Ways to Roam

It was February and we were hot. This was more like it! We'd finally escaped the English winter and made a bolt for the warmth of Morocco. For the next ten days, we wandered the maze of streets around the Marrakech Medina, got lost - a lot - and did a spot of...

February was as far as we could make it through the English winter of 2023/24. We hadn’t emerged from our hibernation cave for weeks, Russell’s golf clubs had rusted up, and I was in danger of permanently relocating my office to our bed.

You may have heard of Henley-on-Thames. It’s a 13th-century market town in Oxfordshire famous for its annual regatta. Henley Royal Regatta, founded in 1839, has only been interrupted by WWI, WWII, and COVID. It’s also where I grew up and went to school until the age of 13.

It all started when Russell watched a documentary about Great British railway journeys. “I want to do that one,” he said pointing at the TV. It was a day trip to the Snowdonia Mountains in Wales on board The Statesman. “OK,” I said, “Let’s go.”

I’ve always wanted to visit Amsterdam. My only knowledge of it had come from films and paintings – the canals and bicycles, the red light district, the Van Gogh Museum and the cannabis culture. In July 2023, we finally got there, and it was just as I imagined. 

When I was a kid, my parents would regularly take me and my two brothers up to Scotland for a family holiday. Mum would wake us all at 4 am, bundle us into the back of the car, still wrapped in our duvets, and we would start the long, long drive north, arriving in Argyll in time for supper.

For the last couple of years, we have summered in the UK. In part because most parents take their little darlings to the Continent during July and August, and we would rather not join them. But mainly because the UK is just so fabulous in the sunshine. Granted, summer and sunshine don’t always go hand-in-hand, but when the two align, there’s nothing better.

In Part II of our Sicilian adventure, we left Taormina and headed 30 minutes down the coast to the twin villages of Aci Castello and Aci Trezza. Separated by a mile-long promenade, these laid-back fishing villages were a complete change of pace – a sort of Port Douglas on the Med, if you happen to know Port Douglas.

If you’re a fan of ‘The Godfather’, you’ll recognise “Leave the gun, take the cannoli”. Peter Clemenza said it to his offsider after they’d stiffed a traitor. You see, he’d bought some cannoli for his wife on the way to the hit and they’d left the car with the dead body and the gun. But there’s no way he was going to leave the cannoli. It’s a Sicilian thing. . .

As you will know if you read Part 1 of this post, we were in Ireland enjoying the unseasonally sunny weather, instead of the forecast sleet and snow. But maybe we were heading straight for it. Maybe the second part of our Irish adventure was a disaster waiting to happen.

It was February 2023. Cold and miserable. Short English days of foggy, grey skies. So we decided to pack our bags and go to Ireland. . . .where it’s even colder, with a forecast of scattered showers of sleet and snow. No, I don’t know what we were thinking, either.

Blow me if it’s not 2023 already. Last time I looked, we were at the tail end of the most glorious summer on record in 2022. We’d enjoyed long hot days and warm sunlit evenings through July and August, and we were looking forward to jetting off to the South of France.

If you read the account of our Big Fat Greek Holiday Disaster, you’ll know things started to go wrong the morning of our departure. Disturbingly, this seems to be developing into a pattern.

Picture This: The warm blue waters of the Ionian Sea, a 5-star hotel on a private sandy beach in Corfu, perfect weather, great food, free drinks, and an upgraded room with sunset views over the ocean. What could possibly go wrong? Quite a lot, as it turns out.

It all started with a message from my friend Dinah in Australia. “Can you join me in Italy at the end of September?” she wrote. “Sadly not”, I had to reply, “But where will you be at the beginning of the month?” In Provence, it turned out. So Provence it was.

Our third official road trip took place at the beginning of June, which was weeks ago, I know. But I’ve had a good excuse – I’ve been in mourning. However, today I pulled on my big-girl pants, put the tissues away and I’m back. Onward ho!

As road trips go, this one came and went faster than a speeding train but, oh garçon, did we pack it in! For two straight days (et nuits) we ate, drank, walked, window shopped, walked, ate some more, drank and marché encore.

As you may recall, Russell and I made a New Year’s resolution to pack a bag and travel beyond the county borders of Suffolk at least once a month. We failed, spectacularly, straight out of the starting gates.

Today is 2nd January 2022 and I have already blown my new year’s resolution. No, it doesn’t have anything to do with the leftover mince pie I had for dinner last night. It’s far worse. We haven’t done a road trip this month.