Nostalgia for the days of rambling and roaming through the trees – springtime in California – when the air was thick with pine and my heart was full of adventure and promise.
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"There is something about a solo road trip that I find terrifying yet addictive. I am afraid of the tornado of thoughts I will have when driving 1000km alone, yet obsessed with wanting to experience them - with delving into that deep black hole inside myself that can only be reached on a journey like this one."
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A story about travelling to the Jökulsárlón Ice Lagoon in Iceland; how it felt to get there.
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Memories from my childhood are always somewhat hazy. I’m not sure why. When people start talking about the television shows they watched when they were five years old or the teachers that always gave them an extra five minutes of playtime or that very distinct smell of school dinners wafting down the corridor at exactly 11.55am.
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“Oslooo!” I called out to my three-year-old Trailhound, his little tail waved in the air as he leapt over to greet me. We bounded up the stairs leading to the summit of Mam Tor, two steps at a time as the sky was already a magical glow of pink and orange. My eyes were heavy but all I needed was this country air to revive me; air that smelt like early springtime freshness, the promise of change and excitement, of a long, warm summer spent happily in the hills.
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Wandering in the Lake District with my sister Amira. A story about the feelings conveyed from the landscapes and the beauty of this part of the world.
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When I woke up that morning I knew I needed to escape – the city, people, pollution, noise. I live in a quiet and leafy corner of Southern Manchester, but a yearning for the rolling hills, biting country air and being completely and utterly alone comes from deep within me, an ache in my stomach that gradually increases the longer I am not there. It was painful that morning. And so I had to leave.
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Lost notes. The ones I forgot about.
Eggs, pancetta, onion… A shopping list from October 16th 2015. I must have been craving carbonara.
The weights I pulled when I rowed. My 2k split. The weights I wish I pulled.
The name of that place that person told me to go to, that I inevitably forgot about and still haven’t been to. *Writes down again.*
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"Though I wish I could say I grew up on the Moors, I didn’t. The truth is that I grew up with my feet in the sand on a beach in Dubai, or playing beneath the lemon tree in our garden in the suburbs of Melbourne. I’ve never found it easy to identify any one place as home; but if anything could be, it is seeing the Moors appear in the distance as I’m coming back to Yorkshire.
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