#TravelLinkUp: Travel Fears and Scares

I came late to the travel party. Growing up we rarely had the opportunity to take family holidays, and a few nights under canvas, a daytrip here or there, or a good day on the hill, was the most we could muster.  One driving holiday up from Germany to Denmark, and a couple of school music trips, were the only true 'travel' I'd done until I reached university age. I was lucky enough to live in another country for several years though, so my wandering heart did some cracking exploring while there.

While studying money was short and I worked through my holidays, so while I travelled more (jaunts to the west coast of Scotland, trips to see friends studying elsewhere), I didn't travel very far.

Once I was teaching, however, I caught the travel bug, hard. I still remember the first time I bought a cheap and cheerful Easyjet flight over to Europe. Or the first time I went to the US. Or the first time I stayed in a proper hotel (at the grand old age of 21. I was far too excited by plush beds, tiny toiletries, and the sheer idea of room service!). Since then I've seen so many amazing things, been to some amazing places, and experienced some true wonders. And I'm so grateful, you guys.

I love travelling so much now that I rarely think about the downsides, the worries and the fears, but that's exactly what this month's travel link up is asking us to write about. And when I sat down and thought about it, I was able to come up with a few 'fears' that I have when I'm travelling.

Weather. Specifically, warm weather!

I am a heat and humidity wuss. I get stressed. I can't sleep. I get sunstroke and heatstroke at the drop of a hat (even if I am, in fact, wearing a hat). I am so prone to feeling poorly in the heat that Matthew  actually had to postpone his proposal by 24 hours when too much time in the sun rendered me headachey, dehydrated and confined to bed.

Generally I'm now a master of selecting destinations where I know I can handle the climate, but it means some places I may well never see, and that sometimes my enjoying a destination fully can be a bit of a gamble! Cold or moderate climates I can boss though, and aircon, shade and swimming pools help a lot in warmer places.

Clumsiness. I fall over/bump myself a lot.

Gravity and I work well together for the most part, but sometimes we fall out and I trip / slip / fall / get an attack of the Bambi legs. I'm always worried that I'll come a cropper on holiday and be hobbling around for days (we love to walk a lot on breaks) .

Being late, or being disorganised.

I am, by nature, a worrier. I doublecheck things, set several alarms, live by my Google Calendar. Every night I have a long and well-honed routine of checks and doublechecks before I go to bed, and that's just in my own environment. When travelling these anxieties can really rise to the surface, and I've lost count of the restless nights of sleep I've had prior to heading off on a holiday! There's also a lot of checking of bags, money, passport too, and lists, lists everywhere.

When it comes to getting to the airport or train station, I am perpetually early. Luckily Matthew, my main partner in travelling crime, is an early bird too so we have our routine down pat. However, when travelling with others it can be high-stress - I remember pelting through an airport in Spain after a girls' trip as my three work friends tried to continue shopping while they were 'last call'ing our flight. Made my blood pressure go sky high!

So those were the only fears I could muster, which in the ocean of goodness that is travel equals about a teacup, right? Travel brings such joy, a few worries and wobbles are definitely worth it. I've only been back from holidays for a week and I'm already looking at flights longingly (even if my credit card isn't, ha!).

Looking forward to reading the other posts on this theme! Linking up with the lovely #TravelLinkUp gang :)

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Fattie Fattie Fattie Oi Oi Oi

A few moments ago I was having a scroll through instagram, embracing a little downtime after doing a metric tonne of laundry and ironing a bundle of things too. As I sat down for a little break in the early evening sunshine, my notifications popped up. As I clicked through, I spotted that a comment had been left on the picture above. The picture's over a month old, which is why I think I even noticed - most of my recent notifications have been on the slew of pretty Italian scenes I've been sharing. Man, Italy is gorgeous. 

Before I continue with the tale, a little aside on the image above.

I happen to love the picture, not because I look good, or it's especially clever, or even a great insta-shot. I look a bit mad, to be fair - I'd been up since 4.45am to get on the Eurostar, my hair is clearly having a moment, I'm grinning like a loon and the Arc de Triomphe shot I was aiming for has just been obscured by a van. However, I also look happy...because I was. And because I am.

So back to the comment. The comment left, coincidentally, by someone who had followed and then promptly found a selfie to leave his oh-so-special and important tuppence worth of opinion on. The comment? Fattie Fattie Fattie Oi Oi Oi.

I mean. What critique. What wit. What a way to get straight to the point and present me with some brand new information. Because obviously, being the size and weight I am, this fact had never been brought to my attention. I mean, when you're larger than the average/ fat/ obese/ plump/ voluptuous (pick your flavour - I've been called them all and I am them all) heaven knows this is never pointed out to you! The culture and time we live in never objectifies people, let alone women.

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2016: The Review

This review is becoming something of a yearly tradition....you can find the reviews for 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010 , 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014 and 2015 by clicking through. It's always nice to take stock at the end of a year and see what's happened over the last 12 months.

Throughout the post I've added pictures (in no particular order) of a year well spent. Good heavens there are lots of pictures, but I'm so happy I have them - this year has been a precious one in so many ways, and these pictures are just a few that show how lucky I've been to walk through a busy, happy year with some fabulous folk! Kicking off with one of my favourite selfies - it's rare I like my face in pictures so I decided to include it :)

I spent several happy days exploring the Christmas lights in town

1. What did you do in 2016 that you'd never done before?

It's been a year full of new things - from travelling to new spots like New York & Boston, to my first bits of paid freelance writing, to interning, to becoming a godmother, it's been quite an unusual year!

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Theatre: Side Show

Image from the Southwark Playhouse website

Growing up, and particularly in my teens and early twenties, I was an enormous musical theatre nerd (in the nicest possible way, but that's the only way to describe my devotion to the genre). Evenings spent singing along to cast albums on CD soon grew to bigger things when I moved to university and discovered there was a whole society devoted to musicals, and I romped through a fair few productions as a bit player, a lead, or as a chorus monkey (these were often the most fun!).

My time at university taught me a lot about musicals as a form, and I got to try and do all sorts of things (tap dancing, dancing dressed as a member of the undead, an onstage costume change from trousers and a jacket to a sleeveless ballgown in eight bars) while pursuing the hobby! Being in a city rather than my rural hometown I also finally had the chance to see some musicals on stage and the university library afforded me riches in the way of CDs and VHS copies of classic film musicals (yep, VHS. I kid you not!).

I'd always had a crush on the genre, I guess, but those four years were when I fell in love with it. I have fond memories of the time spent performing, practicing and enjoying musicals - while musical theatre was a hobby it did feed directly into my degree, with my final dissertation being on the musical film in general and Moulin Rouge specifically. Man, I enjoyed being a student.

All this is a roundabout way to mention that during these halcyon days I first encountered the score to Side Show.  The show is inspired by the true story of conjoined twins Daisy and Violet Hilton, and from the first time my friend Shona handed me a copy of the soundtrack I was in love. The story is touching, the music compelling. It's a dark, deep musical, full of longing and desire, hope and fear and I played that soundtrack like it was my job. I loved to sing the songs and hoped that one day, at long last, a UK production would happen and I'd be able to see the music brought to life onstage.

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One Happy Camper: thinking back to my camping youth

Packing up a storm, me

As those of you who read here often know, I love to travel and to visit new places and spaces. Of all the things I'm lucky enough to be able to spend money on, travelling and experiencing other cultures is truly one of the best things. I find that travelling leaves me feeling replenished, energised and inspired - always a wonderful thing when you have writing to do and worlds to imagine. Whether it's a quick trip to the seaside, a longer break away, or flying to the other side of the world, I love to travel and visit new places.

Growing up in a family of five, we loved to take day trips, but package holidays and hotel stays were a bit beyond the budget. So I grew up in a family that did a lot of camping, and I loved it. Sleeping under canvas, the sounds of the natural world around you. Dark skies filled with a multitude of bright stars. Cooking over campfires and making our own fun - climbing trees, 'swordfighting' with sticks, building bases, running around the areas around our emcampment. Whether away as a family or on a Cub Camp (my parents were a Cub Scout Leader and a Beaver Scout Leader - we camped out a lot!), I loved the chance to get away and explore new environs. We camped so much, especially when we lived in Germany and I have such fond memories of these excursions!

Matthew's family were caravan folk, but the same idea applies - heading off to new places, the thrill of leaving the everyday behind and venturing off to a new horizon. I was saying just the other day that once the niecelets & the godson are a little older and in school I'd love to take them camping or caravaning, but that I'd prefer a few more 'mod cons' than we enjoyed in the eighties and nineties (I like showers. And beds - I've got so fussy ;)). So I was delighted when I was contacted about Yelloh! Village, a brand who've put their own spin on camping - they provide 'open air hotels'! So you get the lovely parts of camping - the thrill of the new, bags of outdoor space, but with a few of the creature comforts we've all come to love and enjoy!

There are camping pitches, furnished tents, chalets and cottages, and the range of spaces and sizes of accommodation is quite something! There are camps all over mainland Europe (I spent a good hour clicking about on the France ones alone), and they all have different facilities and things to enjoy - I think it would be such a great way to explore, particularly with little ones. I was also pleased to see that so many of the camps have dog friendly areas as well - when we get dogs I know they'll be coming along on as many holidays as possible (our pampered pusses get kitty-sitters. Poppet-cat is not a camper). The range of facilities is quite something, from beautiful woods and lakes, to fun pools and play areas, to shops for when you forget that one vital thing.

As well as a family break I also think the cottages or chalets would be wonderful for a girls' trip away - what could be more fun than lashings of cheese, wine, and good company? Honestly, perusing this site has me daydreaming something fierce!

Gentle readers, have you been camping? If so, what's your favourite part?





Disclaimer, for I like to be transparent on le blog: This post was written in association with Yelloh! Village, but all memories, camping daydreams and communications of my need for plumbing facilities when camping are entirely my own.

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Book Review: My Name Is Leon

Those of you who read here often will know a lot about me. I'm obsessed with cats, I love cheesey movies, I spend too much money on stationery and pyjamas, and I adore my tribe (both related and non-related; online and IRL). I talk about a lot of things here, often at length - blame my natural chattiness and my passion for writing and sharing for that. There are some things that I don't write about as often, or mention at all, even though in life I'm an open book about them...they just don't come up as much.

Today, I'll be chatting about a couple of things I haven't mentioned much before on the blog (forgive me if I have - over a decade of writing to process when making that statement), simply because I think they give me a bit of a different take and a different insight on the book I'm reviewing. And those topics are two things I'm passionate about, and which have changed and affected my life in a real, tangible and huge way; adoption and fostering.

In my life (gosh, I sound like an aged woodland creature in a Disney film now) I've encountered both, and both have changed my life. Forgive me if we're friends in real life and you've heard this tale before. First, let's look at adoption. On  a first glance, my family looks very normal (perhaps not if you join us for supper though; we're an opinionated group of stubborn, silly folk), but we're also a family built with adoption at the heart.

My mother is my biological parent, but my dad is my adoptive father. I've never met my biological father. In my more flippant moments I say he gave me two things, some DNA and a signature; when I'm feeling more reflective I can appreciate that there are parts of my physicality that favour his side from the few pictures I've seen - my Scottish stockiness, enormo-hands and bright blue eyes certainly don't come from my mother's side!

I've never felt the need to 'find' him because in all truth I don't really need to; I have a dad. Anyone whose spent time with me and dad will realise that it's a pure triumph of nurture over nature - we have the same ridiculous (and horribly immature) sense of humour, the same love of a drink with friends, the same tell when we're about to lose our temper, the same love of music and film. Adoption doesn't always work, but in our family's case it really, truly has.

When I was a baby, before mum and dad met (my biological father left while my mother was pregnant. Again here my reaction varies from a sarcastic slowclap to empathy for someone trapped in a situation they disliked so much they felt they had to bolt. Depends on the day, to be honest), mum and I lived in a small council house in rural Scotland and things were...not good. Mum was an absolutely devoted parent and did everything she could to keep me safe, warm and happy, but the money just wasn't there for two people. So she barely ate, and was stressed beyond belief. This all came to a head and eventually she was hospitalised with malnutrition. Ah, the eighties.

At this point I came into the remit of the care services. Discussions were had about what to do (again, I was a baby, so please allow a little artistic licence here - I'm building on stories told by others!), and eventually it was decided I'd be fostered by a family who lived in the same town as us for a few weeks. And that was the start of a relationship which has been going for over three decades now....

Frank & Sandra, my foster parents, are two of the kindest, funniest and humblest people I know. Without their help, the lives of both me and my mum would have been much, much poorer. My mum loves to tell the story of how Sandra came to drop me back at the end of my fostering placement and told one of the best white lies ever. Taking one look at my tired, isolated mum and probably realising that what she most needed was a little help, Sandra gushed about how much they loved having me to stay, and please would my mum allow the family to have me to stay for a day or two each week?  My mum said yes, and for the next few years until we moved away from the area I stayed one or two nights a week with my foster family. For mum it was a chance to work and get healthy and make plans; for me it was a chance to be part of a family where I was utterly doted upon - some of my first memories are from time spent with Sandra, Frank and their four children.

Even when I moved away, we stayed in contact through cards and letters, visits and get-togethers, and I'm far closer to Frank & Sandra and their children than any of my biological cousins, aunts or uncles. Again, nurture trumped nature on just about every level. They are two of the greatest people I know (and I know some pretty awesome people) and their heart for fostering and adoption is a marvel. They have changed the lives of dozens of children for the better, and without them my life would have been very much the poorer.

I found myself thinking of Sandra and Frank often when reading My Name Is Leon, the debut novel from Kit de Waal, a story with fostering and adoption at its very heart.  My Name Is Leon follows the story of Leon and his baby brother Jake when they are taken into care. Children of the same mother, but different fathers, the boys are pulled on two very different paths by the fickle machinations of the care system.

The story unfolds from Leon's point of view, which I found incredibly touching, and which gives a real sense of the lost-ness and bewilderment of a child struggling to understand the very adult situations around him. The relationships, whether between Leon and Jake, or his mother, or Maureen (on whom more later in the review), or Tufty, are adeptly drawn and infused with rawness and emotion.

The book evokes the mood and feel of the eighties wonderfully, from Curly Wurlys to BMX bikes to the songs on the radio: I can almost see the all-brown-everything sitting room furniture of my youth.  Leon is a narrator to treasure, and his nine-year-old point of view and frame of reference adds a real pathos to proceedings - there are several scenes where as adults we readers understand situations before Leon is able to do so.

De Waal writes her characters with a keen eye - she's both steady in description but able to shy away from judgement, and this lends a real humaity to the people she's created. Maureen, Leon's foster-carer, is a character to cherish, as well as a real representation of the thousands of hardworking, wonderful, under-reported foster parents in this country. The media seizes upon any wrongdoing by people who work with children in care (and are correct to do so) but they are woefully poor at celebrating the very many carers doing good, hard, testing work with some of our most vulnerable children and young people. Hopefully if we see a few more books with characters as honest, fullsome and real as Maureen we can move towards a fairer portrait of affairs, where we can root out the wrongdoers and share the inspirational stories of the good in equal measure. We need more foster carers in every area of the country, and I hope that a lot of politicians and policy makers encounter books and characters like My Name Is Leon and Maureen.

My Name Is Leon is a special and important book. It's both a wonderful, entertaining, moving story and a book that shines a light on an area of national life we don't always hear about. A story about the unexpected twists that life can take, and the unusual places where we can find love, belonging, and a place to call home. Released next month, I cannot recommend it more highly; for me this is one of the must read pieces of fiction of the year.

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Five Minute Friday: Belong

It's been a good long while since I've had time on a Friday to sit down for five minutes to write.  Because Five Minute Friday is such fun, but I always want to click and read and linger, to meet other bloggers, to soak up the goodness.  So in the busy season at school, the season of exams and reports and end of term fun, writing falls back a little.

But now?

It's summer break.

Time to read and write and think, as well as time to catch up on wedding planning and Junior League things, is plentiful.  So I'm linking up with Lisa-Jo and our hostess for the week, Crystal, to write on today's prompt, for five minutes only.

No pausing.  No worrying.  No editing.

This week's prompt?

Is belong.  

GO!

All my life, I have to say, I've kind of struggled with the feeling of belonging.  Quirky family makeup, six different primary schools, five years of boarding school, new sixth form, two universities (one undergrad, one postgrad), meant I had a lot  of practice at being the new girl.

Now, this has it's advantages.

I'm a tenacious little thing, and having to constantly be the new kid was tricky but got my introduction flow down pat.  I was warm, open, my shyness squished down as far as I could reach.  Because it had to be.  I wouldn't trade the skill of being friendly for anything now, but it took time to perfect.  Similarly, the art of keeping friendships alive over miles and time zones - a life skill I'm so glad I've cultivated.

That being said, there are disdvantages to being the unknown on the class roll.  It's harder to 'belong'.  I remember when I moved up to Forres at 16.  Everyone seemed to know each other.  Forres seemed to be filled with these huge, interlocked, warm families whose children had all grown up together and I felt like such a misfit!  True to form though I settled in and made some super friends, but it still felt sometimes like I was an odd one out.

Fast forward half a lifetime (good gravy, that's crazy to think of!), however, and I now feel that I do belong.  Right where I am.  Sure, my life might not be the most conventional, or the least conventional for that matter, but it's mine and I love it, and I'm right where I belong.  As we prepare for our wedding the overwhelming love and support we've had to draw upon has been as clear as stars in a Highland sky - we are right where we belong.  When I stand in front of my students teaching maths or English I'm just where I belong.  When I'm walking through London to a concert or a brunch or a play, I'm just where I belong.  When I'm cuddled up with M, I'm right where I belong.

Who know it would all come together so neatly?

STOP. 

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Five Minute Friday: Lonely

Linking up with Lisa-Jo for the five minutes today.  No overthinking.  No planning. Just five minutes, the tap of the keys, the words pouring out, hoping to write something that speaks.

Today's prompt word is lonely.

GO.

When I think of being lonely, the times that spring up are not just times when I've been physically alone.  Sure, there have been times like that where geography, work schedules, busy-ness have kept me on my own a lot, but being alone is very, very different to being lonely.  Lonely is hard and sad and frustrating...being alone is a game of two halves.  Being alone has its strengths, its joys, its learning moments.  Being lonely is hard, draining, unkind.

The loneliest times of my life have often been when it hasn't been physical apartness that's been the problem.  It's more when you feel rejected by those around you, left out, misunderstood.  Or when you're dealing with something that others can't understand, when you have to take a path unknown, alone.  I think of nights at boarding school, my first year when I was eleven, and hearing Erica and Hanna, the resident mean girls, whispering horrible things about me after lights out.  I'd lay there in my little bed in the dark, head under the duvet, clutching onto Jockey Bear with his smell of home, and listen as they listed my many flaws.  They wanted me to hear. Now in hindsight, I see that they were the problem (they were mean about everyone!), but when you're eleven and a little shy and a lot nervous and your mum's in another country, you can't see that. Good heavens, but I felt lonely.  It got better as I made friends and Erica and Hanna moved on to fresher targets (they actually both left the school a year later for bullying and other mishaps - Erica was expelled, Hanna 'invited to leave').  But eleven year old me didn't know that.  She just felt lonely.

It's the loneliness of loss.  When I was seventeen one of my best friends from boarding school, A, died.  She lived down in the south of England at that point, while I had moved to Scotland after my parents had returned there.  I was happy, settled.  I remember walking down the path and opening the door and my mum's face as she had to tell me the news.  Realising I'd never talk to A again.  The deep, dark, huge chasm of sad that opened up inside me and swallowed my heart whole.  Losing A was lonely, lonely, hard.  Losing her and being surrounded by people who liked me and wanted to help me, but who hadn't lost someone and had never met A, didn't know how wonderful she was, had never seen her swim or play and tell a joke?  Was incredibly lonely.  I was so grateful for their attempts to help, to listen, to support me...but the road was long, and lonely. She was pretty much my last link to that school.  I went back once since to visit, but it just felt like a different space.  Without my friend all I felt was lonely.

There have been other lonely times - bad friendships, toxic people, hard moments, but one of the things I love about my life today is how rarely I feel really, properly lonely.  Sure, there are times and seasons where I feel alone or deprived of company or a little left out, but my time on the planet has taught me that this too shall pass.  And compared to how lonely I felt lying awake in that dark dormitory, or as I worked through the grief of a friend gone far, far too soon, the little lonelies are so much easier to ride out.  And the easier to survive with friends, family and fiancé as great as mine.  So grateful for that.

STOP.  

Names of bullies changed. Because that felt right.

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