In the summer of 2007 I travelled to Syria. Our group were on a trip around the Middle East when we crossed over the Jordanian border to arrive in the ancient walled city of Damascus. A collection of women from England, Australia, Canada and the US, we walked past palm trees and half ruined architecture above multi-coloured parasols. My eyes were constantly pulled towards every tiny detail of this bizarre and bustling city. To bare lightbulbs strung into strips of stainless steel roofing; electric…
“Are there any good pubs on Whitstable beach?” The train conductor mutters something indecipherable as he hands a ticket back to the man asking questions. I’ve spent the last half hour trying my best to ignore the loud conversation of this questioner and his girlfriend from the safety of my seat a few rows back, but now my attention is piqued. Plus I’m somewhat interested in the answer. “I don’t mean pop ups… we have those in London. You know, some traditional places.…
So You Want to Volunteer in South America?
Posted on February 11, 2016Last updated March 2019 “I’m going to volunteer in South America!” This gleeful announcement was made to my dad in the summer of 2013, just three days after I’d flown back home to London from South East Asia. Still in the travelling mindset, I was already plotting my next volunteer move. Although it may sound like a spontaneous decision, the idea to volunteer in South America was actually a long time in the making. Ever since secondary school I’d kept two travel…
High up in the Rif mountains of Morocco, past a succession of hairpin bends and steep cliffs dropping down to nothingness, is a town that’s entirely blue. The reasons that led the community of Chefchaouen to paint every one of their buildings in the same colour aren’t entirely known for sure: some say it’s to hold back invading mosquitos, while others claim it’s to reflect the sky. Regardless of their origin, wandering through the blues of Chefchaouen is a surreal experience that’s entirely unlike the rest…
The Refugee Crisis: Why Come to the Calais Camps?
Posted on January 21, 2016I was nervous. Standing awkwardly on a patch of sloping mud below a grassy sand dune, I stared down at my hefty walking boots half covered by waterproof trousers. Opposite me stood dozens of men in a quiet line, many of their faces turned to me with vague interest. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. A few dozen metres away, a heavy crane machine picked up identical shipping containers, stacking them up like shiny white Jenga…
The Refugee Crisis: Volunteering in the Calais Warehouse
Posted on January 14, 2016There is French dirt from the Calais camps coating my clothes. Dust from the warehouse blurring the lenses of my glasses. The cracks in my hands are sore and dried out, and each finger has too many smudges of permanent marker to count. In seven days, I’ve become obsessed with packing cardboard boxes full of donated clothes and storing them on the warehouse shelves; I wear rolls of parcel tape like bracelets, and my orange hi vis vest is like a…
Kindness and Community on the Camino
Posted on January 7, 2016They say the Camino brings out the best in people. I didn’t believe them at first, but it’s true. Becoming a pilgrim means talking to, befriending and helping out others just for the sake of it. Walking the Camino turns individual people from strangers into a community – and a special one, at that. Where else would you immediately befriend anyone you see wearing a backpack? My introduction to the Camino community started with Lydia, a vivacious woman from California. We met at…
Imagine a city covered in snow. It sits on ladders and lamp posts, railings and rooftops, car windscreens and tree branches: inches thick, untouched and pure white. The snow quietens the streets. Vehicles are notably absent, leaving vast stretches of open tarmac. People walk more slowly to avoid slipping on the ice; their bodies get closer together, and they hold onto each other’s elbows for better balance. Bucharest in winter can be a snow lover’s dream. How do I know? Because midway through December 2014,…
Searching for the Spirit of Place at Gibraltar Literary Festival
Posted on December 17, 2015“You always start with the senses.” I try my best to suffocate the sound of my growling stomach. There’s a Marks and Spencers sandwich hiding in my bag, but I don’t want to grab for it and noisily interrupt the English author who’s sitting opposite me at the front of a tiny gallery space. It’s a sunny Sunday morning – the last day of Gibraltar’s annual International Literary Festival – and Iain Finlayson is discussing the ways to evoke a spirit of place…
When I was eight years old, I got locked inside a toilet cubicle in a Japanese KFC. I’d been eating fried chicken with my parents mere minutes before; my fingers were greasy, and the lock on the door was little more than a strip of jutting plastic with an indent so shallow that only a non-greasy thumb could slide it open. The door itself fitted seamlessly to the ceiling and the floor – a flawless example of Japanese design in 1997…