What’s one piece of travel advice you always follow?
If I had to give just one piece of travel advice, it would be this.
Make an effort to learn a little of the local language and culture before you go.
Notice I said a little.
I’m not suggesting you need to complete a university degree in linguistics before booking your flights. Nor am I suggesting you need to arrive sounding like you were born in Oslo or Reykjavik.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
Norwegian and Icelandic have both featured on my list of languages I’ve attempted to get my head around. How successful have I been?
Well, let’s just say I probably made a bit of a pig’s ear of it.
But that’s not really the point, is it?
The point is that you try.
There’s something rather lovely about making the effort to say hello, please, thank you, or even attempting to order something without completely butchering the pronunciation.
Although, in my case, butchering the pronunciation is probably a distinct possibility.
Still, most people appreciate the effort. You’re showing them that you recognise their country is more than a backdrop for your holiday photographs. It’s their home. Their culture. Their history. Their everyday life.
And you’ve taken a little time out of your own life to understand it.
That matters.
Of course, learning a few words is only part of it.
Take the time to understand local customs, too. Find out what’s considered polite, what might cause offence, and how people go about their daily lives. Try the local food. Visit somewhere beyond the obvious tourist attractions. Listen to people when they tell you about their home.
You might discover something wonderful.
Or you might discover that the local delicacy isn’t quite to your taste.
It happens.
But at least you tried.
I think we sometimes forget that travelling isn’t just about seeing places. It’s about experiencing them, even if only for a short time.
And you don’t need to be fluent to do that.
You don’t need perfect grammar, an impressive vocabulary, or the ability to hold a philosophical debate over dinner.
You just need a little curiosity, a bit of humility, and the willingness to look slightly silly now and then.
Which, given my attempts at Norwegian and Icelandic, is something I can manage quite comfortably.
So, if you’re heading abroad, learn a few words. Read a little about the culture. Be respectful. Be curious. And don’t be afraid of getting it wrong.
Because the locals might not remember your accent.
They might not remember your name.
But there’s a good chance they’ll remember that you tried.
And sometimes, that small effort makes all the difference.
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…
What’s something you’ve done that your past self would be proud of?
That’s an interesting one?
When we look back at our younger selves, we tend to remember the things we got wrong. The opportunities we missed. The things we were too scared to try. The dreams we quietly tucked away because, well, you know, life got in the way.
But every now and then, something happens that makes you stop and think…
“Blimey. I actually did that!”
For me, one of those moments would be taking an old camera, a dream, and a stubborn determination to see what I could achieve, and getting one of my photographs in the local news.
Now, I appreciate that might not sound particularly spectacular to some people.
It’s not winning an Oscar. It’s not appearing on the front of National Geographic. And it certainly doesn’t involve a Hollywood producer knocking on my door offering me a six-figure contract.
Although, if one happens to be reading this, my email address is available. Just saying.
But here’s the thing.
It was never really about the newspaper.
It was about proving to myself that I could do something with a passion, a bit of determination, and whatever equipment I could get my hands on.
You see, I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Capturing those little moments that other people might walk straight past. A bird sitting in just the right place. The way the light catches a building. A landscape that makes you stop for a moment and simply appreciate where you are.
Sometimes you get lucky.
Sometimes you take fifty photographs and discover that forty-nine of them are absolutely rubbish.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you get that one image.
The one that makes you smile.
The one that makes you think, “Actually, that’s not half bad.”
And then, when that photograph finds its way into the local news?
Well, that’s something else entirely.
Because suddenly, something you created, something you saw through your own eyes and captured, is being shared with other people.
And that matters.
Not because it makes you famous. Not because it means you’re suddenly some sort of photographic genius who should be wearing a black polo neck and talking about aperture settings over an expensive coffee.
But because it reminds you that you don’t necessarily need all the latest equipment, the perfect circumstances, or a carefully mapped-out plan to make something worthwhile.
Sometimes, you just need to start.
Take the photograph.
Learn as you go.
Make mistakes.
Try again.
And keep going.
Looking back, I think my younger self would be rather chuffed with that achievement. Perhaps a little surprised, too.
After all, dreams have a funny way of changing as we get older. Sometimes they get bigger. Sometimes they get smaller. And sometimes they sit quietly in the back of our minds, waiting for us to stop making excuses and give them a chance.
I’m not suggesting that getting a photograph into the local news is going to change the world.
But it changed how I looked at what I might be capable of.
And that, in its own little way, is important.
These days, photography has become a much bigger part of my life. I’m still learning, still experimenting, and still occasionally pressing buttons without being entirely certain what they’re going to do.
Some things never change.
But I’ve learned that you don’t have to be the best at something to enjoy it. You don’t need qualifications hanging on the wall or thousands of followers telling you how brilliant you are.
You just need passion and to care enough to keep doing it.
And if something good comes from that? Brilliant.
If it doesn’t? You’ve still spent your time doing something you love.
So, what would my past self be proud of?
Probably the fact that I took a chance on myself.
That I picked up a camera, followed a dream, and managed to get one of my photographs into the local news.
Not bad for a bloke who simply wanted to take some decent pictures.
And perhaps that’s the real answer to this question.
It’s not always about the grand achievements or the life-changing milestones.
Sometimes, it’s about looking back at the person you used to be and realising that you’ve become someone who had the courage to try.
Someone who kept learning, and failing.
Someone who didn’t give up on the things that made him happy.
And someone who discovered that an old camera and a dream could take him further than he ever expected.
So, if there’s something you’ve always wanted to try, perhaps give it a go.
Pick up that camera.
Write that poem.
Start that project.
Take that first step, even if you haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re doing.
You never know where it might lead.
And one day, you might just look back and realise that the person you used to be would be rather proud of the person you’ve become, I know I am
Ask ten people and you’ll probably get ten different answers. For me, it comes down to something rather simple: helping others, treating strangers with kindness, and trying to leave the world a little better than I found it.
Nothing revolutionary, is it? Although, given the state of the bloody world sometimes, you’d think kindness was a rare and endangered species.
But here’s the thing. Kindness isn’t weakness, and peace isn’t an inability to fight.
You can be compassionate without being a pushover. You can stand up for yourself and those you love without making aggression your default setting.
It’s why the idea of a demon hand and a Buddha heart resonates with me. Strength tempered by compassion. The ability to confront darkness without allowing it to dictate who you become.
I’ve been trained for war, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend my life fighting. Quite the opposite.
There’s a difference between being unable to hurt someone and having the capability to do so but choosing not to. One is a limitation. The other is restraint.
And restraint, in my opinion, takes a fair bit of strength.
We all have anger, pride and darker impulses. The question isn’t whether those feelings exist, but whether we allow them to control our actions. Just because somebody insults us doesn’t mean we have to respond. Just because we can win an argument doesn’t mean we should have it.
Sometimes, walking away is the strongest thing you can do. Not because you’re frightened, but because your peace of mind is worth more than having the last bloody word.
So, what makes someone a good person?
Not perfection. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has that particular trick figured out.
It’s about trying. Helping when you can. Admitting when you’re wrong. Apologising when you’ve hurt someone. Standing up for those who need it, setting boundaries when necessary, and having the courage to change your mind when life proves you wrong.
We can’t control how others behave, but we can take responsibility for how we respond.
For me, that’s the balance:
It’s known as Demon hand, Buddha heart. Strength without cruelty. Compassion without helplessness. Peace without pretending the world is always peaceful.
I don’t have to be harmless to be kind, weak to be gentle, or blind to the world’s darkness to choose not to add to it.
I can walk a path of peace while being prepared for war. But above all, I can choose to lead with my heart.
Will that change the world overnight? Probably not. I’m not that bloody optimistic.
But if we all made a little more effort to choose kindness over contempt, restraint over retaliation, and understanding over hatred, perhaps we’d make this place a little easier to live in.
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.
I believe that the things we put out into the world have a habit of coming back to us.
Not necessarily in the mystical, Hollywood sort of way.
I don’t necessarily believe that if someone is horrible to you on Tuesday, the universe will arrange for them to stand on a piece of Lego on Wednesday.
Although…
I’m not entirely ruling it out.
What I mean is something a little simpler.
Our actions have consequences.
The way we treat people matters.
The choices we make shape the person we become.
And sometimes, those choices have a funny way of catching up with us.
I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
There have been times in my life when anger would have been the easy option.
Someone hurts you.
Someone wrongs you.
Someone treats you badly.
And every fibre of your being screams:
“Go on then.
Give them some of it back.”
I understand that feeling.
I really do.
But I’ve also learned that revenge rarely gives you what you think it will.
It doesn’t undo what happened.
It doesn’t repair the damage.
It doesn’t magically make you feel better.
Sometimes all it does is create another problem.
And another.
And another.
A bit like emotional dominoes, except you’re the idiot who keeps knocking them over.
There’s something I’ve taken from my reading around Buddhism that I find particularly useful.
Not some grand mystical promise that the universe will punish the bad people and reward the good ones.
Something much simpler.
Our intentions and actions matter.
What we cultivate inside ourselves matters.
If I spend my life feeding anger, resentment and hatred, then I’m the one carrying those things around.
Nobody else has to.
I do.
And frankly, I’ve carried enough baggage in my lifetime without deliberately packing another suitcase.
So yes, I believe in karma.
But perhaps my understanding of karma has changed over the years.
I don’t see it as some cosmic courtroom where a celestial judge sits behind a desk handing out sentences.
I see it more as a reminder.
Be careful what you put into the world.
Because your words matter.
Your actions matter.
The way you treat the person who can do absolutely nothing for you matters.
The kindness nobody sees still matters.
The apology nobody expected still matters.
Walking away instead of escalating an argument matters.
Helping someone when you could easily have walked past matters.
And maybe that’s where the universe comes into it.
Maybe there is some great cosmic mechanism at work.
Maybe there isn’t.
I honestly don’t know.
I’m quite comfortable admitting that I don’t have all the answers.
What I do know is that kindness tends to create more kindness.
Anger creates more anger.
Compassion can change the direction of a conversation.
And sometimes choosing peace instead of revenge changes the direction of your entire life.
So if you want to call that karma…
Fine by me.
If you want to call it the universe…
That’s fine too.
If you want to call it simple cause and effect…
You might actually be onto something.
Personally, I’ll probably continue sitting somewhere in the middle.
A little bit spiritual.
A little bit sceptical.
A little bit Buddhist.
And quite a lot of bloke who has made enough mistakes to know that actions have consequences.
Because perhaps karma isn’t about waiting for somebody else to get what they deserve.
Perhaps it’s about making sure that what we put into the world is something we’re happy to live with when it comes back around.
And if the universe wants to throw in the occasional piece of Lego for educational purposes…
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.
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.
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.
What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?
That’s actually quite a difficult question.
You might expect the answer to be something obvious.
Getting your first proper job.
Paying your first bill.
Buying your first house.
Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.
For me, though, it was none of those things.
I think it was when I finally learned to let go.
And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.
Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.
Surely adulthood is about knowing things?
Having the answers.
Being responsible.
Knowing what you’re doing.
Apparently not.
Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.
I probably never did.
I just got better at pretending I did.
When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.
Then, one day, you become one of those adults.
And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.
Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.
For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.
Old arguments.
Old mistakes.
People who had hurt me.
Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.
The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.
And that’s exhausting.
Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.
You can’t change the past.
You can’t control other people.
You can’t make everyone understand you.
And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.
So you let go.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.
That’s when I think I finally started growing up.
Not when I got older.
Not when I had responsibilities.
Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.
It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.
Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.
And being comfortable with that.
I’m still learning.
I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.
But that’s okay.
Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:
