IMG_20170813_220750_436It had been coming on for a while really, a few years at least, the desire for something different. It had bubbled away, simmered under the surface. I used to have a boyfriend who mocked my nerves about trying new things, and my fear of branching out or the great unknown. “I don’t like change” he used to tease, putting on a terrible Yorkshire accent.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with not liking change. I think change is uncertain, it’s scary. Why would you like something that puts you out of your comfort zone? But I’ve always wanted to have stronger roots, and certainty, all of my adult life. I’m not sure where it comes from. Perhaps it’s my parents moving away from my home town. Perhaps it’s having moved for a year and ten years later finding myself settled by default rather than by design. For a while, buying my own house did the trick. I had planted myself and I would grow there.

There has been a lot of change in the last couple of years, a lot of flux. There have been friendships lost and made, changes to my job and my focus, for the better and for the worse. I have watched others move forwards – getting married, having families, building businesses, forging ahead with careers, retreating and shifting, but all the while I felt very still. Still water turns stagnant.

Half way through an aerobics class, I had a revelation. It turns out I do all of my best thinking when I’ve stopped concentrating on my racing thoughts, and started concentrating on my feet, and the music, and the beat, and the burning in my lungs as I gasp for air. It’s a type of meditation I suppose. But I had a revelation, and a week later I had the flu, and I knew that it was the right thing to do. Nothing focusses the mind like coughing and struggling to breathe and feeling very alone.

And so I started making plans, slowly, surely, carefully. I have replanted myself somewhere new, as many miles from the known as I could possibly get. I was scared. I still am scared. It was hard, and ten weeks later it still is hard. I expect it will be hard for a very long time. But sometimes change is a good thing and even things which are difficult can be right.

So it is goodbye to my twenties and hello to my thirties. Goodbye to grey stone, and hello to honey stone. Goodbye to the city centre and hello to the rolling hills.

It is goodbye to Edinburgh, and hello to Somerset.

Art On Sundays

image Back at the beginning of May I made a bit of a pledge to myself. Do more with my weekends. Get out. See things. Go places. Be brave, and go alone if there’s no-one to go with. Be brave, and go alone even if there is someone to go with.


Why? Well, if I’m completely honest, I’ve found myself struggling with motivation recently. My day job involves talking to lots of people, and I am an introvert. It’s inevitable that a quiet weekend of pottering about the house, going to the gym, and cooking myself something lovely is how I’ve ended up switching off.


I’ve also realised that there’s a difference (for me at least) between switching off and relaxing. Switching off is distancing myself from work. Relaxing is re-energising by doing things I really enjoy. If I’ve got a week, that happens organically but if I’ve got two days? Not so much. I’ve mentioned before about how I struggle to relax, and after various conversations with friends I’ve realised that to relax on a weekend, I need to do stuff.

imageAnd so, back to my May pledge. I’d got myself into a bit of a rut. I was over tired from work, and verging on bored. I’d hygge-d my way through winter, but now it was well and truly summer and I was beginning to resent my own lack of productivity. When it’s 23C outside and you can hear children playing in the park over the road, it’s no longer comforting to spend the weekend lying on the sofa watching box sets. Instead it feels lazy.

imageI made plans. I put something in my diary for every weekend – preferably something I could do on my own, but also things I could combine with my usual Sunday afternoon catch ups with friends if I felt like it.

imageAnd it felt good. It worked. On Tuesdays (the worst day of the working week for me, usually my longest shift), I’d start to look forward to my activity rather than looking forward to my own space. I took part in a sketching class hosted by one of my favourite museums with a well known local artist. I spent a weekend learning the basics of ceramics and working with clay, and discovered that using a wheel is much harder than it looks on TV. I visited a local arts festival (although admittedly spent longer sampling the local beers with a friend than browsing the exhibits) and discovered a new gallery round the corner from my house.

imageIt’s been good. It’s reminded me of when I lived in London. I used to take great pleasure in visiting the V&A, stopping half way round to read my book in the cafe with a pot of tea and a meringue the size of my head. I’d head home feeling like I’d achieved something with my day off. The downside of living in a beautiful vibrant city is that it’s easy to become complacent. The museums, the galleries and the festivals will always be there. It’s been lovely to take advantage of it – and now that I’ve forced it to become a habit, I know it’s one I’ll keep.


imageI started a new job last year, quite a step up from my last one, and I’ve finally got my head around it. It takes a while to work out where the pencils live, how the photocopier works, and how to fill in what may be the most complicated time sheet I’ve ever seen.

The job is going to involve quite a bit of travel – in no way is this as exciting as it sounds (think Boots Meal Deal on Scotrail rather than sushi on a BA flight) – although I did find myself on Orkney last week.

I’ve never been to a Scottish island before. Despite being fond of history and scenery they’ve never been on my to-visit list, so I didn’t have any particular assumptions before I went. From the taxi driver who told me his entire life story to the security lady at the tiny airport who joked that my makeup was being “randomly” drugs tested because I was the only woman on my twenty five seater flight, I was pleasantly surprised by how friendly and welcoming everyone was (although my colleagues did laugh and wish me luck when I mentioned being vegetarian while asking for dinner suggestions…)

Despite it being decidedly wet and cold and Februaryish, I found an hour to explore Kirkwall in between meetings while the sun shone. I’m so glad I did. It turns out Orkney’s history is pretty unusual and interesting (and completely new to me, as my degree was in modern history), and still present in the culture of the islands and the beautiful Orcadian accent.

Despite the main site being closed for the winter, I took a quick tour of the outside of the Bishop and Earl’s palaces. Built in the 12th century when Kirkwall was the leading settlement of the Norse northern islands, the Bishop’s palace was the home of the founder of the spectacular St Magnus Cathedral over the road. The Earl’s palace, on an adjoining bit of land, was built in the early 17th century after the then Earl of Orkney decided he wanted something fancier. He was apparently a strong contender for the least pleasant nobleman in Scottish history and a fan of slave labour – but he built a rather spectacular house…






Over the road from the palaces is the spectacular St Magnus Cathedral, which dates back to 12th Century and is the most Northerly cathedral in Britain. I do love a graveyard – I find the tombstone inscriptions fascinating – and St Magnus’ was a testament to the history of the island with stones dedicated to the memory of young sailors alongside those of more affluent men who left the island for Edinburgh.




imageNow that I’m back home and thawed out, I’m finding myself more interested in finding out about Orkney – and it’s neighbour Shetland. I hear there there’s an excellent series on the BBC at the moment (although I’m not sure it’s a documentary…)

Oh, hello there…

Untitled designNew year, new start, new blog and all that.

I don’t really believe in New Year’s Resolutions. I tend to find there is something inherantly negative about them – the assumption that they will all make us a “better” person. That we’ll be happier if we are thinner, or don’t drink as much alcohol, or drink more smoothies, or stop eating pasta. I don’t buy it.

What does make me happy is doing things I enjoy. Cooking. Lying on the sofa watching box sets. Taking photographs. Reading books. Walking. Swimming. Eating carbohydrates. Drinking loose leaf tea. Pottering around the house.

So that’s what I’ve resolved to do. Essentially – more of what I enjoy. And I’ll write about it, when I get around to it, here.