing at her own jokes – most of which the rest of us didn’t understand – splitting away from the group during most stops, but engaging with us when it mattered, and fundamentally always smiling and being kind. A really calming presence. Hana was a flame-haired lady in her 60’s – also from Germany – who was on the trip having recently become widowed, and wanting to do something a bit special to try and make the best out of a chapter that could easily have been overwhelmed by grief. She was the oldest person on the trip by at least twenty five years but you wouldn’t have been able to tell from the way in which she joined in with everything, especially the wild water rafting! I remember her welcoming smile and state of chill, and also her maternal instincts, which included paying attention to my nutritional needs:

“EatzummorepotatoZophie!” she had once interrupted a story she was telling to snap at me when she noticed I’d finished my lunch, thrusting a foil container of cheesy diced potatoes into my immediate sphere and simultaneously ensuring I fulfilled my potassium quota for the day. It’s funny how some sentences stay etched in your mind for years to come; that one certainly did in mine. I hear it every time I eat potato, and since it’s now been almost eighteen years, I guess I probably always will.

BusDriverJen, a Canadian native from Ontario, had driven us around for much of the trip as our tour-guide, and she too was an energising character. She was so passionate about her work and for us to feel the same levels of enthusiasm for Canada and for its native music – such as Stompin’ Tom Connors‘ ‘Hockey Song’ – that she did. In reality, the most any of us wanted to do with Stompin’ Tom Connors’ after hearing the song for the ten-thousandth time within a day was to throw the CD right out of the window and firmly into the trunk of any single one of the pines we passed on our route so that it would smash into smithereens. Despite this, the enthusiasm had been infectious and inspiring. The Hockey Song is saved onto one of my Spotify playlists and appears every now and then whilst on shuffle mode. I no longer want to fervently chuck it at a tree, even if such a thing were possible. Instead I think about that trip, the long bus journeys, BusDriverJen warbling out, ‘the good ol’ hockey gaaaaaame’ at the wheel in a valiant effort to encourage the rest of us to join in; some apprehensively attempting, and the likes of Dorothea adjusting their headphones and pretending to be fixated by something out of the window so as to avoid having to do so.

Meeting all of these interesting women within the space of a couple of weeks had been an incredibly powerful and marked experience. The volume of independent, explorative women I met on the trip had outnumbered that of men, and that’s not meant as a slight on males, each of the ones I met on the trip had been lovely too. It’s more an acknowledgement of having come across the unexpected, and taking inspiration from it at an impressionable age. Until that point I had only ever heard or read about solo female travellers – never met one myself – yet here they were, dancing to their own headphones in the minibus, calmly responding to intrusive questions about where their husbands were, and defying well-intended yet slightly patronising suggestions on where they should and shouldn’t be going if traveling alone. I remember considering these women in a similar way that you may consider a particularly inspiring teacher in school, when you quietly hope that you might turn out to be a bit like them by the time you reach their age.

At the end of the trip we all went our separate ways. Social media was still to become a real thing back then so instead we’d all exchanged e-mail addresses and vowed to keep in touch that way. Within a few months the e-mails had tapered off and these people I’d come to know so well within those two weeks had faded back into being strangers again, the same ones who’d first stepped onto the minibus and introduced themselves all those months before. In the years that have passed I can’t claim to have thought about them overly often. Life is ever moving and it’s been a very long time. Yet, almost twenty years later, as I sit and really think about it, I see the impact that meeting them had had on me, a planted seed, how in their own ways they had altered what I had thought womanhood was all about back then, that it wasn’t just about x, y and z but about all the other letters of the alphabet too, including solo explorations in a world that had convinced us that as women, we shouldn’t.

That womanhood could be – and is – about absolutely anything you want it to be.

Happy International Women’s Day (for two days ago) to all the inspiring women out there. Keep doing what you do and being true to what you believe in.

Song of the Day: Chantal Kreviazuk – Before You

This seems a pretty appropriate one for the post. This had been another song on BusDriverJen’s CD of Canadian music, but this tune I didn’t mind hearing umpteen times a day. Beautiful song.

LITTLE THINGS I LOVE, PT. 4

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This month I decided it was time to finally address a few ‘niggling‘ things around my flat. You know the sort of things I mean, those things which in their current state aren’t ideal, but will just ‘do’, especially for the sake of saving pennies. Several of these things had been on my ‘list of things to sort’ since 2018, like having the ill-fitting loo seat replaced and painting the kitchen anything other than the dreary shade of brown I’d moved in to, but none had ever felt like a priority until I finally caved this year, and it was fully worth it. A few minor changes have lifted the place up a lot, and again reminds me of the importance of the little details in life, the cement between the bricks.

‘Little Things I Love’ is about celebrating these little sensory things even more. I have already done three of these kind of posts over the years and they are among my favourite to write. We all know how testing and nasty the world can be at times, that’s why these things matter even more. The previous versions of this post are available here, here and here. So here we go… the latest little things I love...

…the notably enlarged shaft of sunlight that fills the room after rolling up the blinds by just an inch or two…

…the first moment that the sunshine reflects off a freshly-formed puddle following a rainstorm…

…books with well-creased spines – a sign of having been read and enjoyed over many years, a permit to do the same…

…running your fingers along the back of a thin piece of paper that’s been imprinted all over in biro on the other side…

…strangers holding open doors for others… (I know that some find this an insult, but to me it’s just a harmless indication of people noticing other people and just wanting to make their day a little bit easier)

…when the sky looks like this, and makes everything glow within its path…

…random, innocent, ‘wtf’ humour. For example, I love that there is an entire Instagram account for somebody who takes their Henry Hoover on road-trips with them and photographs ‘Henry’ at an array of landmarks. There’s another which only ever posts the same moving image of Miffy the Rabbit with a different musical backdrop each time, which I find equally hilarious. I would love to meet the people behind these accounts. If I ever did, I’d buy them a beer. In fact – make that five beers. In further fact – just take anything and everything you want.

…a fresh bag of crisps and pot of dip on a Friday night…

…brisk walks when the music, scenery and heart-rate are all in a state of fantastic alignment…

…when people use quaint, old-fashioned phrases like “full of vim”…

…the particularly thick, fluffy feel of a brand new sweater…

…aimless wanders round Poundland. Nothing you want, everything you need; great deals on toiletries, and random snacks that you didn’t think were real / still available…

And plenty more, but they’ll be within Part 5 🙂 What are the little things you love?

Song of the Day: More Fatter – That Night

Fun, catchy indie-funk tune from California that was recently ‘recommended’ to me by Spotify and which I’m fairly sure will feature highly on my ‘Unwrapped’ towards the end of the year as I’ve had it on repeat pretty much ever since.

THE FEMALE INFLUENCER OF SNOWDONIA

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As part of my ongoing love-affair with Snowdonia, I used some of the Christmas break to read a couple of books that were set there. The first was Thomas Firbank’s “I Bought A Mountain”, which is a true story about the author’s experience giving up the corporate world in the 1930’s, moving to North Wales, and turning to a life of farming. Although it sounds idyllic (and actually, not too far removed from some of my own daydreams minus the 1930’s part) the success of the book lies in the rawness of the narrative, an honest account of a complex patchwork including both loss and prosperity, love and tragedy, ignorance and learning and most of all, hard work. As well as all that, there’s a lot of salivating descriptions of gorgeous scenery that effortlessly transports the reader to the subject area.


It was an enjoyable read, but I was much more engaged by the second book, a biography of Esme Kirby, Firbank’s first wife who played a key role in supporting her husband to manage Dyffryn Farm. Among her achievements during this time was setting a new women’s record for conquering the Welsh 3000s, an extremely tough physical challenge which involves reaching all fifteen peaks of over 3000 feet in Wales within 24 hours. Kirby completed it in nine and a half, in 1938, long before the days of protein bars and fancy hiking boots that can assist us with such challenge today.

Incredible as this is, the most inspiring part of her story starts when Firbank sets off to fight in the second world war and decides not to return to Dyffryn, or to Esme, leaving her to choose between a potentially easier, economically stable life away from the likes of sheep shearing and pig selling, or continuing to manage all 3000 acres alone. She chose the latter, and she made it work. To keep financially afloat she rented out the farm and instead lived in a caravan within the grounds. She brushed her teeth and washed her hair in the river, but every now and then would dress herself up for cosy evenings with friends in local hostelries. Her life satisfied her, even if it could be tough to make ends meet.

Kirby was also an ardent conservationist who was extremely passionate about protecting the local landscape from development, and decades of effort in doing so eventually earned her the touching moniker of “Guardian of Snowdonia”. She founded the Snowdonia National Park Society in 1967 after successfully campaigning against the construction of a youth hostel on the Glyder mountains by Dyffryn. The Snowdonia Society, as it is now known, has remained active ever since, and has had a crucial influence on the pleasing visuals we see today, keeping the rivers free of litter and enabling responsible tourism through improved footpath access to mountain ranges, among lots of other things.


Kirby was a very well respected pillar of the local community, but she wasn’t liked by everybody, and some of her decisions were not as popular as others. During her time as Chairperson for the Society she was known to occasionally neglect any notion of consultation when sated by her own staunch beliefs and opinions. She took a hard line against a few development proposals that had the potential to bring greater economic prosperity and job opportunities to the area. In her view, the mountains needed to be left well alone and unspoilt by unnecessary constructions and eyesores. 

Kirby passed away in 1999, some fourteen years before the first Zip World attraction opened creating a new use for the Penrhyn slate quarry, and that’s probably for the best. I don’t think she would have liked it very much, despite the eye-watering £121 million it has pumped into the local economy from people gliding along ziplines in boilersuits, bouncing around on underground trampolines, and meandering through the forest on toboggans.

She may not have got everything quite right – because nobody does – and her leadership skills may have sometimes been lacking, but I am full of admiration for her sense of conviction and devotion to protecting the natural magic of the area she so loved. On top of this, she succeeded in a difficult industry dominated by men (even more so back then). There is something quite ironic about the fact I only came to know of her by reading her first husband’s book, despite being aware of the Snowdonia Society from having pored through one of their fabulous bi-annual magazines one morning last August whilst eating the most syruppy (not a bad thing) French Toast in the legendary Cafe Siabod.

The international, best-selling success of “I Moved A Mountain” should not be apportioned wholly to the author Firbank. For me, it’s Esme who’s the real star of this story, and in an era where the term ‘female influencer’ might be more often attributed to the likes of Kim Kardashian or a random on TikTok who regularly explains the best way to apply lipliner, more people need to know about this one.

Song of the Day: JACK – Try to Arrive Alive

Another gem recommended to me by Spotify! I don’t know too much about this artist but the lyrics are incredibly motivating and at a time where there is so much challenge in the world everyone should listen to it. Cool video too.

A CLAMBER UP THE QUARRY

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What would you do if you came across an injured goat on the side of a mountain? Who should you call? What if you don’t have signal, would you just have to leave it?

These were the questions I was pondering to myself one warm August morning earlier in the year whilst ascending the steep, slate inclines of the Dinorwic Slate Quarry in Llanberis, Snowdonia. The air was so still, so silent, that it greatly amplified the sound of a goat bleating coarsely from beyond.

So intrusive to the tranquility was the noise that my immediate thought was that the creature must be in distress, and maybe I could find it and provide some aid. I subsequently pondered over the questions above, and was concerned that I didn’t really know any of the answers.

It was whilst doing this I saw something that would put my mind at rest. On a not too distant peak, I was just about able to make out two fuzzy balls of copper bounding towards one another, bleating recognisable bleats. They had been using their vocals – which were now softening – to find each other, and it had worked. Mystery solved, and thank goodness, because I’m not sure I’d have known what to do if my initial concerns had been realised. I carried on with my walk to the summit.

The day had started off in a strange tone. Until this point, I had spent my Snowdonia trip in the company of loved ones and we had all had a lovely time, but first thing that morning they had returned home and I was suddenly alone. Alone time is never usually a problem for me. As an introverted-extrovert, my energy sources oscillate fairly evenly between company and lack thereof. I need them both at different times. Many of my favourite outdoor adventures have been the ones I’ve had by myself, exploring and getting lost in nature and my favourite music, but this morning, there was that subdued feeling similar to the one you might feel as you chuck bits of popped balloons and food waste into binbags following an enjoyable party, that missing people feeling.

I knew that the best way to respond to this would be to give myself a bit of a mission for the day ahead and I immediately knew what that mission would be – to find the Anglesey Barracks (which, confusingly, are not on Anglesey).

The Anglesey Barracks are a group of granite cottages that were built high in the Dinorwic slate quarry during the 1870’s to serve as homes for those working there, to save the daily commute. One need only look at what remains of them today to know that they didn’t boast the greatest of living standards, even in those more basic of days. Each cottage housed four workers across two small rooms: a communal kitchen space and a shared bedroom. At no point during their occupancy did they have access to electricity so the only source of heat was a fireplace fuelled by coal that they had had to lug up those testing terrains in all weathers. Water needed to be collected from streams, and lack of hygiene and sanitation was a big problem. 

Use of the barracks for housing ceased in the late 1930’s for this reason, and since this time the buildings have been left and reclaimed by nature. It is this, combined with the history, that provides the mystical and intriguing aesthetic that makes them so popular with explorers, historians and photographers. Indeed, I had only come across their existence from an Instagram post, and then a framed photo on the wall in the cottage which we had just been staying in. Although the barracks themselves weren’t widely signposted I could tell from a bit of brief internet research of whereabouts they were, within walking distance from Llanberis, a place I knew fairly well.

I headed towards the Power Station and looked to my left for a footpath that would take me up towards the top of the quarry. It was pretty much where I expected it to be, and so began the steep incline to the top. The first fifteen minutes or so was all about big steps. The ones that make you feel like you’re doing a high-knees HIIT session on repeat. Although towards the end they were getting quite tiring, I also knew that big steps meant big heights, and big heights meant better views. I was excited to clear ‘tree level’ and to reach the steep dark-grey slate paths that wound round the side of the quarry peaks. I knew the barracks couldn’t be too far away, and persevered against the inclines, which were altogether more challenging in the August heat.

The barracks would have been easy to miss. The main footpath takes you only parallel to them for a few brief moments, and they are concealed by both a copse of trees and being lower down than the path itself, accessible by steps. I had reached a bend in the footpath and it was only from this that I noticed the neon jacket of a fellow explorer 140 degrees to my right, stood in the centre of the historic residential street. 

The sights did not disappoint, feeling every bit as intriguing as they had seemed on screen, but looking most definitely smaller than what I had been expecting (and I certainly hadn’t expected them to be spacious). I carried on walking through ‘streets’ that would have once seen heavy footfall every day but today only had a couple of prints, those of neon jacket guy, and mine. It was humbling to observe.


There were more cottages around the corner. These ones seemed to have experienced an even greater reclamation from nature. Mossy green branches protruded out of what were once bedroom windows, roots had broken into the foundations leading to piles of collapsed slate everywhere, and there were certainly no roofs on any of them. The exposed remains of a lone cottage sat slightly closer to the edge of the ridge and afforded a great panoramic, the perfect place to eat my ham sandwich. I sat for a while looking out towards Yr Wyddfa and though from here I couldn’t see a single soul on the mountain I knew that up close it would be teeming with hundreds of hikers striving for the summit, like ants crawling an anthill. I gave myself time to absorb the moment. Yes, I was still feeling some dregs of loneliness, but what a stunning place to be (and what a fit sandwich to be eating too, I seem to recall that one was particularly good).

Fuelled up on protein, fibre and a rush of adrenaline from the views I continued my ascent up the winding slate path to the top of the quarry. It was during this stint that I heard the not-so-distressed goats, and also saw a few others, such as this pair, which studied me intensely as I approached:


I couldn’t get over the fact they had actual horns, just like the ones found in storybooks. Fittingly, they seemed to disappear the closer you got, leaving you wondering if they’d even be real or just an illusion catalysed by the drop in air pressure from the rising altitudes.

I eventually reached the quarry peak, which somehow reminded me of a cross between the surface of the moon and the American West, not that I know either of those well. There were clear signs of human activity, not least from signage warning of electrical currents, yet very few actual humans about. Everything about it felt other worldly, and I enjoyed wandering aimlessly for a while, in awe of the sheer size of the expanse. 

A man-made pier-like structure led out to a viewpoint, at the end of which somebody had recently attached a bouquet of flowers in poignant memory of a loved one. This must have been a special place to the departed and as I once again took in the panoramic I could completely understand why. I admired the dedication of their loved one for keeping the bouquet so intact during what it is a steep and testing climb, and imagine it brought them some solace to place it there.

It’s hard not to fall massively in love with this part of the world. It’s not the best kept secret, but neither is it a full front-page spread. The perfect balance, maybe.

I looked down over the village of Llanberis, where I had checked into my bunkhouse a few hours previously, and was surprised to see it now looking like a small blur, a good time to start my descent perhaps.

The goats were fine, my mission had been achieved, and it was time for a curry and a pint of Snowdonian IPA.

KLEIN WUNDEREN AM RHEIN / SMALL WONDERS ON THE RHINE

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There is a large number of things that I have loved about Germany for a very long time. They mostly centre around food (Spaghettieis for the win!), music (Blümchen, Die Ärzte and Fettes Brot to select from a variety of genres) and the varying landscapes that characterise so many different corners of the country, from the alpine mountains in the south, the industrial cities of the north, and the various yellows, greens and blues that form the Rhineland in between. Then of course, there’s all of those gorgeous colourful timber-framed buildings that you can see all over the country, often evoking imagery of something out of Hansel and Gretel (minus the witch, hopefully, but also minus the Battenberg windows, sadly).

This year, I was delighted to have the chance to get back out to Germany with a friend. I had seen some extremely cheap flights to Cologne in the Summer, and snapped them up whilst I could. It was a very busy and extremely entertaining weekend, not least from the fact we had arrived during ‘Karneval’ weekend. This was something which had been unbeknown to us but not to the entire rest of the German population, who all seemed to descend upon the city every 11th day in November, our first full day there. This centuries old tradition was originally celebrated as a way to scare away winter spirits, and nowadays translates into revelers from all over the country packing every square inch of the streets of Cologne in fancy dress and enjoying several biers and glühweins whilst singing songs together extremely loudly. After the initial shock to the system, we felt extremely pleased to have been able to experience it, but were admittedly extremely grateful when the crowds started to clear and we could move about more easily.

However, my favourite part of the weekend was a boat ride along the Rhine that we had booked for the Sunday afternoon. To me, the experience brought together all the things I love about Germany in one river-roving vessel. During this 1.5 hour journey towards the southern borough of Rodenkirchen and back, a gentleman played classic German pop covers and traditional songs on a keyboard whilst groups of friends and families jigged about on the dancefloor, cheering on all those who came to join them. Extremely polite waiting staff took drinks orders and talked us through the different varieties of schnapps on offer, before bringing back a Kölsch and a shot glass of dark, syruppy matter which would clear the airways for the next decade.

Next to us, an elderly lady appeared so delighted with the size of the sausage brought out to her that she held it up in the air in disbelief, waving it about whilst her daughter grinned on. Up on deck, a young man named Ben enjoyed practising his English on us, although I was keen to try to speak the best German I could remember from school whilst conversing back at him. Ben explained that his family had traveled to Cologne from Berlin, especially for Karneval. We spoke about his life in Berlin, and how he supported F.C Union Berlin and specifically not F.C Hertha Berlin. Ben volunteered to take a picture of my friend and I, before heading back down to his family, a group made up of several generations.

Alongside the friendly company, amazing hospitality, classic tunes and good local beer, what I also loved was the river itself. This huge expanse of water was a true gift to the senses, and conjured up much in the way of imagination. At 1,225 kilometers long, from Switzerland to the North Sea, our little boat ride barely scratched the surface of the entirety of what the river has to behold, and that’s not even accounting for the vast history, which includes being a vital conduit for trade during the Roman era.

No sooner had I arrived back in the UK, I was looking up how much it might cost to travel a longer distance along the Rhine, and the general upshot was that I’d need to sell my home and probably a limb to be able to do so. So, with that dream out the proverbial porthole, I’m instead just basking in the memory of a very magical 1.5 hours in November.

Song of the Day: The Dining Rooms – Wild Love

The Dining Rooms is an Italian band who combine ambient and electronic music together in a fusion they refer to as ‘downbeat’. This isn’t the sort of song I’d put on whilst getting ready to head out, but it’s perfect for a long drive on dark and rainy evening. Very atmospheric and appropriate for this time of year.