Share a few recent shots from your camera roll, no context needed.
Between my DSLRs and various other cameras, these pictures come from a bit of a collection.
Different cameras, same passion.
Steve the pigeon
Say Cheese
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Tag Archives: cats
Goals, Targets, and Other Things I Don’t Care About.
Do you set personal goals for yourself?
Ah, goals.
Those things we’re apparently supposed to set ourselves so we can become more productive, more successful, and generally a better version of ourselves.
You know the sort of thing.
Attend a motivational seminar, buy a rather expensive notebook, write down your five-year plan, and spend the next twelve months feeling guilty because life got in the way.
Yeah… I’ve never really gone in for all that.
Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who set themselves goals and work hard to achieve them. If that’s your thing, crack on. Good for you.
It’s just never really been my cup of tea.
I’ve never been particularly interested in turning my life into a spreadsheet, complete with targets, deadlines, and little boxes to tick.
I’m a poet, a photographer, and a professional rambler. I spend a good deal of my time scribbling words, taking photographs, and generally following whatever creative rabbit hole happens to catch my attention.
And honestly?
I quite like it that way.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to grow.
Of course I do.
I’d love to see my poetry reach more people. I’d love for my photography to find its way in front of a few more pairs of eyes. I’d love for the things I create to connect with somebody, somewhere, who might need them.
Who wouldn’t?
There’s something rather lovely about putting a little piece of yourself out into the world and discovering that somebody, somewhere, has connected with it.
Especially when that little piece of yourself started life as a few scribbles in your head.
But I’ve never felt the need to turn that desire into some grand, all-singing, all-dancing personal development programme.
No five-year plan.
No motivational posters telling me I can achieve anything if I just believe hard enough.
And absolutely no standing in front of a mirror at six in the morning, telling myself I’m going to conquer the world.
The neighbours would probably worry.
Besides, I’ve come to realise that life doesn’t always work according to plan. Sometimes things go brilliantly, sometimes they go spectacularly pear-shaped, and sometimes you spend an afternoon wondering what on earth you went into the kitchen for.
That’s life.
So, do I have a goal?
Well, I suppose I do.
Although calling it a goal might be stretching the definition somewhat.
At the end of every month, I have a little look at the number of interactions my creative work has received.
That’s it.
Nothing complicated.
My goal, if you can call it that, is simply to do as well as I did the previous month.
Not necessarily better.
Just the same would do nicely.
If the numbers go up, which they usually do, then that’s a lovely little bonus.
If they don’t?
I’m not going to beat myself up because a particular post didn’t reach as many people as the one before it.
Nor am I going to decide that my work has somehow become less valuable because an algorithm has had a funny five minutes.
After all, numbers can tell you how many people interacted with something.
They can’t always tell you what it meant to them.
And that’s an important distinction.
Because somewhere out there, somebody might read a poem of mine and feel a little less alone.
Somebody might look at a photograph and see something beautiful in an otherwise ordinary day.
Somebody might read one of these ramblings, have a little chuckle, or find a thought that stays with them long after they’ve closed the page.
I’ll probably never know about most of those moments.
And that’s okay.
I don’t need to.
If something I’ve created makes a difference to even one person, then there’s value in that which no monthly statistic can properly measure.
Perhaps that’s the thing about creativity.
You can spend hours worrying about reach, engagement, followers, likes, shares, and all the other things the internet has taught us we’re supposed to care about.
Or you can get on with creating things because you enjoy doing it, because you have something to say, or because sometimes putting words on a page is simply how you make sense of the world.
Personally, I’ll take the second option.
I’ll keep writing.
I’ll keep taking photographs.
I’ll keep sharing whatever happens to fall out of my head and onto the page.
And if more people find their way here along the way, then that’s wonderful.
But I’m not going to spend my life chasing a number.
Life’s a journey, after all.
And I’d rather enjoy the scenery than spend the entire trip staring at the satnav, worrying whether I’m getting there quickly enough.
Which brings me to something I really do want to say.
To those of you on the other side of this screen…
Thank you. Genuinely.
Whether you’ve been reading my scribbles for years or you’ve only stumbled across one of my ramblings today, I’m grateful you’re here.
Every comment, every like, every share, every message, and every moment you’ve taken out of your day to read something I’ve written means more than you probably realise.
I know the internet is a busy place. There’s an almost endless supply of things demanding our attention, and yet you’ve chosen to spend a little of your time here.
With me.
And that genuinely touches me.
I started writing because I had things I needed to get out of my head. Over the years, those scribbles have grown into something much bigger than I ever expected.
And the fact that other people have found something in them?
Well, that’s a rather lovely bonus, isn’t it?
So, no, I don’t have a grand plan for world domination.
I’m not aiming to become the next big thing.
I’m not sitting here plotting how to turn every waking moment into an opportunity for personal growth.
I’m just Bob.
An old soul with a head full of thoughts, a camera, a keyboard, and an apparently endless supply of things to ramble about.
I’ll keep doing what I do.
Creating, and keep putting my work out into the world.
And at the end of each month, I’ll have a little look at those numbers and see how things are going.
If they’re up, I’ll do an extra happy dance.
If they’re the same, I’ll be very happy.
And if they’re down?
Well, there’s always next month.
Because perhaps the point isn’t to keep setting bigger and bigger goals until we’re so busy chasing the next achievement that we forget to appreciate what we’ve already got.
Perhaps it’s about enjoying what we’re doing, appreciating the people who come along for the ride, and being grateful that we get to do it in the first place.
At least, that’s how I see it.
And once again, to everyone who reads, shares, comments, or simply stops by for a little while…
Thank you.
You’re appreciated more than you know.
Stay safe,
Bc
Still Dreaming, Still Learning
What’s something you’ve done that you never thought you could?
This one is very easy to answer.
In fact, I reckon I could probably give you two answers. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?
Around twenty years ago, I started writing poetry.
Well, poetry is probably what we’ll call it. Back then, I referred to them as my scribbles, and if I’m honest, that’s still a pretty good description of some of them.
I didn’t start writing because I wanted to be a poet. I wasn’t dreaming of seeing my name in magazines, winning awards, or having people read my words.
Nope.
I started writing because I needed to get the stuff in my head out of it.
My mental health was in a pretty rough place, and I needed a way to process the thoughts, emotions, and general chaos that I was struggling to make sense of. Writing became a form of therapy, a pressure valve, and eventually a way of understanding myself a little better.
It was never about being good enough for anyone else.
It was about trying to be okay.
As I kept writing, something unexpected happened. People started taking an interest in my words. I wrote a poem for a family member’s naming ceremony, and people began asking where I’d got it from.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed rather surprised.
Truth be told, so was I!
Perhaps there was something in this poetry malarkey after all.
Fast-forward twenty years, and I’ve had my work published in magazines and books, written six books of my own, and even picked up awards for my poetry.
For a bloke who started writing just to try and keep his head above water never imagined that his words would find their way into print, let alone receive recognition.
I certainly didn’t set out with any of that in mind.
I was just trying to make sense of life, one scribble at a time.
And yet, somewhere along the way, those scribbles became something more.
They became my voice.
Then there’s the camera…
The second answer would obviously be photography.
I’ve always enjoyed taking pictures, but it was never something I thought of as a talent. When I got my first camera phone, I started snapping away at whatever caught my eye.
A bird. A landscape. Something interesting on a walk. Whatever took my fancy, really.
I wasn’t following some grand artistic vision. I wasn’t studying photography or worrying about aperture, shutter speeds, focal lengths, or any of those other technical things that proper photographers seem to know about.
I just liked taking pictures.
Still do, actually.
The difference is that people started noticing them.
Some of my photographs have been shared by local news outlets, which is something I certainly never expected when I first started pointing a phone at things and pressing a button.
And then there was the opportunity to photograph an event featuring Howard Jones.
Yes, THAT Howard Jones!
Genuine 80s pop royalty.
If you’d told me years ago that one day I’d be taking photographs at an event with someone whose music helped soundtrack an era, I’d probably have looked at you as though you’d been at the cooking sherry.
But it happened.
And that’s the thing about life. Sometimes you stumble into opportunities that you never even knew were possible, simply because you followed something you enjoyed.
No master plan. No five-year strategy. No carefully mapped-out career.
Just a bloke with a camera, taking pictures of things that caught his eye.
So what have I learned
I suppose the biggest lesson is that you don’t always need to know where something is going before you start.
Sometimes, you just need to begin.
You don’t have to be brilliant at something on day one. You don’t need qualifications, a grand ambition, or even the confidence to call yourself good at what you do.
Sometimes, you just need to give yourself permission to have a go.
For me, poetry started as a way of looking after my mental health. Photography started as a bit of fun.
Neither began with the intention of achieving anything spectacular.
And yet both have taken me places I never expected to go.
My poetry has been published, recognised, and awarded. My photographs have reached audiences I never imagined, and I’ve had opportunities that the younger version of me would probably have thought were beyond his reach.
Am I some sort of literary genius or photographic wizard?
Absolutely not.
I’m still learning. I’m still experimenting. I still write things that need a fair bit of work, and I still take photographs that don’t quite turn out the way I imagined.
But I keep going.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last twenty years, it’s that you never really know what might come from doing something that makes you feel a little more like yourself.
Sometimes, the thing you start doing simply to survive becomes the thing that helps you thrive.
And sometimes, the hobby you pick up without a second thought turns into an opportunity you could never have dreamed of.
So, if you’re sitting there wondering whether you should give something a go, perhaps this is your nudge.
Write the poem.
Take the photograph.
Pick up the paintbrush.
Try the thing that’s been sitting at the back of your mind.
You don’t have to know where it will lead.
You just have to start.
Because twenty years ago, I was a bloke scribbling words to help make sense of his own head and taking pictures because something caught his eye.
I never imagined either would lead to the things they have.
And honestly?
I’m rather glad I gave them a go.
Stay safe.
BC
My One Wish Wouldn’t Be for Me
The genie grants you a wish. What is it?
It’s one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.
You rub the lamp. The genie appears.
Three seconds later, you’re suddenly faced with the biggest decision of your life.
And I’m guessing most people would go for something fairly obvious.
£100 million in the bank. A mansion. Fame.
Maybe becoming a bestselling author, a world-famous photographer, or whatever else happens to float your particular boat.
And don’t get me wrong, I’d quite happily take the £100 million, but there’s a problem. If I became a successful poet or photographer because some magical blue bloke handed it to me, I’m not sure I’d want it. I want to know that I earned it.
Every poem. Every photograph. Every little bit of progress.
The mistakes. The failures. The hours nobody sees.
That’s where the meaning comes from.
So if the genie stood in front of me today and said: “Bob, you get one wish. Anything you want.” My answer would probably surprise you.
I wouldn’t ask for money. I wouldn’t ask for fame. I wouldn’t even ask for anything for myself. I’d wish for one thing.
I would wish to eliminate child sexual abuse.
Completely. Everywhere. No exceptions. No child ever having to experience it. No teenager carrying a secret they’re terrified to tell anyone.
No adult waking up decades later and realising that something that happened in childhood has somehow followed them through and affected their entire life.
Because I know what it’s like.
I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse.
It happened more than forty years ago.
Forty.
Years.
And yet here I am, all these decades later, still thinking about it. Finally talking about it. Still understanding that something that lasted for a relatively small part of my childhood managed to leave fingerprints all over the man I became.
That’s the thing about abuse.
People sometimes imagine that when the abuse stops, the damage stops too.
It doesn’t necessarily work like that.
The perpetrator might walk away.
The child grows up. Life moves on. People get married. Have children. Build careers. Take photographs. Write books. Stand on beaches. Have therapy.
Laugh. Love… Live.
But sometimes, the past comes along for the ride. It sits quietly in the passenger seat. You might not notice it for years. Then something happens: A smell. A place. A memory.
A conversation.
A particular feeling.
And suddenly that little passenger taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that it’s still there.
That’s why my wish wouldn’t be about making me rich. It wouldn’t even be about erasing my own past. Because if I could magically remove what happened to me, I’d also remove part of the journey that made me who I am today.
And despite everything… I don’t want to erase myself, now.
I want to erase the reason children need to become survivors in the first place.
That’s the difference.
I don’t want a world where we become really good at helping people pick up the pieces.
I want a world where fewer people have pieces to pick up.
I want children to grow up knowing what safety feels like.
I want survivors to know that they will be believed when they find the strength to tell someone what happened, or is happening.
I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them.
That saying no means no.
That adults are supposed to protect children, not exploit them.
And perhaps most importantly…
I want survivors to know that what happened to them wasn’t their fault.
Not then. Not now. Never.
Because shame has a nasty habit of attaching itself to the wrong person: The child carries it. The teenager carries it. The adult carries it. Sometimes, to their grave.
Meanwhile, the person responsible may carry absolutely none of it.
That’s backwards. The shame belongs with the person who caused the harm, not the person who survived it.
So yes, if that genie ever does turn up, lamp in hand, waiting patiently for my answer… I know exactly what I’ll ask for… I’d simply look him in the eye and say:
“Make sure no child ever has to become a survivor of sexual abuse again.”
And if that sounds like an impossible wish… perhaps it is.
But I’ve spent enough of my life being told that some things are impossible. Sometimes impossible just means we haven’t tried hard enough yet.
So until that genie turns up, perhaps the rest of us have a part to play.
Listen. Believe. Protect. Educate.
Speak when silence would make things easier for the wrong person.
And when a survivor finally finds the courage to say those words:
“This happened to me.”
Don’t ask them why they didn’t tell someone sooner. Don’t brush it off with a throwaway comment. Don’t ask what they were wearing. Don’t ask what they did to cause it. Don’t ask why they didn’t fight or scream.
Just listen.
Believe them.
And do remind them of something they may have spent years struggling to believe themselves:
It wasn’t their fault.
Forty years later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still taking photographs. Still telling stories. Still trying to turn some of the darker parts of my life into something that might help somebody else. Perhaps that’s the closest thing I have to magic.Not changing the past, but using what happened to me to try to make somebody else’s future a little safer.
And if I only ever get one wish… That’s the one I’ll choose.
Every single time.
Stay safe,
BC
Things I’ve Learnt Along the Way
What are some life hacks that you practice?
I’m not sure I’d call these life hacks.
That makes them sound as though I’ve discovered some secret formula for life.
I haven’t.
If I had, I’d probably be considerably more organised.
And significantly less likely to walk into a room and immediately forget why the hell I went there.
But over the years, I’ve picked up a few little things that seem to make life slightly easier.
Nothing revolutionary.
No twelve-step morning routine involving seventeen different types of herbal tea.
Just a few things that seem to work for me.
Don’t Carry Everything (The Art of Letting Go)
This is probably the biggest one.
For a long time, I spent an incredible amount of energy carrying things that had already happened, you know.
Arguments.
Regrets.
Things people had said.
Things I wished I’d said.
Things I couldn’t change, no matter how many times I replayed them in my head.
Meditation has helped me with that.
Not by magically emptying my mind.
Anyone who knows me will understand how unlikely that sounds.
Instead, it’s taught me to notice my thoughts without automatically climbing aboard every single one of them.
Sometimes you just have to acknowledge something.
Learn whatever lesson there is to learn.
And then put the bloody thing down.
You don’t have to carry everything just because you once picked it up.
Some things belong in the past.
Leave them there.
Go outside
Another incredibly complicated life hack.
Leave the house.
Go for a walk.
Look at the sky.
Watch the birds.
Stand by the sea.
Get rained on.
Apparently, I’m particularly good at that last one.
There’s something about getting away from four walls and screens that resets the brain.
Sometimes the solution to a problem isn’t another hour staring at it.
Sometimes it’s a walk and a coffee.
Sometimes it’s feeding the crows.
Sometimes it’s standing in the sea with wet shorts and wondering why you thought that was a good idea in the first place.
And sometimes…
that’s enough.
We spend so much time trying to do things that we forget there’s value in simply being somewhere.
Outside.
Breathing.
Looking.
Listening.
Being present.
Write shit down
My brain has always been a noisy place.
So I write.
Sometimes it’s poetry.
Sometimes it’s complete nonsense.
Sometimes it’s a sentence that eventually becomes something.
And sometimes it’s simply a case of getting the thoughts out of my head and onto a piece of paper before they start having a bloody committee meeting in there.
There’s something strangely powerful about seeing a thought written down.
It becomes something outside of you.
You can look at it.
Question it.
Rearrange it.
Understand it.
Or decide that actually, it was rubbish…
…and throw it away.
Writing started for me as a way of processing thoughts and emotions.
Twenty years later, I’m still doing it.
Apparently, I’ve committed to the bit.
And I’m quite glad I did.
Protect you time
We live in a world that seems determined to fill every available second.
Notifications.
Messages.
News.
Social media.
Emails.
Opinions.
More opinions about the opinions.
Sometimes you need to switch the bloody lot off.
Read a book.
Play a game.
Sit in the shed.
Take photographs.
Write.
Watch the birds.
Drink a coffee.
Do absolutely nothing.
And yes, I know that doing nothing sounds like the sort of thing we’re all supposed to feel guilty about.
But doing nothing isn’t necessarily wasting time.
Sometimes doing nothing is exactly what your brain needs.
We don’t have to be productive every minute of every day.
Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is stop.
Fucking ask for help
This one took me far too long to learn.
I’ve still got the scars
I used to think asking for help meant
Not being able to “Man Up”
admitting weakness.
It doesn’t.
Sometimes it means recognising that you’re human.
We aren’t designed to carry everything alone.
If something is too heavy, put it down.
If you don’t know what to do, ask someone who does.
If you’re struggling, tell someone.
That isn’t failure.
It’s being sensible.
There’s a strange idea that we’re somehow supposed to have all the answers.
We’re not.
None of us do.
Sometimes strength isn’t about carrying something until your back breaks.
Sometimes strength is saying:
“I can’t carry this on my own.”
And letting somebody give you a hand.
Finally…
Don’t wait for everything to be perfect before you enjoy your life.
Because trust it probably won’t be.
There will always be another bill.
Another job.
Another problem.
Another thing that needs fixing.
Another bloody email.
There will always be something.
So enjoy the cup of coffee.
Read the book.
Take those photographs.
Watch the birds.
Have the conversation.
Laugh at something stupid.
Tell somebody you love them.
Go outside.
Stand in the sea.
Get your feet wet.
And if you end up with wet shorts afterwards…
Well.
Apparently that’s just part of the experience.
Sometimes life doesn’t need fixing.
Sometimes you just need to be there for it.
And sometimes…
that’s enough.
Stay safe,
BC
No Strategy, No Plan, Just Scribbles and the Occasional Crow
How do you write what people actually want to read?
It’s an interesting question.
And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not entirely sure I do.
I don’t mean that to sound arrogant.
Quite the opposite.
I’m probably one of the least commercially minded writers you’re ever likely to meet.
I don’t sit down at my keyboard thinking:
Right, Bob. What will the internet like today?
What’s going to get the most clicks?
What’s going to go viral?
What will the algorithm be particularly fond of?
If I did, I’d probably have given up years ago.
The truth is, I started writing for a completely different reason.
I needed somewhere to put the stuff rattling around inside my head.
Twenty-odd years ago, my “poetry” was barely poetry at all.
I called them scribbles.
Still do, actually.
They were thoughts, emotions, anger, fear, confusion and occasionally a bit of hope, thrown onto paper because keeping everything inside clearly wasn’t working terribly well.
Writing became a form of therapy.
The scribbles eventually became poems.
The poems eventually became books.
And somehow, along the way, people started reading them.
Which still amazes me.
Because I never really set out to become a poet.
I certainly didn’t start writing because I thought:
One day, thousands of people might read this.
I was just trying to make sense of myself.
And perhaps that’s the answer to the question.
Maybe you don’t write what people want to read.
Maybe you write what you need to say.
And then you hope that somewhere out there, somebody needs to hear it.
That’s certainly how I approach this blog.
Some days I’ll write about mental health.
Some days it might be something completely ridiculous.
Photography.
A walk.
A memory.
A book.
A film.
Something that made me laugh.
Something that pissed me off.
Something that made me stop and think.
And occasionally, for reasons known only to the universe, I’ll write about bloody crows.
There isn’t necessarily a grand content strategy behind it.
It’s just me.
Rambling.
Hence the name.
And yes, I’m aware that there are probably people who read something I’ve written and think:
What the hell was that bloke going on about?
Fair question.
I’ve asked myself the same thing.
But here’s the thing.
I don’t normally write poetry, scribbles, or these ramblings because I want to be liked.
I don’t write them because I want everyone to agree with me.
And I certainly don’t write them because I expect everyone to enjoy them.
I write because it helps.
It helps me process things.
It helps me understand what I’m thinking.
Sometimes it helps me put a name to an emotion I couldn’t quite identify before.
And sometimes, putting something down on paper means I can stop carrying it around in my head.
That’s why the mental health side of my writing has always mattered so much to me.
There have been times when writing wasn’t just a creative outlet.
It was part of keeping my head above water.
Poetry gave me a way of taking all that internal noise and turning it into something I could actually look at.
Something I could shape.
Something I could eventually put down.
And then something rather lovely happened.
Other people started saying:
“I understand that.”
Or:
“I’ve felt like that.”
Or:
“Thank you for writing this.”
And that’s when you realise that something you wrote purely to help yourself can sometimes become useful to somebody else.
That, to me, is the magic bit.
Not the numbers.
Not the views.
Not the likes.
Not whether something gets shared fifty times on Facebook.
Although, obviously, if you do want to share it fifty times, I won’t complain.
I’m not completely bloody stupid.
But that isn’t why I write.
If somebody reads something I’ve written and gets something from it, brilliant.
If somebody laughs, even better.
If somebody sees themselves in one of my poems and realises they aren’t quite as alone as they thought they were, then bloody hell…
That’s worth more than any number on a screen.
So, how do you write what people actually want to read?
I honestly don’t know.
I suspect there are people far cleverer than me who can explain algorithms, audience engagement, SEO, demographics and all the other mysterious machinery that apparently makes the internet go round.
Me?
I just write.
I write what interests me.
I write what bothers me.
I write what makes me laugh.
I write what hurts.
I write what I’m trying to understand.
And sometimes I write complete and utter nonsense because my brain has apparently decided that’s what we’re doing today.
And if people want to read it?
Well…
That’s a happy little accident.
(Bob Ross would approve.)
The funny thing is, though, perhaps the best writing isn’t created by trying desperately to please an audience.
Perhaps it comes from being honest enough to say the thing you actually wanted to say.
Because somewhere, there might be someone who needed those exact words.
I never expected my scribbles to become twenty years of poetry, six books, guest publications and all the other amazing things that have happened along the way.
I certainly didn’t have a five-year plan.
I had a pen.
A head full of noise.
And a desperate need to get some of it out.
Everything else has been a happy little accident.
And I think I’m quite happy keeping it that way.
So I’ll carry on rambling.
I’ll carry on scribbling.
I’ll carry on taking photographs.
I’ll carry on writing about mental health, life, love, the ridiculousness of being human, and whatever else wanders into my head.
If you enjoy it, thank you.
If something I write helps you, even better.
And if you don’t like it…
Well, there are plenty of other blogs on the internet.
No hard feelings.
I’ll still be here tomorrow.
Probably writing something nobody asked for.
And quite possibly enjoying myself immensely while I do it.
Stay safe,
BC
Two Cats, 300 Miles & A Very Good Idea
What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?
Packing two cats and what was left of my house into a car and driving nearly 300 miles to go and live with someone I’d only known for a few months.
Completely sensible behaviour.
Obviously.
In hindsight, I suppose there were a few warning signs.
For starters, I was leaving behind pretty much everything I knew.
Home.
Friends.
Familiar places.
The life I’d built.
And replacing it with a car full of belongings, two probably very confused cats, and a woman I’d known for a few months.
What could possibly go wrong?
To be fair, the cats probably had the biggest adjustment.
They hadn’t exactly been consulted on the matter.
I imagine their conversation went something like:
“Why are we in the car?”
“Where are we going?”
“Why has he packed the litter tray?”
“IS THIS A VET?”
And then several hours of feline outrage.
Meanwhile, I was driving nearly 300 miles towards an entirely new chapter of my life.
I’d met Mrs Bob only a few months earlier.
And somehow, somewhere between those early conversations and whatever bizarre sequence of events brought us to that particular day, I’d reached the point where I thought:
“Yeah.
This seems like a good idea.”
So I loaded up the car.
Cats.
Stuff.
Whatever possessions had survived the previous chapter.
And off I went.
Towards Narnia.
Which, for those who don’t know, is what I affectionately call this part of the world.
Although technically it’s twinned with Totnes.
Which is probably about as close to Narnia as Devon is going to get.
There’s something slightly terrifying about starting again.
We tend to imagine big life changes as these carefully planned things.
You know the sort of thing.
Step one:
Make a five-year plan.
Step two:
Research everything.
Step three:
Make a spreadsheet.
Step four:
Have another meeting about the spreadsheet.
Step five:
Eventually do something.
I apparently skipped steps one through four.
I just got in the bloody car.
And yet…
It turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.
The following year, we got married.
And somehow that spontaneous decision turned into more than a decade together.
A marriage.
A family.
A home.
A completely different life.
And eventually, a new career.
There have been ups and downs, obviously.
Life isn’t a Disney film.
There are bills.
There are arguments.
There are days when you wonder why you’ve spent twenty minutes trying to explain to a cat that the cardboard box isn’t actually a suitable substitute for the perfectly good cat bed sitting six inches away.
But that’s life.
It’s messy.
It’s unpredictable.
And occasionally it involves putting everything you own into a car and driving 300 miles because you have a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re heading in the right direction.
Looking back now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed where I was.
What if I’d talked myself out of it?
What if I’d decided it was too risky?
What if I’d waited until everything was perfect?
I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now.
I wouldn’t have Mrs Bob.
I wouldn’t have this life.
I wouldn’t be wandering around Devon with a camera, photographing birds, beaches, cats and whatever else happens to catch my eye.
I wouldn’t have written all the poetry.
I wouldn’t have met all the people I’ve met.
And I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here calling this place Narnia.
Sometimes we spend so much time worrying about making the right decision that we forget something rather important.
There isn’t always a right decision.
Sometimes you just have to make a decision.
Take the leap.
See what happens.
And occasionally, against all odds, it works out rather bloody brilliantly.
So, what’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done?
I packed two cats and what was left of my house into a car.
I drove nearly 300 miles.
I went to live with a woman I’d known for a few months.
And I started a completely new life.
Spoiler alert:
We got married the following year.
And after more than a decade together, I can honestly say that moving in with Mrs Bob and starting that new life and career in Narnia was the best decision I’ve ever made.
Sometimes the biggest adventures don’t begin with a plan.
Sometimes they begin with a full boot, two pissed-off cats and a very questionable sat-nav route.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because if I’d waited for certainty…
I might never have found home.
Stay safe,
BC
The Maintenance Light is On
How do you make time for self-care?
I think the answer is that I’ve finally realised I have to.
We’re usually pretty good at looking after our physical health.
We eat better.
We try to exercise.
We go to the doctor when something hurts.
We know that our bodies need looking after.
But our minds?
That can be a different story.
For me, I’ve learned that I need to make time for my mental health in exactly the same way.
Not when I’ve completely run myself into the ground.
Not when everything has become too much.
Before that.
Because self-care isn’t about being selfish.
It’s about maintenance.
Much like putting fuel in the car before the warning light comes on.
For me, that maintenance comes in a few different forms.
Sometimes it’s a coffee with friends in the market.
Nothing particularly complicated.
Just sitting down, having a coffee, chatting, laughing, putting the world to rights and generally not rushing off somewhere.
There’s something incredibly therapeutic about good company and a decent cup of coffee.
Then there’s my shed.
My little escape from the world.
There’s something about closing the door, sitting down and having some quality downtime that just works for me. Sometimes I’ll write. Sometimes I’ll tinker. Sometimes I’ll do absolutely nothing.
And sometimes doing absolutely nothing is exactly what you need.
Then there’s Sunday.
Beach day.
Mrs Bob and me, heading down to the sea and switching off from the week.
There’s something about the beach that resets me.
The sound of the waves.
The wind.
The smell of the sea.
Just being there.
Not worrying about what needs doing tomorrow.
Not replaying what happened yesterday.
Just being present for a little while.
And, of course, there’s the camera.
I love going out with my camera.
It gives me an excuse to slow down and actually look at the world around me.
A bird.
A tree.
A strange bit of light.
Something that most people might walk straight past.
Photography makes me stop.
Look.
Notice.
And sometimes that’s self-care too.
Then there’s meditation.
Taking a little time to sit quietly, breathe and simply be.
I’m not going to pretend I’ve suddenly achieved some state of perfect enlightenment.
I’m still me.
I still overthink things.
Probably more than I should.
But those quiet moments help me step back from the noise.
And perhaps that’s what all of these things have in common.
They give me space.
Space to breathe.
Space to think.
Space not to think.
Space to be Bob.
I don’t think self-care has to involve expensive retreats, complicated routines or seventeen different types of herbal tea.
Sometimes it’s a coffee with a mate.
Sometimes it’s sitting in a shed.
Sometimes it’s standing in the sea with Mrs Bob.
Sometimes it’s going out with a camera and looking for something beautiful.
Sometimes it’s simply sitting quietly and breathing.
The important thing, for me, is recognising that these things matter.
They aren’t luxuries.
They’re part of maintaining the balance.
Because life can be bloody noisy.
There’s always something that needs doing.
Someone who needs something.
Another email.
Another job.
Another problem to solve.
And if we’re not careful, we can spend all our time looking after everything and everyone else…
…and forget to look after ourselves.
So I make time.
Not because I have loads of spare time.
I don’t.
I make time because I know I need it.
Because my mental health matters just as much as my physical health.
And because I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to keep moving forward…
…is to stop for a while.
Stay safe,
BC
It’s Your First Time Being Alive
What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
Don’t worry if, in your twenties, you don’t know where you’re going.
Honestly.
Most of us are making it up as we go along.
There seems to be this unwritten expectation that by a certain age you’re supposed to have everything worked out. A career. A five-year plan. A purpose. A clear idea of who you are and where you’re heading.
Life rarely works like that.
When we’re young, we somehow expect ourselves to have all the answers despite the fact we’ve barely had time to collect the questions.
It’s your first time being alive.
Be kind to yourself.
I didn’t know who I truly was, or what I wanted my life to look like, until I was nearly forty. Looking back, I spent far too much time worrying that I was behind everyone else.
The truth?
Nobody knows what they’re doing quite as much as they pretend to.
And that’s okay.
Because life isn’t really about the final destination anyway.
It’s about the journey.
It’s about the people you meet along the way.
The late-night conversations.
The road trips.
The laughter that leaves your face aching.
The memories you make with friends and family.
Years later, you won’t remember every deadline, every promotion, or everything you thought was a disaster at the time.
You’ll remember the people.
You’ll remember how they made you feel.
You’ll remember the moments.
Another thing I’d tell my younger self is this:
Learn to love yourself.
Not in an arrogant way.
Not in a “look at me” sort of way.
Just learn to be comfortable in your own skin.
Because once you stop trying to be who you think everyone else wants you to be, and start accepting who you actually are, something wonderful happens.
You can breathe.
You stop fighting yourself.
And that feeling is worth more than you can imagine.
I’d also tell you to let go of grudges.
They’re heavy things to carry.
The person who upset you years ago is probably not sitting at home replaying the argument.
Meanwhile, you’re giving them space in your head they haven’t earned.
They don’t deserve to live rent free in there.
Forgiveness isn’t always about them.
Sometimes it’s about freeing yourself.
So be patient.
Be kinder to yourself than you think you need to be.
Take photographs.
Make memories.
Tell people you love them.
Don’t panic if the map isn’t clear.
Most of us are finding the path one step at a time.
And sometimes the scenic route turns out to be the best one.
Stay safe,
BC
Ps Don’t forget to wear sunscreen
Productive-ish
Today was one of those mornings where work didn’t really feel like work.
I headed into town to have a wander around and look at potential locations for an upcoming photography gig for Totnes Pride.
There’s something about photographing an event that makes you look at familiar places slightly differently. Suddenly you’re not just seeing streets, buildings and corners of town, you’re looking for light, angles, backgrounds and those little spots where a photograph might just come together.
Of course, I took the camera with me.
Because apparently I’m incapable of going anywhere without looking at things through a lens these days.
Once the location scouting was done, it was time for the important stuff.
Coffee.
A slow, relaxing coffee morning in the market, with some good friends, and friends I’d just met, absolutely no rushing about and nowhere particularly urgent to be.
And then, as if The Universe hadn’t already delivered enough, a calico cat wandered down the stairs.
Obviously, I had to say hello.
The cat seemed perfectly happy to accept some fuss, so who was I to argue?
Photography locations sorted.
Coffee enjoyed.
Cat fussed.
All in all, not a bad morning.
Sometimes the best days are the ones where you manage to get a little bit of work done…
…and still find time to stop and enjoy the small stuff.
Stay safe,
BC
