My love affair with horses started when I was just four years old. My parents took me to weekly riding lessons in a local riding school. I quickly became obsessed, AKA Horse mad - if you’re that way inclined, you’ll know what I mean. I had every book, I learned horse anatomy and all the horse breeds - everything. The only thing that was missing was my own horse. You can probably guess that owning a horse is an expensive hobby. It just wasn’t within our budget at the time. I remember every Christmas, eagerly awaiting the announcement, “Santa got you a horse!”, which inevitably never happened. One time, after discovering that I wasn’t getting a horse (again) for Christmas, I moped off to my bedroom and wrote on my mirror in lipstick (not mine - I was eight) “I’m never getting a horse”. My poor dad came in, and I remember the look on his face was full of hurt. Boo fucking hoo, you might be thinking. The fact is, I loved horses so much that it became my whole world - that’s until boys and booze came on the scene. Then my priorities changed.

My riding lessons were getting tougher, and I was becoming more defiant. Back then, the horse world was a man’s world, and to survive as a woman, you had to act like a man. This resulted in several generations of guldering stable wenches. Riding teachers were tough and unforgiving. I remember one of the last times I rode as a teenager. We were out in the field, jumping some cross-country fences. At one point, I lost my balance and fell off, but one foot remained stuck in the stirrup. The more I screamed, the faster the horse cantered. Meanwhile, I could hear my riding teacher, Samantha, shrieking at me as I trailed alongside the fleeing horse.

This week’s experience was a breath of fresh air in comparison. It turns out there is now a lot more awareness about horse and rider wellbeing - or at least pockets of it. Our tutor was a delightful twenty-something with a passion for a more natural approach to horse care and riding. I was already familiar with much of the material, but I did also learn a lot. Of course, the best part was getting to speak baby talk to horses for three days- definitely time well spent.

In other news, Saf and I have been harvesting the last of the Elderflower to make teas, oils, cordials and tinctures. As a child, I grew up in the countryside, before heading to the city to experience life at full volume. As I’ve gotten older, I find myself gravitating back to the countryside, but I’ve had to cultivate my connection with nature. My parents were city people, which meant that we didn’t inherit that deep personal connection with our rural surroundings. Still, I’m grateful that they took the leap, and now, hopefully, my daughter will feel an even deeper connection with rural life should she choose to take refuge there after her coming-of-age galivanting.

I’ve acquired a giant piece of end-grain wood, which I plan to make into a low tabletop for my future wooden cabin. My woodwork learning journey is painfully slow these days - especially now that I’ve just found out my giant slab has to dry out for a year. I guess I should get back to that bamboo painting project I started on my Spanish adventure in February. Somebody call the hobby police, please.

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The truth is, sober folks crave meaning. It’s the reason why so many newly sober people find themselves unable to continue working in a career which gives them zero fulfilment - even if it does pay well- or unable to sustain friendships that were centred around getting shitfaced. When I got sober in 2016, I made a promise to myself that I would only work in a job that I was passionate about. It didn’t have to be a highly paid job, but it did have to be one I enjoyed or one that let me explore the things in life that I really loved. So far, it’s worked out ok. And, as far as friends go, a few long-suffering, tolerant souls have remained, but mostly I’ve made new friends with a more aligned outlook on life.

As you continue down the sober path, your capacity to stomach bullshit diminishes significantly. Most recently, I’ve noticed myself saying “get fucked” every time I receive a “We have updated our terms” notification from a company whose values, in my personal opinion, stink. I reflected on what it would be like to feel trust and admiration towards the companies whose services I chose to use. I’ve since been on a mission to transition to more ethical alternatives that actually give a damn about their customers and the trajectory of the planet Earth.

A podcast host once asked me what the point of getting sober is. It seemed obvious. Life gives you opportunities to get sober so that you can contribute your unique gifts to your community and to the flourishing of life itself. It’s hard to do that when you’re either rubbered or hungover. Sometimes it takes a while to work out what those gifts are, especially if you’re like me and have many interests. I think the key is to just keep taking the next step - the step that feels right, even though you can’t see how it’s all going to pan out. A few years ago, I stumbled across a helpful analogy. Imagine that beings from another planet were observing you on Earth. What would they say “your gift” was - “your thing”?

Right now, I’m focusing on joining the next dot, and that feels like enough.

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It’s heartwarming food for thought when I catch myself knee-deep in the hustle. I’m reminded that life’s innate intelligence just naturally unfolds, and our job is to create a nourishing environment for it to flourish.

A local herbalist once told me that the plants necessary for healing are usually found not far from our homes or the places we like to roam. I wonder if, in the same vein, everything we need for our emotional well-being can also be found in our local neighbourhoods, towns and cities.

A couple of weeks ago, I came across a community hub in my area organised by a local woman who had given up her 9 to 5 job to start a meaningful project that she was truly passionate about. Centred on plants, veg growing, and immersion in nature, the Scottish countryside paradise is bursting with greenery and wildflowers of every kind. Most of all, the place has soul, and it’s palpable.

When I found out that the owner was looking for someone to look after the homestead for a month in the summer while living in their small wooden cabin, I jumped at the chance. It’s my dream - to live on the lush green land in a wooden cabin, close to other families with children. And although it’s just a month, and the family won’t be there, it offers me a glimmer of hope that our dream isn’t so impossible after all, and I might not have to travel to the ends of the earth to experience it.

Seeds of hope are often all we need to keep that light alive. Hope that tomorrow will be a better day, hope that life without booze is possible, hope that the single parenthood journey will get easier, hope that the positive forces in this world will outshine those that want to keep us in the dark. I like to think that the human spirit is as powerful as the force that dictates the changing of the seasons and the pull of ocean tides. It’s the same force that holds in place the delicate universal equilibrium that allows life on Earth to exist.

As I approach my ten-year sober milestone, I feel profoundly grateful for how my life has unfolded, despite the bumps along the road. Trusting in the natural unfolding of things has been my most challenging yet rewarding lesson, as a woman who does. Next month I’ll be speaking at Latitude Festival on a panel about “Turning pain into purpose” - a product of the natural unfolding of things. I’ll be there with an open heart and probably some trepidation about public speaking, but in the words of Terence McKenna, “Nature rewards courage”.

We will be brave

Lauren

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I’ve been reflecting a lot recently about single parenthood and how much to share about my own personal experience. I’ve purposely remained vague about the context of our single-parent situation, but the truth is that what I’m about to share is universal.

Not long after my daughter’s second birthday, her father chose to end all contact. Accepting this fact and navigating the subsequent emotional fallout has undoubtedly been the hardest part of my single parenting journey. “You’ll find someone else”, people say. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? But for someone who equates being single with stability and being in a relationship with disruption, I often question whether I really want to risk disturbing our cherished peace. I feel burdened with the desire for my daughter to have a loving father figure, while acutely aware that it might not be a possibility for us right now.

A few years ago, I set out to fix the issues that might get in the way of having a healthy, emotionally intelligent romantic relationship. Now, I realise that is not the goal, but a potential by-product of living with radical integrity and, on hard days, just putting one foot in front of the other. By bringing awareness to my relationships with family and others in my community, I have the opportunity to deal with some of the triggers that might arise in a romantic relationship. It’s a step in the right direction, let’s say.

This week I’ve decided to put in motion something that I’ve felt inspired to do for a long time - single-parent family adventure meet-ups in my area. I’ve learned from creating sober trips that people thrive in the company of others who truly understand what it’s like to walk in their shoes. Of course, there are many versions of single parenthood, but I believe adventure meet-ups can serve as a healthy container for human connection to flourish. It’s not a commercial venture - just an opportunity for me, Saf and others in my community to hang out with other adventure-loving single-parent families.

On another note, my travel piece about our recent winter road trip in Spain and Portugal was published in the Irish Independent. It’s a small win but a satisfying one.

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You might have noticed that I haven’t written about the last leg of our trip, in Andalusia. I’ll get around to that soon.

For now, I want to check in to say we’re still here and still flowing with life, but with more clarity about our next steps. While travelling, it became evident early on that living in the UK year-round is not currently an option for us. Before the trip, I felt apprehensive about owning that desire because of the implications it would have for our lifestyle and my girl’s educational path. It would mean home-education, and how the heck would I do that as a single mum? I had some ideas, but the plan was still unclear.

With the re-emergence of light and the scent of new growth in the air came inspiration and the blossoming of ideas - ideas that until recently were no more than glimmers of possibility. Travel does that. It takes you out of your usual routine. The usual mental blockages carry less weight, and the sense of freedom and openness gives way to unforeseen opportunities. I’ll write more about the project later, once it has taken shape.

Like many of you, I have a thousand and one things I’d like to do, and each day there are fewer blank spaces in my diary. So, in a bid to avoid burnout, I’ve decided to focus on a few areas - continuing my organic veg growing journey at the local farm where I work, writing my newsletter and connecting with the home-ed community in my area. Ok, ok, I’ll also be starting a new volunteering role, which I’ll talk about later, and I’ll possibly organise a sober adventure next year - that’s if our “elected voices of authority” haven’t facilitated the total obliteration of all life on earth.

I remain hopeful - sometimes. I’ve started to turn my phone off at 5pm every day. I’d been fanning the flames of existential dread by consuming too much online content. I decided it was more important to focus on the kind of life I want to build rather than the myriad versions of shitshow algorithms have to offer.

On a lighter note, I taught my four-year-old daughter to ride her bike this week. Yeah, and? You might be thinking. My dad taught me to ride my bike, and I’ll hazard a guess that, if you had a dad, he probably taught you. When there’s no dad in the picture, it’s usually mums that are tasked with such undertakings. It was a milestone that made me feel incredibly proud, not only because for a child, learning to ride a bike is such a big deal, but also because I taught her, on my own.

I’ll leave you with a photo taken by Saf in a remote mountain-top village in Extremadura, on our return journey through Spain. During a morning jaunt up to the medieval castle, an elderly gentleman asked if I wanted to ride his donkey. I assumed it was a literal invitation and not some filthy innuendo, so I kindly obliged. The perfect Spanish farewell. Anyway, I hopped on for a few minutes before dismounting and giving Saf a go, at which point he leaned in for a kiss. I awkwardly laughed off his advances and made a swift exit with Saf up the mountain. I’ll take that as a compliment.

“Mummy, why couldn’t we stay on the donkey for longer?”

“Because the man wanted Mummy to be his girlfriend. Would you like that man to be Mummy’s boyfriend?”

“No”

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Before setting off in December 2025, I come across a Facebook post looking for volunteers in rural Extremadura, Spain, to help with the upkeep of an informal campsite and country cottage. It doesn’t feel like a suitable gig for Saf and me due to the lack of other families and kids. Nonetheless, I reach out to enquire about staying for a night or two while travelling through the region.

Fast forward to our family volunteering experience in Portugal two weeks ago, and I’m mentally preparing to drive back to the UK. One evening, while tucked up in bed, listening to the very familiar sound of rain on the cabin rooftop, I wonder whether it’s possible to put off going home for a while. I ask the question and commit to remaining open to new ideas. In the following days, I feel compelled to reach out to Kurro, the owner of the cottage in Extremadura. It’s settled. We will make the six-hour journey south with a stopover in the Serra de Estrela mountains in Portugal. We’ll help Kurro with some tasks around the property in exchange for a week’s stay in the cottage.

On the day of our arrival in Extremadura, the sun is shining, and spirits are high. Spain is familiar territory, and although I’m all for new horizons and exploration, something about familiarity really appeals to me right now. After turning off the motorway, we find ourselves driving along long, empty roads through rural plains covered in a blanket of delicate yellow wild flowers. I put the windows down and inhale. It smells divine. We’re in fig country. Life is slow here, and not much happens. It’s the kind of place where people leave their doors open at night. There are certainly no tourists, and the sight of a right-hand-drive car leaves most locals dumbstruck.

“The house is open. Just don’t forget to lock the gate behind you so the animals don’t get out”, Kurro tells us. We enter the blue-painted iron gates. A brightly coloured sign says “Ama La Fucking Vida” which is Spanglish for “Love Your Fucking Life”. This is my kind of place. Chickens, peacocks, ducks, sheep and a donkey called Pancho roam freely. A cluster of palms and bamboo rustles gently in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. It’s paradise - well, almost. We’re greeted by a particularly cantankerous goose that charges at us as soon as we get out of the car. I wonder how we’re going to navigate the week-long co-living situation.

Kurro comes to feed the animals after work every evening - a highlight for Saf - before returning to his apartment in the local village. He tells us to wave a big stick at the goose when it runs at us. I soon feel confident warding off its advances, but Saf isn’t so sure - understandably. There are currently no campers or guests staying at the property. We are alone.

At 7am, the crowing of the resident cockerel pierces the cool, moist morning air. Pancho the donkey makes his presence known as he stands by the gate with his three woolly companions, waiting to be let out of the paddock. I make a coffee and pull up a chair in the garden, waiting for the sun to rise above the horizon - the sacred moment. It’s my favourite part of the day. Sometimes, we stay around the cottage, collecting materials to make art. I salvage some dried bamboo roots from a huge pile of of discarded branches which I plan to paint. Each day, we head to the neighbouring sheep and goat farm where we get to cuddle and feed lambs and baby goats. Saf struggles to contain her love for the animals. It’s a moment when I feel truly proud to be able to give her these experiences. Sometimes we go swimming at the local indoor pool. Saf can now stay afloat in deep water for a minute and is getting more confident each time we go.

Night falls, and the anxiety kicks in. I question how it is possible to feel so at peace in a place by day and, by night, feel such a profound sense of unease. The term “night and day” has never felt more real. There is no one around for miles, and I struggle to contain my fear. It’s not an isolated moment. I often feel this way when we are alone with few people around or in an unfamiliar city. Each night, I have to dig deep to keep my vivid imagination from taking over, but it’s hard. We are safe. This is a safe place. There’s a large Spanish Mastiff tied up about 200m away. The dog is there to protect a herd of sheep, but on our second night, the barking sounds closer. It sounds like it’s outside our window. The next morning, we walk outside to discover the gentle giant has broken off its leash and is sitting outside the house. After a few minutes, it gets up and calmly disappears down the lane through a hole in the fence. I thank the universe for sending me this sign. We are protected in more ways than we can imagine. My fear doesn’t completely disappear after that night, but I learn to be with it more easily, and I know that, although uncomfortable, the nights alone in the cottage have made me more resilient.

Our time at the cottage goes out with an exquisite bang and a poignant reminder of why I am sober and how grateful I am for my substance-free life. Our lovely host, Kurro, invites us to his birthday celebration, which kicks off with a treasure hunt in the surrounding countryside, followed by a huge party at the cottage. Although Kurro insists that we stay in the cottage that night, I’ve partied with the Spanish before, and I have the foresight to book alternative accommodation in a hotel the night of the party. During the festivities, I remember what I was like at parties - the unstoppable compulsion to get wasted, to keep going. Thank god for sobriety.

The incredible thing about Spain, and especially rural communities with traditional values, is that children are included in all the celebrations, and with gusto. As the only outsider, I felt welcome in the group, and Saf played with the local children despite not speaking Spanish. We’ve even been invited to come back for fig-picking season in the summer, although I’m not sure if my pasty Irish skin could handle it. As we bid farewell to Extremadura, I thank her for her blessings and begin to contemplate our next chapter in Andalucia - the most unexpected twist of all.

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There’s only one thing worse than a Portuguese driver, and that’s a Portuguese taxi driver in a hurry. Holy heck! Only this time I’m not complaining. “A & E as fast as you can”, I plead. Shortly after arriving in Porto, Saf bursts a laundry pod in her hands and ends up with half of the contents in her mouth. A quick online search confirms that the pods are highly toxic, so we spend the rest of the evening in Porto Children’s Hospital. Thankfully Saf is absolutely fine, but between the continuous flow of ambulances and the sick kids in the shared ward, my nerves are shattered. Just like every other time I end up in A&E with Saf, and she turns out to be fine, I wonder if I’ve overreacted, but I’m pretty sure most parents feel this way.

After leaving the hospital, at around 8pm, our taxi driver drops us off at a supermarket about a five-minute walk from our rented apartment, where I plan to buy a cake and indulge in some comforting eating after the stressful evening. “Don’t go down that street. It’s full of prostitutes and not nice for the baby”. Not nice for the baby! Not nice for me! I thought. I’m bloody sober, and a single mum. I go to bed at 8pm. Before going on this adventure, I hadn’t been out at night in yonks nevermind stumbling into a sketchy red light district. Fuck sake. We manage to avoid the street full of half-naked sex workers, get back to the apartment, call my mum and get some well-needed kip, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day.

The next day, we head to a vegan cat cafe. I feel like doing something special for Saf after yesterday’s ordeal. Plus, it’s only a five-minute walk from our apartment, and I am partial to a good vegan burger. The cat cafe does not disappoint. The carrot cake is otherworldly, and the vibe is incredibly relaxing despite the kids bickering over who would pet the one laid-back cat. The rest of the cats are running for the hills. If you’re ever in Porto and have a weakness for cats, I’d definitely recommend the cat cafe.

In the end, we don’t see much of Porto due to the non-stop shite weather and my fragile nerves following the recent assortment of bewildering dramas. Thankfully, the next day, we are heading to an off-grid homestead further inland, away from the incessant barrage of storms both climatic and emotional, and boy, are we in for a surprise.

After stopping at a fancy soft play, we finally arrive at our family workaway experience, about an hour’s drive north of Porto. The plan is to help look after the little two-year-old while the mum gets on with preparing the garden for the new growing season. Not only is it an opportunity to connect with like-minded families, but I can also learn more about sustainability and off-grid living. After turning off a quiet mountain road, we cautiously negotiate the rough lane, trying not to wreck the car. Surrounded by regal eucalyptus giants, oaks, and pines, the homestead sits discreetly perched on a terraced hillside, overlooking a lush green valley below. It feels familiar yet exotic. Madeleine, our host, shows us our accommodation - a glass-fronted cabin with views over the valley. Inside, there is a basic kitchen, a comfy king-size bed, and some simple but tasteful furniture. It’s perfect!

Our host explains that there is no hot water in our cabin because the solar panel was damaged in the storm, and the compost toilet is twenty meters away. Fine, all fine. We will shower in the hosts’ cabin, and let’s just say, both Saf and I are fully versed in using compost toilets by now. I’m just glad to get to a place where I know we can rest for a while and recuperate after the guest-house-hopping slog in low-grade hurricane weather over the past few weeks. Plus, Saf would be able to play with the kids, and I would have some adult company.

Our days here are peaceful, and our routine is simple. We wake to the sound of the birds - and the rain. After breakfast, we head out to the garden for a couple of hours, come rain or shine, to look after little Emil. Saf is great with little ones, so it works out perfectly. She has thrown herself into downhills on the balance bike - something she didn’t feel confident to do back in Scotland. After lunch, I sit down with a cup of Lady’s Mantle tea and immerse myself in the gentle hypnotic swaying of the eucalyptus canopy in the valley below. Safi paints and plays outside with the resident cats, Jimmy and Luna.

We sleep well. The air is filled with the scent of eucalyptus oil, and there are few wifi networks buzzing around my head at night. Emptying the compost toilet for the first time is a sobering moment. It’s an aspect of off-grid living that I’d always dreaded doing, but in reality, it’s not that big of a deal. Living with basic amenities does wonders for perspective.

The dad in the host family is a talented carpenter, and Madeleine, as well as a full time mum, has a keen eye for design, horticulture, and various other skills required in maintaining a fully off-grid homestead. What they have achieved here is truly impressive. The curious thing about this whole experience is that in the weeks leading up to coming here, I decided that my ideal living situation was a glass-fronted wooden cabin. I started to imagine what that might look like, and well, here we are.

Despite the ups and downs synonymous with a trip like this, the experience so far has been a treasure trove of valuable and unforgettable experiences. After leaving the homestead, our plan was to hotfoot it back to Scotland, but with the sweet Iberian springtime just around the corner, I’m tempted to stay a while longer and discover what else the gods of adventure have in store for us.

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Now we’re in Coimbra, a city in central Portugal, retreating from the incessant rain and freezing deserted coastal guest houses. Despite my aversion to cities in general, it’s fair to say that I’m thoroughly enjoying it, well, I was until yesterday. It turns out we are sharing the guest house with a deranged maniac - a Japanese American lady in her thirties who has on two occasions insulted me outright for making noise while cleaning a plate and for my parenting skills, apparently. In all of my years of travelling and staying in hostels and guest houses, I’ve never come across such a person. It’s curious that, as an empath on the spiritual path, it feels like I’m doing something wrong if I don’t respond “with love” in a situation like this. I’ll go ahead and say it. I’m not quite there yet, and I’m not going to pretend that I am. Today, I completely lost my rag with the woman, and the best I can do right now is not say anything antagonistic to her until our departure tomorrow. If I manage that, I’ll consider it a win.

It hasn’t all been belligerent nut jobs and car-keying sociopaths. I got to fulfill my dream of visiting Nazaré, home of some of the biggest waves in the world, and the annual Big Wave surfing event. We just happened to be there on the weekend when they forecasted record-breaking XXL waves. We got to see surfers being towed out on jet skis to catch waves the size of houses, but the conditions weren’t great for surfing. It was wild out there, and big wave surfers, like most extreme sports people, are not of sound mind. Unfortunately, we had to leave because our guest house was “see your own breath” cold. We’ll definitely be back during the milder seasons. After this trip, Portugal is dead to us in winter.

Saf and I have been leaning hard into the Portuguese bakeries - possibly the most fabulous thing about Portugal, apart from the beaches, of course. My god, it must be a living nightmare to live here and not eat Pastel de Nata (Portuguese tarts) every day. They really do excel in the bakery department. You can find all kinds of pastries, sponges, and unidentified sweet treats at every corner.

The PMG (Pre-menstrual Gripes) had me cursing the Portuguese for whatever reason I could find, last week. From the dog shit-strewn pavements (less of a problem in Coimbra) to the lack of sufficient heating in houses, I’d had it with this place. Luckily, since spending time in Coimbra, despite the bust-up, I’m back on good terms with Portugal. All I have to do is avoid this problematic woman until check-out tomorrow, then we’re headed for Porto before our family Workaway in the north. Yes, we have found a family Workaway in the rainiest part of Portugal! At this stage, we’ll just be glad to spend time with another family.

Over and out

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Shortly after arriving, we headed to Arrifana beach, a popular surfer spot famous for its swells and dramatic cliff faces. The tide was in, but we clambered down to the remaining stony section of the beach regardless. Safi, as predicted, decided she wanted to put her feet in the water, a routine which involves Safi and me hand in hand wading into the shallows, then Safi running away from the waves. Each time, she gets braver and tries to go in deeper; meanwhile, my cortisol levels are slowly rising, and I’m reminded that going to the beach with a small child is bloody stressful.

Then it happened. Suddenly, Safi shrieks and starts pointing to the shallows. “Judy!” Fuck, Judy, the rubber jellyfish is being swept out to sea. “Get back onto the shore,” I yell, as I get ready to sacrifice my dignity for my child’s floundering toy. The scene from the movie Cast Away, when Tom Hanks loses his beloved football companion, Wilson, flashes before my eyes.

Not only am I facing a distraught child losing her precious toy, but also the judgment from the ocean-loving onlookers, as our piece of plastic trash disappeared into the salty abyss. Ready to abort the mission and accept Judy’s unfortunate fate, I hear Safi shouting, “She’s there!” Luckily, a big wave had swept Judy close to the shore, close enough for me to grab her and return her to traumatised Saf. Disaster averted! We decided that in future we wouldn’t bring any cherished toys to the beach, and despite the ordeal of almost losing Judy, I felt relieved to be by the ocean.

What started off as a two-day trip turned into a week-long coastal adventure. We found a phenomenal little family-run guesthouse in town with a communal kitchen where we cooked our own meals, and Saf caught up on her favourite show, Creature Cases. I especially enjoyed the daily chinwags with the Portuguese granny. I spoke to her in Spanish, and she spoke in Portuguese, and I understood about 60% of what she said. When I asked her what it was like to live during the Salazar dictatorship, she explained that, as rural county folk, they lived in extreme poverty during that time. Plus, there was the added anxiety of getting caught by the secret police, badmouthing the government. She said that even after the dictatorship was overthrown in 1974 and democracy was established, it took a long time to overcome the fear of snooping and persecution.

I decided at the beginning of this trip that, instead of drawing conclusions too quickly about the Portuguese, I would make only objective observations. I think this is the best way to get to know a country because it lets people surprise you or show you something different. I also prefer not to make too many comparisons to the neighbouring country, although I’ve found it especially hard not to compare Portugal to Spain. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve found the Portuguese less intense than the Spanish, generally speaking. In Spain, a situation can go from 0 to 10 blow-a-gasket bananas in a relatively short time. Also, the Spanish are loud, and people love yelling in public, which is something I actually quite enjoy hearing in Spanish towns and villages.

Here, the streets are quieter, and people seem very laid back, yet their driving behaviour is semi-suicidal at times. On the whole, it’s been a very soft landing for us here. People are generally friendly and helpful. Of course, there are always outliers, but thankfully, we haven’t met many. It’s probably a good idea to mention that my references to Spain relate mostly to the south because that’s where I’ve spent most of my time there of late. Spain is a huge country with diverse people and microcultures. The Spanish, in the north are more reserved.

I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to blow our entire budget on the Aljezur guest house, so I posted in a local Facebook Group (again) about our search for a family volunteering experience. I received a message from a German mum called Steffi with a daughter around Safi’s age, inviting us to stay for a couple of nights at her apartment. Like me, she had also travelled using the Couchsurfing app before having her daughter, so it felt good to connect with someone on the same wavelength.

We spent two glorious days hanging out at the beach, chatting while the two girls played together. Our solo parent stories had some uncanny similarities. It reminded me of the power of shared experience, and I realised that I am missing connection with single mothers like me in my life. Since having my daughter, I have connected in real life with no more than two mothers who’s child’s fathers are not involved in their lives. My daughter is four. How can that be? All this time, I have been surrounded solely by mothers and fathers, and the odd co-parenting solo parent. I’ll hazard a guess and say that this is partly due to the fact that single mothers with no fathers on the scene are more prevalent in deprived areas. I live in a middle-class farming community. That said, I’m sure there are others like me. I’m already hatching some plans to create single-parent family events when I get back.

When I write these blog posts, there’s usually a theme. Sometimes I get exasperated trying to stick to the theme, and so this week I’ve written about whatever has been on my mind . But there is a theme. The theme is kindness, kindness to myself by indulging in some ocean therapy to soothe my frayed soul, and kindness from strangers like Steffi.

You see, one of the most heart-opening revelations that I’ve had while travelling as a sober woman is that human kindness is everywhere. There are dozens of moments each day when I need to rely on locals, whether it’s asking for directions, getting help connecting my gas stove, or just having a chat with a stranger in Spanuguese. What I’ve learned is that most people are willing to show kindness and help someone in need.

Now, as sod’s law would have it, someone will be a total asshole tomorrow - the cosmic giggle, as Terrence McKenna puts it. It will make me mad, and I’ll consider retracting my statement, then I’ll experience the kindness of a stranger again, and the cycle continues.

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As we arrived at our interim apartment, we were greeted with thunder and lightning and torrential downpours. Now, the only thing worse than a tourist resort in high-season is a tourist resort in low season in the pissing rain. Fucking grim. Thankfully, having a roof over our heads and a real bed outweighed the horror-movie vibe at the resort. Besides, it was just for two nights until the weather let up, giving me a chance to write a blog post and use the laundry services to wash our clothes.

The next day, the glorious winter sun was shining again, which of course merited a walk to the beach with Belgian friend Anton who we met at the last campsite and was travelling in the same direction as us. My first impression of the Portuguese is that they seem calmer than the Spanish and less aggressive in their manner. Plus, things like public toilets seem cleaner and less antiquated.

After leaving the apartment, I had a bit of a mare finding suitable camping accommodation to suit our needs. The thing is, there are plenty of accommodation options here, including last-minute ones. But the trick is finding ones that will let us stay in Portugal for as long as possible without blowing our budget in a couple of weeks. That requires some thinking outside the box.

We eventually found a brilliant, wee informal campsite nestled in an orange grove for 10 euros per night in the countryside, about 25 minutes from the coast. Here, they have an outdoor kitchen with a fridge and phone charging, so we don’t have to pay for an extra electricity hook-up, which tends to add quite a bit to the price. Most importantly, the place is overrun with dogs - heaven on earth for canine-obsessed Saf. It’s possible that she now intuitively knows more about dogs than I do, at only four years old, and she has progressed from cuddling the dogs to offering therapeutic massage. I’ve always been an animal person, but Saf is a dog person. There’s no doubt about it.

A few days ago, I noticed I was feeling particularly hormonal with limited tolerance for the usual protests of a strong-willed four-year-old. I questioned what about this situation that I’m finding so overwhelming. The answer was almost always believing that it’s not supposed to be this way. My child isn’t supposed to be losing her shit while getting washed and changed in a 1m x 1m outdoor shower cubicle. Sure about that? I can’t believe it’s taking us until 3pm to get out the door every day! Actually, it’s a miracle that we’re able to get out at all, considering all that it entails. Once I let go of the unrealistic idea of how our day should be going, the anxiety tends to loosen its grip a little.

I’ve started to feel a little jaded with the search for a family volunteering experience. We had something lined up with a local family before we left. It seemed like the perfect fit for us, but then there was barely any communication and an unwillingness to have a video call, which is standard practice when organising an experience like this, so I pulled the plug. It means that now, we are relying on our backup plan - camping - and the prospect of finding a suitable family volunteering experience is seeming less and less likely. I’ve made a handful of requests in the last two weeks, which admittedly is not a good time of year to reach people. Most have not responded, and the one or two that have responded aren’t able to take us. I decided to stop holding on so tightly to the volunteer idea, even accepting that we might end up going home earlier than expected.

Just as in everyday life, the most positive experiences on my travels are born of a willingness to let go of how I want things to be and to accept that there might be better possibilities out there. Right now, we’re sitting in the outdoor kitchen taking refuge from the downpours. This afternoon, Saf and I will go ice skating at the local Christmas market. Your prayers are welcome. Tomorrow we’ll take a trip to the rugged south west coast and check out some magnificent beaches there. Other than that, there is no plan, just an openness to the magic spontaneity of life!

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After a week of travelling through the UK and Spain, we finally arrived at our first campsite, where we would be staying for six nights. It was an eco-village about 30 minutes from the southern coast, in the region of Huelva, which, for the most part, is not a tourist destination for foreigners.

The eco-village in Huelva is made up of a mixture of long-term residents, seasonal residents and volunteers staying for varying durations. Then there are paying guests like us who stay on the campsite. Almost everyone has an interest in sustainable living, spiritual growth, and generally making the world a better place.

Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that Spain is warm at this time of year. Wrong! It’s warm as long as the sun is shining, but after dusk, the temperature drops considerably, and sunny days are not guaranteed. After unloading the car and putting up the awning with help from a couple of the residents, it was already dark, and the prospect of cooking dinner outside in the damp evening air was pretty grim. Yet, I was determined to cook us our first meal.

While Safi played with the resident dog, Monkey, I got the gas stove going and cooked us a simple meal of rice and eggs from the farm where we stayed the previous night. There was something about cooking that first meal outdoors that meant I’d succeeded, at least for one day. It was a proud moment!

After dinner, we got wrapped up in our huge feather duvet and spent our first night “sleeping” in our car bed. Safi, of course, slept like a log, but I struggled with the hard bed. It reminded me of the non-mattresses in traditional Korean guest houses, which involved zero shut-eye. The next day, we braved the cool morning air and made coffee and hot cacao for Saf on our wee stove as the sun came up. It was glorious!

We spent our days pottering about the campsite, doing basic chores like getting food, washing up, cleaning clothes, and cooking, all of it outdoors. Saf ran around barefoot and sandy-faced with the other kids, and I worked on a driftwood piece that I brought from Scotland. In the evenings before bed, we washed the dishes and cleaned our teeth under a dazzling array of a trillion stars. Living outdoors was like a tonic for my mental health.

We got to know some of the residents and fellow campers, each with their own unique stories. Jo, a Dutch ex-workaholic and restauranteur decided to sell his restaurant and travel the world after a light-bulb moment when his best friend passed away from cancer. Disillusioned with many of the communities he had experienced, he felt that this one had something special and has lived there ever since.

Giacomo, an Italian traveller, works casual jobs in the warmer months and is spending the winter in the eco-village because he hates being shut away indoors in the darker months. Anton, a fellow camper from Belgium, is a theatre-set builder and has similar reasons for travelling south in winter. Having “studied” A.K.A got stoned to high heaven in Belgium as part of my uni degree, it was nice to be reacquainted with a Belgian and my memories there as hazy as they are.

Some of the families with children were home-educating, and some were searching for a community in Spain and Portugal. The one thing we all had in common was the love of adventure and the great outdoors, and the rejection of a “normal life”. As a child of the nineties, I obsessed over the movie The Beach. I had dreamed about living in a community on a remote desert island where it never got cold, and there I was living a version of that fantasy.

On Christmas Eve, we sat perched on a strategically placed log, basking in the evening sun and sharing both trivialities and profound insights from our journeys. Santa was supposed to be arriving tomorrow morning, but there was no hullabaloo. In fact, Safi completely forgot it was Christmas Day until I reminded her half an hour after we woke on the 25th of December.

She opened her presents, and then we headed to the beach with a fellow traveller, Mathilde, from the Netherlands - at least that was the plan. About ten minutes from the beach, Mathilde’s VW campervan broke down beside a petrol station. The visit to the beach was aborted as we sought help from locals, but to no avail. Saf looked after Mathilde’s adorable puppy, Pip, while we arranged for the campervan to get towed to a local garage. No stranger to a breakdown, I know how stressful it can be, especially in another country, so I was happy to be a calming presence and a Spanish interpreter.

That evening, Mathilde invited us to take refuge from the chilly evening air and have dinner in her new cosy cabin accommodation. We had a wonderful conversation, and despite the stress of her vehicle breaking down, I couldn’t help but feel that there were silver linings to our unexpected day by the roadside.

I recently heard someone say that Christmas magnifies our emotions, and that if you feel lonely in life, you’ll feel more lonely at Christmas. But I think it goes deeper than that. I believe that the soul senses authenticity. It senses what is real and meaningful, like kindness and connection. The fact that we spent Christmas day by the roadside was completely irrelevant because what we did end up doing was a beautiful reminder of who we really are and why we are here.

Scrooge! You can’t scrap Christmas, you might be thinking. It’s not about scraping Christmas but shifting the focus from forced joy and giving and receiving of gifts to in-person acts of kindness to those in need. As we packed up our belongings today, our new friends pitched in and helped us despite the downpours, and I was reminded that we are supported in this world. And although Santa was not the star of the show, something tells me I’ll remember this Christmas for years to come.

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Take my recent jaunt on the ferry to Spain, for example. Now, like many Northern Irish, I’m no stranger to the odd trip on a ferry to Scotland. And I’m talking over thirty years ago, when ferries were a lot less stable. Ferry crossings “that made grown men weep,” the saying went. I should point out that now that I am a grown woman, I see nothing ironic about this statement.

The bottom line is I was used to ferries, and I never got sick – until last week. Now, it’s possible that I shot myself in the foot here. Since booking the Portsmouth to Bilbao two-night ferry crossing, I’ve been joking about how it was going to be a chunder fest. Basically, I unintentionally told my subconscious that I was going to be unwell.

Come Tuesday night, I started to get the jitters about the boarding process. Will I know what to do? Will I accidentally drive off the ramp into the murky harbour waters? While checking in, our extra roof box height hadn’t been accounted for at the time of booking, and there was some uncertainty about whether we could board. Nightmare. But the issue was resolved, and finally we boarded and made our way to our cabin – Saf oblivious to my elevated cortisol levels.

We had a look around the boat briefly and decided that, as it was 11.30 pm, we’d have a hot chocolate then go to bed. At around 1am, I awoke to a stomach-churning rolling sensation accompanied by ominous-sounding thuds, which I can only assume where 20ft waves crashing against the ship’s hull. I hadn’t experienced queasiness that horrendous since a whale watching trip gone wrong in the Strait of Gibraltar, a few years back. My mind started to race. Fuck, this is it. The ferry is about to keel over, and I don’t even know where the assembly points are. Will women and children be given priority on the lifeboats like on the Titanic? Are there enough bloody lifeboats?

I started to curse my primary school friend, David Harvey, for facilitating my obsession with the Titanic. We used to go to his house after school, lie on his big furry rug with snacks and watch old black and white Titanic movies on repeat. There was nothing about the Titanic that we didn’t know, and David, for a while, even thought he was the Titanic.

Fast forward to last week, deep down, I knew it was an irrational fear, but I couldn’t for the life of me just let it go and trust that everything was going to be just fine. I was counting down the hours until daybreak so that at least I could see what was going on out there. The darkness was making the whole thing unbearable.

Come morning time, I was keen to get out of the cabin to see if everyone else was at their wits’ end, like me. We “walked” to the breakfast area, and of course, everyone was just going about their morning, seemingly unfazed by the horrors of the previous night. Nauseous and barely able to stand, I ordered breakfast for Saf then sat down, head on the table, wishing the nightmare would end. This and lying down horizontally in bed were my only two positions for the entire crossing.

We did once venture up to the top deck because I craved fresh air, and I wanted Saf to experience the ferry from up there. Miraculously, I felt miles better, but had we stayed up there a minute longer, we would be washed up on the coast of Newfoundland by now.

At lunch, I asked one of the crew how long it took him to not feel sick as a dog on the ferry. He explained that people either get sick or they don’t. Sea sickness has never affected him, but he has colleagues who have worked for the company for thirty years and, in adverse weather conditions, need to take seasickness meds every time.

The entire crew was French; another opportunity to practice a language that I once spoke well – now, not so much. It’s a good thing that making a damn fool of myself scrambling around for a long-lost word is no deterrent when it comes to speaking languages. Having gone through the language-learning process several times, awkwardness becomes irrelevant. Being sober helps with that, too.

The second night of the crossing, I felt reassured by the conversation with the crew member. People choose to work here. Surely, it’s going to be fine. But truth be told, I couldn’t wait to get off the damn ship and onto dry land. On our return trip, I’m even considering returning via France.

That morning, Spain greeted us with a blinding golden sunrise – a welcome reprieve from the turbulent skies in the UK. Saf has been enjoying taking photos of “interesting things” and was able to capture the moment using an old digital camera that mum gave her.

With all the organising and gathering of supplies in the last few months, I had forgotten about the profound learning that happens on a trip like this. Facing my fears and doing the hard thing builds resilience and loosens fear’s grip in the long run, both as a woman in this world and as a single mother. And, let’s be honest, it’s bloody fun!

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Our first stop was a Youth Hostel (YHA) in the Lake District. What a spot! The hostel had a cosy, wooden-cabin vibe, with a huge open fire and nostalgic tunes like Philadelphia and Wicked Games on the playlist. We made our own dinner in the self-catering kitchen and decided on an early night to save energy for the upcoming drive. We fell asleep to the sound of a gushing river outside our room - a real treat. Despite the rain and mist, we were able to appreciate the dramatic soaring slopes and vast (overflowing) lakes. It would have been nice to have stayed longer, but several roads had already flooded by the time we left, and with more rain forecast, it was set to get worse.

It wasn’t my first time visiting the region. We passed through on a family trip once en route to France when I was around ten. One day, we were having lunch at the campsite cafe when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something tumble out of the shorts of an elderly man sitting at the table facing ours. It could only be described as two snooker balls suspended in some flesh-coloured stockings. I instinctively knew that it was something that should be kept private, and I was pretty sure that it was attached to his body, but it wasn’t until many years later that the penny dropped and I finally understood what I had witnessed that day - a pair of sweaty bollocks.

Looking back, I struggle to understand how someone might not notice their balls falling out, but I am not a man with balls, and it’s true that many people lack self-awareness in that regard. Plus, he could have been mentally impaired.

As we bade farewell to the Lakes and visions of musty gonads, the shit weather conditions continued to worsen. Just stay between the two dotted white lines, I thought as humungous lorries heaved from side to side with every powerful gust. Visibility was seriously impaired by the spray, which meant I had to focus intently on the road ahead; the chaos was exacerbated by Taraf de Haidouks, a high-energy Romani band playing in the background.

We broke up our trip with lunch at a pricey local farm shop - no surprise there - in Macclesfield, then headed straight to our next Youth Hostel in Stratford-upon-Avon. This hostel wasn’t as atmospheric as the one in the Lakes. There was no open fire, and although the staff were great, the general vibe was more impersonal. I find that this is often the case, the closer you get to London, due to the fact that there are more people.

After checking in, I noticed a large group of fresh-faced and predictably stylish Korean students partaking in two of the Koreans’ biggest loves - Christianity and spam. The group of Christians were studying in towns and cities around the UK and had arranged the gathering in the hostel. Great, a chance to thrust my rusty Korean upon an unsuspecting native was my first thought.

The Koreans were busy preparing an ungodly combo of spam and tuna rice balls in the self-catering kitchen, but I’ll admit the smell of sesame oil and dried seaweed triggered pangs of nostalgia. What I’d give to go back to South Korea someday with my girl. Having gotten sober there in 2016, it’s the one place where I’ve experienced both the worst and best times of my life - a truly indescribable feeling.

After dinner, we hit the hay and settled down for the night. I’d been sleeping for what seemed like a few hours when I was suddenly woken by banging doors and loud voices. “I’ll call the police”, one of the voices said.

Holy crap, I thought. I immediately jumped to the worst and most dramatic conclusion. I had remembered seeing a few rough-looking characters in the hostel at dinner time, and I wondered if they housed local homeless folks. It must be the drug-addled homeless people causing havoc and trying to kill each other, I thought. I made sure the door to our private room was locked and lay in bed, wondering if we were safe and if there was anything I should do. I tried to convince myself that it was probably nothing, but it made me anxious, and I couldn’t sleep.

The next day, I asked the guy at reception if he knew what the shenanigans were about. He said it was the Korean Christians, at which point I told him that was highly unlikely because Koreans on the whole were a well-behaved bunch. He wasn’t convinced, and I later wondered if it was, in fact, the Koreans who were causing mahem. Maybe the Korean Christians weren’t so innocent after all.

Last night’s catastrophising reminded me of a time when I rented a room in a townhouse in central Granada, a few years back. A glamourous Brazilian twenty-something-year-old was the only other guest in the place. All night, I was shitting myself, convinced that she was a sex worker and that she was inviting different punters to her room. Total hokum, it turned out. The voices I heard were her late-night phone calls with friends and family, and she is, in fact, now a successful lawyer who I’m friends with on Facebook. An overactive imagination and reckless application of stereotypes, I reckon, is to blame. Regardless, it’s the kind of fear I’d rather live without.

Finally, we set off on the final leg of our UK drive, this time to Portsmouth, where we would take the ferry to Spain. We stopped off in the Cotswolds for a coffee and networking with Simon Clark, a professional fast driver. Saf was very patient as Simon and I chatted about rally driving, off-grid living and whatever else came up in conversation. Hopefully, I’ll get back down for some rally tuition in the future.

A lady called Tracey who my mum met while travelling this year, invited us to spend the evening at her house in Portsmouth, while she was out of town. She even left us a piping hot sausage casserole in the slow cooker. It’s gestures like these that consolidate my belief in human kindness. Saf and I thoroughly enjoyed a comfy sofa to chill out on for a few hours, and I was able to calmly swap out what clothes and supplies we needed for the two-night trip on the vomit comet.

As I write this post from Spain, I feel inclined to tell you that the less said about that chunderous affair, the better. But this is a blog, and I promised myself I’d have a go at writing about our trip, so I will enlighten you. Stay tuned!

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This week I’ve been finalising preparations for the Spain and Portugal road trip with my pudding. My biggest concern is no longer how I will manage 24/7 parenting with no nursery or help from family, but how I’m going to fit everything in the damn car. I keep telling myself that I’ve organised and packed for big trips before. Somehow it will all work out. Other than that, I am reasonably relaxed, even though our volunteering host fell through. It has, however, brought to my attention a nice little eco-village with a forest school that would be perfect for us.

Scotland is a sodden swamp right now. It feels like it hasn’t stopped raining in weeks, and the mud, holy crap. Wouldn’t it be a right old laugh if it rained the whole time we’re in Portugal, my goodness.

I’m reminded of the time I travelled to Cape Town on a planned six-month bender. It was Christmas 2010, and the UK had been experiencing a particularly icy winter. I was living in Northern Ireland at the time, in our old family home, only it was up for sale, and no one lived there anymore - except me. The pipes had frozen, and the heating had stopped working. It was a bloody nightmare, and I couldn’t wait for some warmth and a slice of sweet freedom. I vaguely remember ruining Christmas for everyone before boarding a 12-hour flight to the sunny southern hemisphere. My first stop was a psychedelic trance festival outside Cape Town.

In the weeks and months leading up to the trip, I’d been working on a version of myself that would be liked and respected in Cape Town by the psy-trance crowd. I hadn’t quite managed this before, thanks to my reckless ways. On drugs and booze, I was a people-pleasing Tsunami, which of course has the opposite effect.

As I get ready to meet a bunch of new people in Portugal, I find myself slipping back into some of those familiar thought patterns. “Will people like me?” “Will my insecurities send people running?” I read a cool quote by Patti Smith a few months ago that I find cathartic when I start to spin out about being seen just as I am.

“My weak point is that I’m self-conscious and often insecure. My strong point is that I don’t feel any shame about it.”

In recent years, I’ve felt called to learn skills to support a more sustainable lifestyle, like growing organic veg and basic woodwork. As soon as I stopped plotting to permanently leave the UK, my job at the organic farm materialised, and I’ve had more opportunities to be creative. Our trip to Portugal is another coordinate on that map and a chance to learn more about living off-grid and self-sufficiency.

I’ll leave you with this heart-warming photo of a sow and her day-old piglets at the farm this week. I stood watching in awe at Mother Nature’s intelligence as these precious creatures instinctively knew how to nourish themselves and thrive - something which is inherent in us all.

Listen

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After arriving at the “sanctuary”, it was clear that there had been crossed wires; a case of Siberian Whispers, you could say.

What we had stumbled upon was a Russian military procession and a dog sanctuary full of wolves and demented brown bears. Of course, the fervent display of Russian patriotism instantly made our host Helen feel uneasy. As a gay woman in a not-so-gay-friendly country, she struggled to join the flag-waving. Helen also had concerns that the young lads were carelessly shooting blanks into the crowd and that this was dangerous.

An American guy who had joined us from the hostel was positively shitting himself at the thought of being set upon by the hordes of Putin-loving, shotgun-toting country folk. I’d be lying if I said the shooting situation didn’t put me on edge, too. There had been a great deal of political strife at that time between Russia and the West, especially the USA. I had even considered cancelling my trip to Russia, but in the end, I’m glad I didn’t - obvs.

Eventually, Helen suggested we head back to the hostel, as the “harmless visit to the dog rescue centre” was no longer safe, and the American had by then become a shadow of his former self.

What I couldn’t work out was the link between the “dog sanctuary” and the military procession, and more to the point, “why was it full of wolves and demented brown bears?” A fundraising event, maybe?

Although saddened by the sight of the ill-treated bears, I went to bed that night satisfied that something entirely unforeseen and random beyond imagination had happened that day, reinforcing my love of unplanned and off-the-beaten-track travel.

More than anything, I’m grateful for those experiences for giving me the cahunas to travel the way I do today. Admittedly, a road trip to Spain and Portugal with my girl seems relatively tame in comparison to winging it in Siberia. But don’t be fooled. The upcoming trip has its own set of challenges unique to travelling with small humans who do not yet have the capacity to see reason.

What I’m enjoying most about the planning phase of this trip is not planning, and instead allowing for delicious spontaneity and unimagined outcomes. Preparing, on the other hand, is a whole other story, and I’m glad to say that we have almost finished acquiring all the necessary tools and supplies.

Note - Unfortunately, I don’t have any photos of the military bear sanctuary event. I’ll hazard a guess and say that’s because we were trying to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Instead, I’ve included a few other photos from the Siberia trip.

Ok, here goes. I’ve been putting this off for a while now. Why? The bio. I can’t get past the bio, so I’m going to start writing without one. There’s something about summing up the past decade or more of life that feels utterly insurmountable. After all, it has been a wild ride. I mean, where do I start? The booze and drug-fuelled bender years? Getting sober in South Korea, in 2016, while navigating a murky world of moonshine-toting Chinese dwarves, and knife-wielding sociopaths? Creating We Love Lucid, the UK’s first alcohol-free travel company, or the all-consuming rollercoaster that is solo parenthood?

How about I start with today.

Right now, I’m sitting on my bed at home, in rural Perthshire, Scotland. It’s mid-November and an unusually mild day for this time of year. Outside my window, the last remaining fuchsia roses pierce the muted autumn colours of the gentle sloping forest facing our house. Mum is pottering about the kitchen, and Safi, my four-year-old daughter, is watching an episode of Octonauts in the living room, next door.

Despite its notoriously crappy weather, the Scottish countryside is undeniably a thing of exquisite beauty. Unfortunately, for me, autumn is usually overshadowed by the impending five months of impenetrable darkness. Some call it Seasonal Affective Disorder. I call it hatred of winter.

But this year is different.

Come December, my girl and I will set off on an almighty, off-the-beaten-track adventure to the south of the European continent. An act of unbridled lunacy, maybe, but when adventure is such an inherent part of your being, it’s the staying put that has the potential to send you cray cray. Besides, I can’t think of a more enriching experience for a child than to be learning and exploring on the road, mixing with children of different colours and creeds.

I haven’t always lived in Scotland. Northern Ireland is my birthplace, and like many young people brought up during the Troubles, I left in search of broader, more peaceful horizons. Still, the childhood summertime jaunts to untamed Northern Irish beaches, shivering and blue-lipped, have never left me. And, it’s because of our love of the ocean that we’ll be spending the winter roaming the wild Atlantic Portuguese coast.

Self-indulgent? I call it radical integrity, and it’s been my quest since I vowed to stop disregarding my inner compass - my true compass. In many ways, this blog is about accountability. It’s about following my north star, despite the hurdles, despite the fear, and despite what society tells me I should be doing with my life.

Over the next few months, I’ll be writing about our travels as we head off into the big Portuguese unknown, where we’ll experience hippy campsites, world schooling hubs and a family farm stay. The plan is to return to Scotland in late winter, where I’ll be working on a long-overdue filming project.

For now, I’m knee-deep in the acquisition of various camping accessories for our trip, including seasickness solutions for our chunderous two-night winter ferry crossing from Portsmouth to Bilbao, God help us.

I’ll leave you with a quote that I came across last year, around the time when I tried (and failed) to cycle 120 miles in one day from Beer in Devon to Soberton in Hampshire.

Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.

T.S. Elliot