TRAVELS IN BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA

We spent the most delightful – and surprising – six days in Bosnia. What a beautiful country! My absolute favourite by far.

A land full of richly forested mountains and turquoise green rivers. Crisp clean air and crystal clear water. Full of rich culture and old history – where mosques, cathedrals and synogogues sit side-by-side and harmony appears to reign in every aspect of society.

It’s also a country still broken and damaged by a war that ended just 23 years ago.

A war where politicians played out their prejudices, greed and fears, at the cost of innocent lives. A land where ethnic cleansing and genocide became a part of their national story, and a once-united country is starting to see cracks and division as those in charge increase their power by spreading fear and bigotry.

The small old city of Sarajevo where we spent five serene nights, is full of historic buildings with beautiful Georgian architecture, displaying the brutal wounds of gunfire and shelling from two decades prior. Much of the city is graffitied and dirty as post-war economic devastation still remains, and a third of the population are unemployed. The busy streets are a kalediscope of cultures, with nuns, muslims, westerners, arabs, and people from every ethnic and religious background wandering the streets, ordering thick bosnian coffees, decadent icecreams, or the local must-try dish, cevapi.

Much of the city is graffitied and dirty as post-war economic devastation still remains, and a third of the population are unemployed. The busy streets are a kalediscope of cultures, with nuns, muslims, westerners, arabs, and people from every ethnic and religious background wandering the streets, ordering thick bosnian coffees, decadent icecreams, or the local must-try dish, cevapi.

Our days in Sarajevo were spent slowly meandering around the city, enjoying the lively atmosphere and photographing every building we saw. We stood on the spot where Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated, leading to the beginning of world war one. We visited sites from the 1984 Winter Olympics – destroyed by Serbian forces just six years later for no other reason than destruction on a grand scale.

The Bosnian people we met were kind and gentle and passionate about the beauty of their country.

Not just the geographical beauty, but pride in their long history of muslims, christians and jews living peacefully together. Inter-denominational marriages are common and tolerance abounds. The Bosnian people working in the stores we visited missed the course on customer service. For the most part, store keepers seem to ignore customers and make little eye contact. But if a conversation starts, faces light up and their lovely gentle spirits shine through.

We were fortunate to do a small group tour to Mostar and some of the key sights in Herzegovina. If only we’d known in advance how beautiful the scenery was going to be – we would have loved to take the train through the picturesque valleys from Sarajevo to Mostar. I cannot imagine a more beautiful vista anywhere in the world.

We swam in the cool depths of the Kravice waterfalls, climbed to the top of an Ottoman era fortress in Pocitelj, had lunch by a Dervish monastery listening to the source of the river Buna in Blagaj, saw the bridge Tito ordered destroyed in Jablanica after bringing wounded soldiers back and wanting to prevent German soldiers gaining further ground, then spent several hours exploring the restored cobblestone paths of Mostar by the famous UNESCO protected Old Bridge – rebuilt after being destroyed by the Serbian army.

We spent a solemn morning visiting exhibits and hearing personal stories, at The Crimes Against Humanity & Genocide Museum. It’s not an easy way to spend a morning, but I feel it’s important to honour and respect those impacted by the war. The incredible ability for soldiers during times of war to dehumanise men, women and children – their former countrymen and neighbours – is beyond my comprehension. And I hope never to comprehend how it can happen. That we now see the same atrocities happening in Syria is gut-wrenching. How quickly the world forgets. How easy it is to forget genuine tragedies are behind the stories and headlines we read.

Bosnia was an incongruous mix of beauty, history, multiculturalism and harmony, with confronting scenes of the brutality of mankind, political machinations masquerading as religious righteousness, and generational fears of post-war trauma.

I have felt utter peace in the beauty of the country, abject sorrow at the suffering, and intense gratitude to those who shared their love and stories of an amazing country.

Visiting Bosnia has been the highlight of our trip so far. Not just for the sheer joy of having a washing machine, or a waterfront apartment cheaper per night than a pair of shoes, or the bliss of daytime temperatures staying under 30c, but for the privilege of witnessing firsthand the affects of a war previously only seen on television (aka, somewhere else), meeting a beautiful and eclectic bunch of people, and traveling through some of the prettiest valleys I’ve ever seen in my life. Hvala ti, Bosnia. Until next time.

TRAVELS IN TURKEY

Wow. What an experience!

It’s the last night of our whirlwind whizz around this amazing country. Filled with fairy chimneys, underground cities, summer fruits, and cats. Every street corner and ruin has a little furry feline curled up, resting from the midday sun. It’s been an incredible, exhausting, wild ride.

Our arrival in Istanbul was chaotic. My husband’s luggage was lost and despite me saying pack spare clothes in the carry-on, he didn’t bother. So our first task was to rush out and find a change of clothes. The suitcase turned up later that evening, I refrained from saying, I told you so, and that was the last major stress for 11 days.

We were on tour again, but this time there were eight of us, plus our delightful guide and driver.

A small group with an enormous bus – five seats per person. It was terribly comfortable. I made myself a lovely little nest then sent my husband to the front so I could spend time alone every day.

Endless fields of tall, ripe sunflowers lined the roads to our first stop – Gallipoli. Blue skies, green grass and sandstone memorials line the shores of Anzac Cove on the banks of the Dardanelle Strait. I waded into the water to see the coast of Gallipoli, just as thousands of young men did in 1915. As the local Turkish man sunbathing on the pebbles said, Too many lives lost for nothing.

Every grave, every memorial, every country’s losses, highlight the futility of war. Politicians playing out prejudice and greed with no thought for human life and suffering. Soldiers eat together at night, kill each other in the morning. Nothing sums it up better than the words attributed to Mustafa Kemal Ataturk.

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives … You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours … You, the mothers who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

From Gallipoli, we boarded the ferry to Canakkale – a vibrant Turkish town where streets are lined with fruit vendors, tourists and the ever-present cats. The next day we visited the ancient ruins of Troy – all nine cities. Not in different locales – but on top of each other. When an earthquake demolished buildings, the industrious Trojans started again. A small town of mudbrick homes eventually becoming a major Roman city filled with marble, granite, clever plumbing, and of course – an amphitheatre. No trip to Troy is complete without a Trojan Horse. The original long gone – destroyed from the inside out no doubt – but a replica remains to climb in. I finished the tour of Troy with a kitsch dress up and photo opportunity in a chariot.

Then it was off to Pergamon – another ancient city. (When I say ancient – I mean really old. Ruins throughout the Ottoman empire were built 2-6 thousand years BC. That’s a very long time ago…) I learned more history in the space of 11 days than I did in six years of high school. The city of Pergamon built the first dedicated medical centre in the world – looking after physical, psychological and spiritual welfare. A series of tunnels were the “incubators”, where patients would sleep and have their dreams analyzed so physicians could decide on appropriate treatment. I have no idea what their success rate was, but it was a fascinating city and sanctuary, replete with a pond full of coy turtles, disappearing beneath the greenery and shyly returning when nobody was looking.

After Pergamon, the itinerary is a blur of ruins, museums, and luxury hotels running down the west coast of Turkey, with views to the islands of Greece and Turkey. Our hotel in Kusadasi was resplendent on the shores of the Aegean Sea and I took the opportunity to wash the dust and the sweat away with cool salty water. In the evening we caught up with an old friend for dinner. As we wandered the busy waterfront streets, we met a Syrian family – mum, dad and two tiny children asleep in their laps. My heart just broke. We stopped and gave them what we could, trying to communicate with a huge language barrier. We held hands and patted the sleeping children’s heads and looked at the pain and sorrow in the eyes of the parents. Just four of four million Syrian refugees in Turkey. Ordinary people and families caught up in political wars masquerading as religious righteousness. There are no winners but there is a lot of loss. We said goodbye to the family and I can only but hope our small donation made a small difference.

No trip to Turkey is complete without Ephesus. Wow.

We may have seen a lot of old rocks and carved statues in the space of a few weeks, but Ephesus is a jewel. Exquisite carvings, beautiful marble, intricate mosaics and a 24,000 seat amphitheatre. They just don’t make things like they used to. Ephesus is incredible.

We then meandered along the Meander Valley, with fields of olives and pomegranates and beautiful stone fruit, too juicy to eat politely. Wet wipes and groans of pleasure obligatory. While ancient ruins still lined the valleys, it was time for geographical marvels. First Pamukkale. Terraces of limestone and thermal pools, creating white cliffs amid green hills and the remains of Hierapolis. The unfortunate effects of climate change have reduced water flow so significantly, UNESCO now diverts water to just a small section of the cliffs, and thousands of tourists are gathered around a few small pools. The city ruins and empty pools were largely devoid of tourists so we enjoyed exploring the quiet spots, and found a couple of small pools to enjoy on our own. Pamukkale really is a geographical marvel – I hope the water one day returns to its full quota and the aquamarine pools are once again filled with the calcium-rich waters.

From Pamukkale to Cappadocia – the jewel of Turkey. In my humble opinion. It really is like another planet – fairy chimneys, a city of hidden rock-cave-chapels built by persecuted Christians, underground cities, caravanserai. Everyone living in rock houses. Hotels carved into the hillside. A moonscape of violent volcanic eruptions dotted with apricot orchards and old ladies selling handmade lace tablecloths. Rich with the history of ancient Greece and Rome, Pagans, Christians and Moslems – all fighting to be right. I dreamed of doing the balloon tour over the Cappadocia valley, but alas, the cost was exorbitant and I’d already purchased a very expensive pink leather jacket on the way.

An evening of performances from the incredibly spiritual whirling dervish experience, to the high festivities of Turkish folk dancing, belly dancing and the local drink, Raki – my new favourite beverage. Like liquid licorice. Delish. Cappadocia to Ankara then back to our starting point – Istanbul. But this time we got to explore. The Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, the Grand Bazaar, Topkapi Palace.

It’s all a blur of incredible antiquity. Memories to last a lifetime – although historic facts seem to escape me almost instantaneously.

Our final night in Turkey was spent cruising the Bosporus in a big boat just for our tour group, before stepping off at a pier to a luxurious riverside restaurant for our farewell dinner. Our little group of Aussies, Americans, South African and our fearless Turkish host, bonded like old friends meeting again.

I love Turkey – what a wonderful country. Incredible history. Amazing geography. Stunning waters. A devoutly Muslim country with an incredibly progressive society. An eclectic mix of modern west and conservative Arab worlds. Like Jordan, the people are beautiful and friendly, but like Jordan, a few men in rural areas stare at women in a most unpleasant manner. When the bus driver from another company ogled me during our lunch break, licking his lips and quietly photographing me, I knew we’d left the safety of Istanbul behind and arrived in a place where any part of flesh a woman displays is considered eye-candy and uncivil men leer at the female form like pieces of meat for sale. First I was stunned. Then I was angry. It’s a very small number of men that behave appallingly, but it’s creepy and undignified and not something women experience to the same extent in western countries. With the incongruous mix of modern and conservative women in Turkey, I hope these disrespectful men are soon put in their place.

Turkey is astonishingly clean, abundant with produce and beautiful food, full of history, luxurious escapes and beautiful people. Touring is frantic and fun and a very inconvenient way to get washing done. I’m so glad to have finally been, and now I’m ready for a quiet week by the banks of Sarajevo’s Miljacka river.

WEIGHTY WORDS

The things you say and do can be triggering to me.

No matter how recovered I may look – or feel – there are circumstances that instantly make the eating disorder voice natter in my ear. Incessantly.

How I react to that voice, is dependent on my psychological and emotional well being, as well as the length and depth of my recovery. But regardless – I feel triggered to regress in certain situations and it’s an exhausting fight to stay on the recovery road. For me, “triggered” means feeling a compulsion to succumb to the disorder. As a bulimic, that means compensatory eating behaviours. Binging, purging, or both. Finding any means possible to compensate for having eaten. Finding any means possible to reduce the size of my body so clothes hang loosely and my bones become visible. Feeling triggered means a huge risk of relapsing.

Numbers

Any number related to diet or body size is highly problematic. When you share your weight, dress size or how many kilos you’ve lost or “need” to lose, it’s extremely distressing. My immediate reaction is a desire to stop eating. Completely. It doesn’t matter why the numbers are shared, or how high/low healthy/unhealthy they may be, my eating disorder will compel me to stop eating and drop weight.

Labels

Knowing the calorie content of food is triggering. It’s an immediate and obvious way to compare (judge) foods and the eating disorder raises its very ugly head and decides all food is off limits because of the calorie content.

Photographs

Before and after photographs. Thinspiration. Photos of me. They all bring about a rapid spiral into misery. In this digital age where we take hundreds of photos then scroll through looking for the best shot, means judging every aspect of my being. Unflattering angle. Messy hair. Bags under my eyes. Enormous butt/boobs/belly. Photos are concrete evidence of my failure to live up to an impossible standard.

Food

We have to eat. There’s no getting out of it. But the sight of food is triggering and the more there is to look at the harder it is to deal with. Buffets are a nightmare. The desire to eat it all or nothing whatsoever is overwhelming. Making food choices is exhausting. The chatter in my head is confusing – eat this, or that, don’t eat this or that. Be good. Be bad. The more choice, the harder the decision. And social eating becomes an unhealthy competition for one. I see what everyone else is eating and wonder whether I should eat differently – different foods, portion sizes, slower, faster. I don’t trust the choices I make.

Conversation

Talking about your diet, compensatory behaviour (I’ll exercise tomorrow to burn off this dinner!) or your body (for better or worse) is triggering. My body isn’t good enough – it never has been. My food intake is a war zone. Part of my recovery is learning to think about other things so when conversation turns to diet and body image another bit of my carefully constructed armour is chipped away. Worse still, is conversation about my diet or body. Compliments are triggering. Criticism is triggering. Saying I look healthier than before or it’s good to see me eating well is triggering. It’s all triggering.

Insecurities

Anything that causes worry or distress, shame or embarrassment, becomes a trigger. My tolerance for stress is pitifully low – something I continue to work on. But the eating disorder has long been my preferred coping mechanism and old habits die hard. The higher the level of stress, the stronger the pull because it numbs emotional pain and stops the silent catastrophising.

Myself

The biggest trigger of all is myself. Seeing myself – in pictures, in person, in a reflection. Past or present. Putting clothes on – or taking them off. Misunderstanding someone’s comment. Or understanding them perfectly well… Eating. Not eating. Exercising. Not exercising. Discussing my eating disorder. Not discussing my eating disorder. Sharing my problems. Not sharing my problems. It is so incredibly easy to revert to a level of emotional comfort that results in physical discomfort and psychological pain.

These are situations unique to me, but will resonate with anyone who has experienced an eating disorder. In my opinion, unless you are a professional support person, it’s never appropriate to comment on anyone’s body, appearance, food intake or exercise habits. And if you’re talking about your own diet and body, consider who’s listening, how it might affect them, and why you need to talk about it at all. The people I know with the healthiest outlook on food and body image never feel a need to discuss it.

TRAVELS IN JORDAN

Today is my last day in Jordan. It’s 7am, 28c in the shade, and I’m looking at an oasis of resort swimming pools before the West Bank of Palestine hugs the expanse of the Dead Sea.

It’s been a magical week and I’m going to miss this country and the beautiful people who inhabit it.

It was a laborious route from Edinburgh to Amman. I knew it would be, but reality is more realistic than theory. Edinburgh airport is chaos – domestic and international, arrivals and departures, all gathering at the front door. Anxiety sky high after I inadvertently threw our plane tickets away. We traveled 13 hours from Edinburgh to Amman, arriving at 5am looking like walking zombies. It was bliss to see a delightful man holding a sign with our neatly printed names. We breezed through customs and headed straight to our hotel thanks to his efficiency.

We opted for organised tours in Jordan and Turkey as political unrest made us wonder about safety. Other travelers must have wondered the same, as all but three of us canceled. We spent a delicious week touring Jordan with our new friend, a Brazilian woman, beautiful inside and out. Locals joyously shout, Welcome to Jordan! everywhere we go.

I guess red hair, lily white skin, aussie akubra hat, and cameras dangling around our necks, mark us as tourists.

We visited Jerash and the Amman Citadel before driving to Petra. I had no idea what to expect in Jerash – maybe a couple of ruins before heading to one of Jordan’s treasures. But it’s a lot more than a couple of ruins – it’s a Greco-Roman city full of exquisite ruins and fascinating facts. An intact amphitheater, replete with Jordanian bagpiper and drummers, reveals the genius of ancient acoustic engineering. Put your ear to one circular niche and chat to your buddy on the opposite side of the arena. Totally audible despite the bagpiper, and distant repeats of Fur Elise piped not from an ice cream van, but the man selling gas bottles door to door in modern Jerash. We arrive in Petra in time for dinner – a traditional Jordanian feast, served in a Bedouin tent, watching the sunset over the gorge. Magical really doesn’t do the scene justice.

The only thing I can say is, go to Petra. Stay at the Marriott and experience it yourself. You won’t regret it.

The next day we visit the infamous locale from Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade. It’s incredible. Unbelievable. Inconceivable. Awe-inspiring. Not enough adjectives. A UNESCO world heritage site – one of the new7wonders of the world. We meander through close-walled pink sandstone canyons with our guide pointing out fascinating facts. We stop and hold hands in a carved niche while looking at the ancient scripture facing us – as newlyweds in the Nabatean Kingdom would have done. Emerging from a narrow gap we see the Treasury in all its glory. Spectacular. Awash with the melody of camels and donkeys, vendors and tourists, horses and chariots. The hot July temperatures mean it’s low season – quiet enough to stand alone in front of the ancient tomb for a few moments.

The trek to the basin has no shade and every step’s a little warmer as we pass royal tombs, kids whipping donkeys, cats aplenty, and tourists on camels. The basin is at the foot of 850 steps to the Monastery. No big deal – I’ve climbed more than that. (Not in 40c heat.) We trek up the steep path, admiring emerging views behind us while dodging tourist-laden donkeys fearlessly hugging the narrow edges. Shortly before I meet my favourite vendor Turquoise, I’m more cold than hot – little chills shivering through me. I lean back into the nearest rock, sitting to stop my spinning head. My husband takes the backpack and I down more water. We’re halfway – not turning back now.

Arriving at the Monastery is beautiful.

Few tourists and the ancient princely tomb just as impressive as the Treasury on the canyon floor. A short climb to “the best view in the whole world”, where we pass numerous signs with arrows pointing in every direction to “the best view in the whole world”. It really is a stunning view – I highly recommend it. And the sense of accomplishment is pretty special too.

We’d meandered nearly four hours to get from the visitor center to the summit, leisurely enjoying sites and history. It’s about 90 minutes without stopping. We chat to Turquoise and her four cats on the way back, buying trinkets and donating sunscreen to a worthy cause. Midway down, my husband’s gone ahead when a guy asks my friend and I if we’ll take his photo. Sure! We do it all the time. I grab the camera, he asks my beautiful Brazilian friend to join him. Okay. He wants a photo with the Australian girl. Okay. He puts his arm around me and I feel uncomfortable, but say nothing. Then he drapes himself around my neck like a lover, reaching for my breasts, and my friend shouts, No! Stop!

And we leave with his apologies ringing in our ears, an angry Brazilian calling back what a bad man he is.

We meet my husband who’s not impressed then continue to the basin before venturing into the seering afternoon heat back to the Treasury – no shade now. (I’m really not great with heat.) We’ve had at least six bottles of water and a gatorade between two of us, but no food since breakfast eight hours earlier. By the time I see shade in the distance it’s clear I’m struggling – lurching around like a drunkard. I’ll be fine. I’m relieved of everything I’m carrying and keep lurching towards the shade. When I get there I can’t stand and unceremoniously slump to the dust. That’s too exhausting so I lie down to sleep. I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment. I hear my husband talking then cool water is poured over me. I’m lying in the red dust wearing a long sleeved white top which is now saturated. I’m too old for a wet t-shirt competition but I feel well enough to sit up. No. I don’t need an ambulance. Someone hands me an electrolyte sweet, someone else hands me an orange, and the policeman asks if I need an ambulance or a donkey. No. I’m fine. No idea how long I’m on the ground before I walk the two minutes to the police cabin at the Treasury and sit in a comfy chair for goodness knows how long, feeling spectacularly stupid, then return to the visitor center – only just making it. Our 90 minute walk took four hours. Long day. My shirt needs a good wash.

Another sunset bedouin feast then the next day we return to Amman, visiting more biblical and historic sites along the way. Our final three nights have been at the Dead Sea. After visiting the Baptism Site on the way, we’ve done nothing but lounge about on banana lounges in air-conditioned spa facilities. Periodically leaving luxury to eat and sleep. I feel utterly, utterly rested. And spoiled rotten. I’ve never subjected myself to such decadence, and may never again. Tomorrow we head to Turkey for new wall to wall adventures.

I’m gonna miss Jordan.

SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING

I’m searching for something – and I don’t know what it is. But I do know what it isn’t. It isn’t physical. Or psychological. It isn’t health or wealth or happiness – although they’re lovely and I’d like more please. I’m not looking for religion – I need something far more personal. The only word that makes sense to me, is spiritual.

spiritual [adjective]
1. Relating to or affecting the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things.

1.1 Having a relationship based on a profound level of mental or emotional communion.

1.2 (of a person) not concerned with material values or pursuits.

When I talk about God or religion or spirituality with my family they ask, Why? What for? And I don’t know how to answer. I just know there’s something in me that has become increasingly unsettled in the past few years. Most profoundly in that year I fell apart. Everything always comes back to that year. From there, everything changed. Sometimes worse. Sometimes better.

I have friends with strong faiths, and I’m often envious of the comfort they find in knowing their God. I wish it was easy to just believe. I’ve tried. I even googled, how to believe in God. But it isn’t that simple. I don’t even know if that’s what I’m looking for.

In the past week, I’ve traveled through Jordan, visiting breathtaking historical and biblical sites. It’s an amazing country and an incredible experience. It’s also seeringly hot – not my favourite temperature. Despite the constant need to reapply deodorant, I’ve loved this country and become really drawn to the religious histories – Judaism, Islam and Christianity. So many commonalities, yet politics most often plays on the differences.

Regardless of religious belief, the history is fascinating. The deep sense of spirituality within the biblical sites really touched me. I find so much peace sitting alone in ancient churches.

I’ve taken every opportunity to sit and linger in each church. Listening. Peacefully.

Today was the last of our tours – The Baptism Site of Jesus Christ. Allegedly. Despite my husband’s cynical view of the historical accuracy, it was the most touching experience I’ve had here. Literally. I stood in the Jordan River and doused myself in cool water. It was 41c in the shade and we walked a kilometer to get there, so I was grateful for cool water to sprinkle over my arms and face and back, while dangling my feet in the shallow river. There were tourists and an armed guard nearby – but I felt very alone for those few moments. Very cool. And very peaceful. I didn’t hear the voice of God or feel inherently changed, but it was incredibly special. And I don’t know why.

As always happens with tours, we had obligatory stops at the gift shop before and after walking to the holy sites. It was blessedly air-conditioned, which was a relief as the heat was making me nauseous. I asked my beautiful new friend if she could loan me 2 dinar so I could buy a tiny little wooden cross. I don’t know why I want it. I’m not Christian, nor likely to convert any time soon. But I feel a sense of affinity with the origins of the Abrahamic religions.

My little anxiety relieving bunny, now has a tiny wooden cross hanging next to his silver key inscribed with Hope. He feels extra special. I hug him every night and say, I have Hope. Since leaving the clinic in March, it has been my mantra – I have Hope. When depression or anxiety drags me down, I have Hope.

I’m still searching for something. I don’t know what it is. But bathing my arms and legs in the Jordan River, has brought me one step closer.

TRAVELS IN THE UK – PART TWO

We collected a lovely little Audi in Salisbury to travel around in for a week.

While in Salisbury we thought we should pop in to the Cathedral – everyone else seemed to be doing the same thing. It was just magnificent – just one of many magnificent cathedrals and churches throughout the United Kingdom. But I particularly loved the array of origami cranes overhead. From there we attempted to drive to our next location via Stone Henge but we were still working out the buttons on the sat nav and missed it completely. Having read reviews, I wasn’t that worried. A few hours later we arrived at our gorgeous little b&b in Ross-on-Wye – a little English town in the Forest of Dean. I was very excited about the Forest of Dean, as that is where my surname comes from 😀

We spent a delightful four nights in the quaintest little spot. Three ducks roamed around, very kindly laying eggs for our breakfast each morning. A squirrel wandered around stealing food, and the native hedgehogs, red squirrels and badger, refused to come out to meet the foreign visitors. The red breasted robin was not so shy. It also turns out, our host distils her own gin which I felt obliged to sample, and then purchased a lovely bottle of the rhubarb and custard variety. I’m saving it to share with friends.

While staying in Ross-on-Wye we spent a lot of time traveling far afield, visiting The Mumbles in Wales and then stopping in at Merthyr Tydfil on the way back – which turns out to be a mining town without a mine and is suffering a little as a consequence.

It’s good to get off the tourist track from time to time.

As we ventured out to visit Bath – somewhere I’ve been really excited to go – it dawned upon me I was developing a urinary tract infection. Very rapidly. So we dropped into the nearest town only to discover in great britain you have to see a doctor in the county you’re staying in. So we traipsed back to Ross-on-Wye for me to get antibiotics in the hope of ending my urgent half hourly bathroom trips. I vowed and declared we’re never having sex again. We shall see what happens.

With undying thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, I was right as rain to visit Bath the next day and loved it. Every bit of it. The bustling township and the sunny skies and the swampy roman baths and lunch at wagamama. We had the most delightful day. We drove home via The Cotswolds because everyone talks about them. It turns out they’re the cutest little villages, all made from heritage honey-coloured stone – even new buildings – and set in quaint little hills and valleys. We stopped and took pretty pictures then went back to The Cotswolds the following day to visit even more and then popped in to Stratford-upon-Avon for the obligatory wander to the birthplace of Shakespeare. It was quite incredible how every single town was so different in style. And so delightful. I’m so glad we went.

After our visit to Ross-on-Wye, we headed up to The Lakes District to stay at Ambleside for two nights. By now we’d mastered our sat nav and named her Sally. What I hadn’t mastered was coping with my husband’s aggressive driving in the teeny tiny English roads. So I fished out my bottle of clonazepam and spent every car trip trying to drift off into a place without panic. It was surprisingly successful. I must remember this for future moments of high anxiety.

Ambleside and the entire Lakes District was just stunning.

I cannot articulate how delightful it was. And how different to where we’d already been. We managed a quick dip in the lake where my husband enjoyed the fact I wrapped my arms around his neck so he could float around and enjoy a cuddle, while I didn’t have to touch the slimy rocks beneath. Win win. We enjoyed a picnic on the side of the lake with the hot evening sun, and then two canadian geese came to share in our picnic. They were not to be discouraged – pecking at my fingers and toes. Turns out they like banana skins so I threw them away from where we were and that solved that problem. As we packed up to go back to the car, we found the car keys in my husband’s pocket – of his swimming pants. Car keys soaking wet. Not a problem for the key bit, but very concerning for the remote control bit. We crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. Thankfully the engine started first time and we hadn’t destroyed the remote for our hire car.

As we left the Lakes District to head towards Edinburgh, we went via Hadrian’s Wall and snapped some photos of the ancient wall. We also discovered a circle of stones at Castlerigg – apparently the UK is dotted with stone circles everywhere. This one was free, had practically no tourists, was surrounded by amazing hills, and had a full circle of stones. Not quite as tall as stone henge, but we enjoyed it none the less. As do the local sheep.

We arrived in Edinburgh and returned our car. Where it turns out my husband’s reckless driving had scratched one of the wheels. I told you so just doesn’t seem to sum it up. After that we explored Edinburgh and I have fallen in love with this city. It is gorgeous. We have a lovely little apartment hotel in the Royal Mile and have wandered around Edinburgh Castle at the top of the Mile, all the way down to Holyrood Palace at the bottom – where Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is currently in residence. She obviously didn’t want to miss out on our holiday jaunt. We spent a lovely touristy day on a small group tour going to Loch Lomond, the Kelpies and Stirling Castle. I was drugged to the eyeballs trying to keep a migraine at bay so was a little floppy for the day. Came home and took enough pharmaceuticals to tranquilize a horse, washed down with rhubarb gin and tonics, and then agreed sex wasn’t entirely off the table. So far so good.

Today we have a late checkout and will then spend 13 hours traveling to Amman to begin our guided tours of Jordan and Turkey. The United Kingdom has been lovely, but I am definitely ready to become immersed in different cultures and cuisines and experiences. And so, so ready to stay at hotels with good air conditioning and swimming pools.

To sum up our first two weeks… It’s awesome. Having a great time!