(Lengthy) Recollections of a Welsh Weekend.

“There’s nothing there. I wouldn’t bother” had been repeated to me countless times in response to a mere mention of visiting. “I’m not quite sure what you’re actually supposed to do there” others had mimicked. So as the evening sun shone strongly through the humid London pollution, I was eager to set my own description to the blank canvas painted for me of Wales; country of, seemingly, nothing.

 Our beautiful family wagon (quickly dubbed ‘Herbert’ for no reason whatsoever) allowed our crazy, mixed, dysfunctional family of seven to all hit the road together for a weekend of adrenaline, experience and adventure. After the last of us had finished work for the week and two days of freedom stretched ahead, wide and unchartered, we joined the queues out of London, blasting a medley of tunes and playing the Royal Mail car game. (The aim is to be the first to spot and shout out ‘Royal Mail Post Box’ or ‘Royal Mail Lorry’. The winner adorning the crown of ‘most annoying’.)

 After getting lost, or touring Derbyshire along the exact same way multiple times depending on your outlook of optimism, we eventually made it to destination numero uno: Jordan’s house! We arrived after the sun had set (which was late, this was the longest day of the year, no less!), weary eyed and stiff limbed, we quickly realised how many of us there were when we managed to steam roll the entire living room with our presence. It was wonderful to relax back into the ease of a family home with matching china, fully stocked cupboards and living animals. (Not as opposed to dead animals, just any animals at all.) After managing to remain upright and coherent through utter tiredness long enough to observe and ridicule embarrassing baby photos, we quickly established our plan for tomorrow and dragged ourselves off to bed for an early morning wakeup call, the laboured breathing heard before the lights turned off.

 The morning sun beamed through the skylight and the birds began to chirp (an obvious reminder we were no longer in inner city London) and we awoke to a promising day. We snuck in some breakfast, consuming a large portion of the household food together as a large group, and followed the 15 minute drive to Alton Towers; tracing the beautiful windy back routes while pheasant searching and beating the traffic. We arrived as the clouds took over the blue tinged sky and the rain quickly followed, and despite being ‘summer’ it quickly became clear almost all of us were inadequately dressed. Nevertheless, the threatening clouds were meaningless with the adventure that waited.

 The wonderful and most unique thing about this giant theme park is the inability to see it. It is completely invisible from the road and upon arriving at the car park; you cannot see any of the rides, nor is it evident that there is anything present nearby other than a dense forest. The park is quite a distance from the car park so there is a themed monorail to the entrance (ours was jelly beans) and the Alton Towers theme song pumps up the anticipation. Gliding along surrounded by towering trees felt more like we were off on a hike than heading to a theme park. Then flashes of bulky metal and technicolour rails flew into view and our stomachs lurched pre-emptively.

Arriving at 9.30 for a park that opens at 10, meant we could get inside and line up for rides before they actually opened. Our plan was to head to the newest ride, opened in May 2013, The Smiler – 14 loops of terror! We rolled up to find a huge line and a sign labelling the wait as 2 and a half hours long. We elected to return later, our excitement for thrills unable to hold out for the extended line. As the rain began to pour, we joined the lines for a number of crazy rides; a complete soaking was a small price to pay for outrageous adrenaline and, at times, pure fear. Ride number one was ‘Thirteen’, a foray into the unknown, a roller coaster with a surprise. (Spoiler Alert! It stops in pitch black which is assumed to signal the end of the ride, before dropping straight down and hurtling backwards! I think I literally gained air in the rush to grab my companion.) Rita was next, a roller coaster that took off at such speed I momentarily forgot where I was (and looking across, observed a very, very pale acquaintance), before regaining my neck muscles and trying Air; an incredible, and perhaps my favourite, roller coaster which instead of being in a seat at a 90 degree angle; the seat was lifted up so that you were parallel to the ground. Talk about blood rush to the head! Nemesis, the quintessential Alton Towers roller coaster gave us a jolty ride and perhaps several added neck injuries; loops and swoops performed with your legs dangling and swinging about at odd angles. The Sonic Spinball hurtled us through the rain over dazzling tracks as our seats spun constantly, forcing us backwards and forwards before our eyesight blurred and there was merely a mess of disjointed track behind us.

 The continuous fear had our bellies grumbling and we headed to an all-you-can-eat Pizza and Pasta buffet (because if you can’t eat badly at a theme park where can you?) and unleashed our hunger fury on the unsuspecting chefs. Impressively, more than one of us consumed a whole pizza. Filled to the brim, we decided to take a more humble approach to the rides with a stomach full of food, and queued for the white water rapids ride, typically one of my favourites! Especially fun when it’s already raining and there is a chill in the air that makes the simplest splash of water a perilous threat. We all got wet. Most of us not from the splashing, but from an evil lookout point where people pay £1 to use powerful water guns that are placed in a hidden corner and allow for pin point accuracy as the innocent riders come down the rapids! One of the little brats hit me square in the head, needless to say after that my ear was waterlogged and mission: payback to evil 10 year old began.

 We ran through the easing drizzle to the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ride, a must-do after having seen the London show several days earlier and after riding down a chocolate river we were able to go in a real, moving glass elevator! Talk about dreams coming true. We followed this with a visit to the Ice Age 4D cinema where we got pelted by air from beneath our legs, snowed on from above and rocked back and forth as fire-breathing dragons and inscrutable mammals threatened our livelihood. I even made a real life friend with an over-excited 11 year old who took my energetic laughter as a sign of a potentially solid friendship. (Update: unfortunately, after the show ended we went our separate ways.) A shoot out through a haunted house (which was unspeakably terrifying for one of us – which the photo evidence of the ride proved hilariously true) before we headed to the extensive line for The Smiler, the grand sum of fear at Alton Towers. We arrived just before the park closed at 5.30pm, knowing that once you were in the line you were guaranteed a place on the ride of doom. It was the longest wait by a long shot at over two hours; and the fear gradually subsided as the wait prevailed. We kept ourselves entertained with ‘four pictures one word’, an iPhone app that sounds a lot less difficult than it is, keeping us suitably occupied until we neared the front and fear lashed hold once again.

Approaching the seat felt like a death wish and my knuckles turned white before we had started, with only the question of ‘why’ at the forefront of my anxious mind. As we lurched into blackness, we instantly plunged into the ground at a hurtling speed before stopping completely and being pulled up high into the sky, where the whole grounds were visible to the nervous eye. But there was no time for visual appreciation as the view streamed past at frightening speeds; we were looping, spinning, backwards, forwards, sideways and upside down. The ride stops momentarily to climb vertically up the track before folding back into its terrifying speed and stomach lurching loops, the cackling, petrifying laughter of ‘The Smiler’ an ever present haunting soundtrack. The ride ends after an impressively long time and the smiles and adrenaline take over as the stomach settles back to normal position. By far the craziest roller coaster I’ve ever experienced.

 The sun finally shone brightly as we left the park, illuminating the excitement, adrenaline and pure fun of the day passed. Collapsing into the car utterly exhausted, we ate homemade flapjack and ‘whoopie pie’ as we navigated our way into Wales for my first visit! It was raining. The whole time we were there it barely stopped; plummeting forcefully into the ground and adding to the lush vegetation that swarmed the landscape. We followed the picturesque, unruly coast to our hostel and admired the mountain ranges we passed, attempting guesses at which was Mt Snowdon in amongst the fog (we were all wrong.) We made it to the hostel with surprising ease and were met by a wonderful (and wild) view of the ocean on our doorstep and the mesmerising Welsh accent of the owner. We quickly settled into our room, dumped our wet belongings and set off into the quaint, stone town to find a pub. As should be in Wales, we found a pub without any difficulty and joined the Saturday night revellers, eavesdropping in awe at the spoken Welsh we found everywhere; a hypnotic tangle of Irish and English spoken with rapid intensity. We ordered cider’s and relaxed into the welcoming atmosphere of the winding, narrow pub furnished with endless Welsh flags and bizarre stone sculptures; the beautiful chatter of our Welsh companions a serenading reminder of our location.

 When in Wales, do what the Welsh do; the night disappeared and was gone before we could recall it and soon we were finding our way back through the beautiful empty streets; the cobblestones treacherous and wonderful and illuminated by the large bright moon. Collapsing into bed with only a handful of hours before our rise, the open window invited the calls of the birds and the crash of the ocean to create a lullaby for our drifting minds.

 As dawn peaked and the birds noise grew to inescapable strength, we were up early courtesy of a pleasant nature absent in London. Grabbing a fuelling breakfast in the underground kitchen (complete with fake moose head filling the space overheard the fireplace) in preparation for our mountain climb; and we left the hostel in almost arctic conditions, returning to the realisation of how ill equipped we were to complete scale a mountain. We loaded into Herbert and navigated our way to the bus that would take us to the foot of Mt Snowden, joining a few other fellow climbers at the bus stop, fully kitted out in thermals, hats, rain jackets, hiking boots and water proof everything. We felt like we had turned up at a swanky party having missed the ‘cancelled fancy dress’ memo. We soldiered on.

 We began the walk with utter stillness and calm for company with only sprawling green hills rolling into the distance ahead of us, an unspoken serenity emanating from the landscape. Oh, and some of the most intense lashing rain I’ve ever encountered. We soon were so drenched that the rain was no longer a bother and we kept ourselves (somewhat) warm by singing camp songs and national anthems. After walking for about two hours, we were reaching serious heights and as the path suddenly disappeared we realised we were lost. Trying to scale a mountain of rocks, it was not only the wrong way but extremely dangerous. We liaised with another group which had foolishly followed us before turning back and eventually finding the rock face that we were to follow (having previously written it off as “not a path” due to its vertical gradient). At this height the fog was so dense, it was only possible to see about 15 metres in front, and others were mere formations in the distance; a hollow silhouette within a sea of cloud. Keeping close was vital, newspaper headlines were flashing across my vision with every added metre away from the group “Idiotic Kiwi Girl Lost on Mountain”.

Another hour or so of seemingly rock climbing our way to the summit and we had reached a narrow plateau stretched out ahead that was managing to assemble the wind from every direction and churning it into a tornado like event; with sheer cliff faces to heighten the fury. Momentarily stopping to access the likelihood of making it across alive; the deciding factor was realising there was nowhere else to go and needing to reach other side of the mountain; we braced ourselves. Sheer real fear like no theme park ride could emulate, we linked arms for added strength and weight against the wrath of wind. The desire to run was outweighed by the recognition that it was more likely to lead to being swept off your feet; so we forced our heads down against the lashing rain and concentrated on each solid footstep. After about 20 minutes but a seeming lifetime, we reached the utmost summit where a small rock plaque is placed on a raised platform to signify the top. Feeling as if scaling this was necessary to officially have ‘climbed’ Snowden, we literally put our lives in the hands of fate as we gripped the stone steps while climbing to the top. Quickly touching the top, we timed a lull in the wind and crouched down to lunge back to the side and take the steps down as safely but as quickly as we could.

 Reaching the indoor café and taking a deep, “I’m still alive” breath of gold, the last couple of hours felt like one giant underwater marathon, and by the looks of us a 21km swim was what we we’d just braved. If seeing a ghost is an apt description of the aftermath of shock; we’d just seen the whole village. Drenched from head to toe, ravaged by the howling gale and exhausted from climbing a sheer cliff when we’d expected a friendly dawdle, to say we were flabbergasted is an understatement. If it wasn’t for the cliff top café, we may have never made it down. Lacking enough money to pay for the train, we had only enough cash to all buy a hot chocolate and a toasted Panini and needed every inch of the warmth and fuel it provided. After lengthy pep talks to motivate us to leave the safe haven of the café, we trekked out into the wettest, windiest, foggiest world I have ever known and begun the descent down. Three of us decided we wanted nothing more than to be at the bottom as fast as we could, and took to running down when the strength of the wind allowed. The path was slightly perilous and the side of the mountain we descended was directly exposed to the open gales and downpours so as we ran down the rocky path the side of our faces open to the elements were battered and bruised by the fury of nature.

Flying past others in their single minded determination to also reach the bottom, we were stopped twice by other groups heading up asking us if it was safe to continue to the top. We passed one group of five, solidly built, middle aged men decked out in full hiking kit only to be stopped and asked how much further it was and whether we thought it was possible to go all the way and reach the café. We told them yes, it was where we had just come from, and the small part of their faces I could see around the warm, waterproof covering revealed an odd mixture of fear and embarrassment. We were ill dressed females who had just taken on the elements they were hesitant to embrace. That’s either girl power, or sheer stupidity.

 As we made our way closer to the foot of the mountain, nature relented and the fog cleared to allow us to see the beautiful views of Mt Snowden. We were even able to make out the train as it hurtled alongside us, creating a formidable sight. Amazingly, we managed to beat the train to the foot of the mountain by mere minutes and the one of our group who had opted to take it down was impressed by our sheer speed. There is nothing like being petrified, freezing and pelted by relentless painful raindrops to persuade you to descend a mountain at a cracking pace. As soon as we reached the car park and found the car, we encouraged our limbs to co-operate despite the feeling of frostbite and difficulty with movement, and changed into the only dry clothes we had left. Needless to say, we looked like homeless foreigners in an odd assortment of garments, who had just fallen into the ocean and been attacked by sharks. We were a mess. We loaded into the car, pumped the heating on high and comforted ourselves. Mission accomplished. One peak down, two to go. (If the other two are anything similar, I think ‘three peaking’ may be a death wish.)

 Driving back towards England (the roundabout way; we had time to spare upon learning the zip wire was cancelled due to bad weather, not that we were surprised after our hazardous climb) we made a small detour to Port Merion. A beautiful tiny town, we entered between rain squalls to observe a village designed by a man now passed on, and looking like Mediterranean reincarnate. It was hard to believe that people actually lived there as it seemed like untouchable art, beauty for the eye. We had tea at a quaint little café and walked through the town and down to the shoreline before driving once again through lush, green scenery; our eyes closing intermittently as the long day caught up with us and the rhythmic lull of the car took hold. Awaking ravenous, we managed to find a great restaurant on the border of England, startling our fellow customers with our appetite to eat and inhaling our much deserved food before back to the car and the long drive home, the large shining moon our resolute companion.

 With my first journey into Welsh territory now passed, I can reason with those who informed me of the “nothing” I was visiting. They were right, there really is nothing in Wales; but that’s what makes it so beautiful, that’s what makes it Wales. The ‘nothing’ is the everything. Beauty is everywhere in Wales; the nature, the scenery, the untouched landscapes and the humble spirits of residents proud of their nation; patriotic to the ferocious red dragon. There is no famed theme park, no infamous memorial and no world renowned monument, but it is Wales, and it’s everywhere you look; a refreshing authenticity, a spirited genuineness and a treasured simplicity held within the rushed, complex fibres of the modern world.

Summer Seasoning.

As the ‘jumpers’ are thrown away, the trees bare their green proudly and the flowers stop cowering away from the frost and rain to blossom into full colour, summer is on the tip of everyone’s tongue. 

It’s the water cooler conversation du jour; the prospect of sun, outdoor drinks after work, evenings spent lounging in parks; but does it ever really feel like summerhere? 

I’m beginning to wonder if summer in London is merely an illusion, an elaborate creation to get middle class residents through the brutal winter without the expensive tropical escapes to the Mediterranean, and without the fabricated ‘plages’ shipped into the inner city.

The very first time I questioned (and worried about) the English summer I have been hanging out for was when the Celsius scrapped 15 and the central city parks looked like a sunblock giveaway convention in central Ireland; the green grass was barely visible beneath the sea of teeming vitamin D deficient bodies. Yes, the sun was peeking out from between the clouds but the breeze in the air was swinging straight from Iceland and my arms remained safely tucked into my jacket.The beautiful view outside my window as the towering naked winter trees bloomed vibrant and green belied the outdoor reality. With the indoor heating masking nature’s true temperature, I was forgiving my preconceived notions of a frosty English June and was beginning to think the warnings I was given were communicated in vain. The echo of “England doesn’t do summer” and the cynical laugh at its suggestionwas going to be lost in the glare of the sunshine and mild evening picnics.

Well, reality is a bitch and the outdoor chill stung like the falling blossom in your eye. Nature was in the throes of its summer cycle whereas the weather was the troublesome toddler, throwing a tantrum and refusing to follow the rules.

The rare summer days are relished; outdoor pubs fill to bursting and the beer can be heard spilling from clattering jugs long after the sun has set. London receives a normal person’s definition of summer about 7 days in the year (these statistics come from The National Library of Hanna; use with caution) and the city becomes a real life replica of Rapunzel’s bedroom, shut down and trapped from its own making. The heat becomes the sky’s comforter, a blanket that encapsulates the heat and reflects it, a humid intensity fit for a tropical rainforest. Lacking a refreshing escape and instead surrounded by towering brick buildings, the city is bathed in similarities with that of a sauna; a sauna in which the door is locked and the key has been eaten.

The variation of summer in a big city is that unlike Paris, in London you get to take your clothes off. Paradoxically, if you want to take all your clothes off, the beaches of France are your remedy, but if you want to disrobe to a level of comfort for the hot temperatures, head to the English speaking capital. In Paris, wearing shorts and a t-shirt is like eating escargot with your hands or not appreciating a merlot; it is simply not the way du Français. If someone is seen in anything less than a reasonable layer of cover (or a less covered but fashion forward summer style) you can be sure any Parisian will merely assume you are an unaware tourist. Shorts? Singlet?You must be American. (French attitudes to Americans fitnicely with the French outlook to tourists in general).

Reversely, in London if you wear anything more than shorts and a t-shirt (especially if its fashion forward), you can be sure to get a contemptuous raised eyebrow from the Brits. It is July and the temperature is in the double digits; take off a layer. It is easy to spot the English walking down a street in the summer time, not merely because like the stigma surrounding vampires they reflect the sunlight, but they are the ones wearing the least and sweating the most.

When the sun is shining and the layers are discarded; you would think that everyone was on holiday. There are more people on the streets, the parks fill to bursting and the threat of diminishing alcohol at pubs is a very real possibility. But most of all, the highly wrung individuals pacing the pavements, the vigorous pushing to make the tube and the stern, stressed faces occupied by suit wearing office workers all gets lightened and mellowed by the sunshine. The rays illuminate inner happiness, decanting the reports, meetings and stress of the day and awaking the euphoria of the sun.

The sun may not grace the skies of London very often, clouded away by a haze of pollution and ever present rain; but at least when she does appear, she is appreciated. Outdoors becomes a haven of invitation, a sanctuary of freedom and a release from the uptight individual that London can encourage. When the sun arrives, it transforms the city; and the people transform along with it.

Thames run.

In schizophrenic rain squalors. 

Because we can.

Ethiopian food. Oh, the intrigue. 

No cutlery allowed. 

On Sundays we riiiiiide.

13km scenic Thames stroll, pubs on every corner and an amazing mural covered house! Then home for cookies :)

Oxford.

Debris of post-exam revelry litters streets of history as we swing through lanes between cold, stone buildings, warmed by bustling students in the midst of exams. Streamers and champagne bottles (empty, undoubtedly) draw eyes from century old structures to the realities of modern day students. 

The atmosphere is tangibly studious; 1 in 3 wear glasses and 1 in 2 parade sneakers with jeans, their passing sentences peppered with scholars, formulas and thoughts stemmed from IQ's 160+. 

The oldest university in the English speaking world is beautiful, and expensive. Entry is banned to all with less than 8 pounds in their pocket and Harry Potter's famed outdoor grounds stand as  unreachable as Hogwarts itself. 

High tea seems compulsory in a place dripping with English culture and our tea flows as freely as the conversation. The novel past of the small, busy (on this warm, sunny Saturday) town put an eloquent fire in my literary belly, the beauty of words spilling out from every inch of a town drenched in past famed writers. 

The authors, poets, scholars and philosophers live on in the town, rather than the people. The unshaven, pimpled, single current students with their giant satchels spilling with two tonne books perpetuate the lingering suspicions that the talent of Oxford's habitants has long since faded; but we can hope, I think, that talent may one day be measured by who can mismatch corduroy pants and a woollen vest with such apparent ease. 

Tripping back into Parisian Time.

A sweeping sensation of intoxicating lust is an ever present association with the mere word. Paris. France. There is something undeniably alluring about this place for me. This beautiful country inviting visions of ornate Haussmann buildings lining bustling streets; hills spanning miles with blooming flora, contrasting the pink hues of the setting sun, the constant noise of cars tooting, the air of racing metro’s spilling out of underground grates and the shouting from grocer’s, fishmongers and boulangers; wrapped eloquently in the French accent. Bouts of this nostalgia often wager themselves back into my life. I pine for aimless strolling and boulangerie windows filled with edible masterpieces, for the buzz of near collisions on Velibs and the picture perfect sunsets that glaze the city effortlessly, night after night. I spent a full year of my life there and yet still want to return one day. There is an aspect to life there that can’t be found elsewhere, or perhaps, I simply haven’t yet found it elsewhere. Its stereotypes hold true; it is a land of food, beauty and love. The women are thin, well dressed and smoking, and the drivers are mad. I would reminisce about walking along the cobblestone streets as the sun baked down overhead, the streets littered with tourists in love, impeccably dressed locals and the hot smell of homelessness. I miss drinking in the scenery, reading French signs and advertisements which always seem classier and more provocative than their English counterparts. What I may have lost in the barrier of language is more than made up for in the unavoidable social elements; their focus on food as experience, dining out as an adventure, the attention to fashion and culture and the focus on appearance as identity; the shine of their accent, the articulate roll with which the words part their lips. So, nine months after I left, I shall return. Paris a functional thoroughfare for one of its Americanized gems, Disneyland. I am not a first time Disney’er, my last (and first) venture there was over a year ago, on one of the first days that winter bore its menacing presence, contrasted against the smiling, sunny animated characters who roam the technicolor streets. As Walt aspired, it was one of the best days of my life. I left high on life and sugar, the remnants of adrenaline still alight. I went to sleep that night intoxicated by blinding lights, oversized cartoons and cinnamon and sugar coated sweet bread. I closed my eyes to be cast into never ending high speed, looping roller coasters, illuminated by the darkness of my eyelids. I couldn’t escape the speed, colour and activity of the day gone past; so I rode it into sleeplessness. On Friday night, my journey back began. As the sun dipped lower into the horizon and the beautiful London day was blanketed in black, my three companions and I were making our way to Victoria station; our tickets to Paris clasped in our excited hands. Our spaceship bus, clearly designed by NASA’s counterpart, was clean and modern but sleeping horizontally and remaining in one seat for over 9 hours is no one’s strong suit, and mere hours in we were fidgeting desperately towards sleep. My slumber somehow masked the journey onto the train and we were arriving into a sleepy-eyed Paris before I had time to question our location and the obvious geography blimp of crossing an ocean while seated aboard a bus. The beauty of Paris is instant and powerful; a city like nowhere else in its romantic and enthralling qualities, and we were ushered in silently, while the effects of Friday night wine and cheese were still wearing off the sleeping residents. Tracing our steps towards our hostel felt like a step back in time but our sense of familiarity dissipated with our new status as tourists. We were banished from the exclusive title of Parisian resident; instead ‘visitor’ was dripping off our backpacks, our cameras and our hostel address. However the metro was not a tangled web of confusion, the juggled placement of scattered streets was not an orienteer’s nightmare and the language dictating our every move was a strange sense of forgotten comfort; we were locals in disguise. Clad with a wide eyed wonder but filled with native knowledge, understanding and appreciation that only well-versed Parisian residents can muster. Finding our hostel (and being treated to an odd, impromptu choir rendition by fellow guests dressed in matching paint splattered suits), we quickly freshened up in the miniature bathroom and dumped our bags, before our childlike excitement guided us to Chatelet station, and aboard the RER ride to Disneyland. Never has a metro ride felt longer than when the Happiest Place on Earth lies at the end, but our bubbling anticipation remained in measure until the metro doors slid open and “Marne La Vallee” was announced on the intercom. No gates shine quite as bright as the sugar coated wonder oozing from those of Disneyland, the other-worldly funfair instantly lifts your spirits and provides a dynamic, bubbly backing track to life. Minor ticket hiccups meant observing the candied revelry from outside, our bottled delight at the brink of bursting only increasing our relentless impatience for adrenaline. Once through the barrier, Warner Bros Studios beckoned first and ride number one was a behind the scenes movie magic type tour, an easing into the expansive selection of thrills. Next was a Hollywood Tower of Terror (not for me) and followed by Aerosmith’s Rock’n’Roller Coaster, a test of neck strength and screaming capacity. We passed with colour. Passing rain squalors meant cover was key; so Armaggedon won next ride. A bizarre mix of an over-enthusiastic worker and a surprisingly quick lurch to fear was an interesting first ‘new’ ride that I didn’t do last time. We grabbed a quick overpriced bruschetta to share from my favourite café, based on High School Musical, and we were off to see another new attraction for me, the Stunt Show. Flames, water, cars, motorbikes and near death shocks and gasps provided a nice spectacle without fear of personal death. We left Warner Brothers Studios and followed the path to the source of the sing song music emanating from within the glistening gates of Disneyland. Our first ride was through the detailed and relatively tame Pirates of the Caribbean float before jumping aboard the rickety Indiana Jones roller coaster, our first one outdoors! Nothing like the wind flowing turbulently through your hair as you race at top speed and get twisted upside down and back to front. We even nipped in with the under 5’s to get a go on the traditional Dumbo, the flying elephant ride, before making our way to an underground submarine and then Space Mountain to experience pure terror and exhilaration in perhaps the craziest ride yet. The twists and turns are not even countable (being in the dark makes it harder) and cannot be registered as you become thrown this way and that under the mesmerising lights flashing from all directions (if you can manage to open your eyes, of course…) Warmth and dinner inside the Videopolis, watching Disney characters supersized on screens all around and eating burgers from boxes plastered with Mickey, Minnie, Goofy whose smiles announced our enjoyment of the food before we’ve eaten. Then onto the Star Tours simulator to mix with Obi Wan Kenobi before setting up a spot in front of the magical castle in preparation for the 20th Anniversary Light Show. An absolutely incredible performance of dazzling lights, with Disney characters cast across the castle, water flying in cascading beauty and fireworks illuminating the dazzling work under the night sky. It makes it impossible to not be Disney inspired as our imaginations are set alight with the promise of a shiny, glossed world; free from imperfections and laden with unbridled happiness. A picture perfect end to an action packed, adrenaline fuelled and entertaining day. Joining thousands to board the RER back and collapsing into our strange, over-used hostel beds, sagging with the weight of countless bodies who had shared the wonder of Paris’ attractions and activities, for a wonderfully horizontal and much needed solid sleep. Our eyelids couldn’t close fast enough – too quickly to thank Walt for a day spent wrapped up in his reality. We rose swiftly and eagerly the next morning, boosted by a fantastic yesterday and a day ahead that was laced with promise, opportunity and crepes. We planned the timing to catch breakfast closely, and arrived with around two minutes left on the breakfast clock. Grabbing what little there was left from the odd array of cereal, yogurt, biscotti, baguette and brioche and talking animatedly about the day’s plans, we were soon approached by a small, stern looking French woman who had replaced the missing inches of her height with a frightful seriousness. Ordering us to finish in French before swapping to perhaps the only English word she knew “finish!” and shouting it in a way that twisted it into an insult, a command wrapped in menace. Attempting to eat faster but obviously failing according to her strict guidelines, she visited again; armed with more of a scowl and an increased rude demeanour. We eventually left, trying as we could to stay and enrage her, because her killjoy was ruining our holiday. Erupting into the empty streets, Paris’ early morning calm and irresistible charm soon soothed our frazzled breakfast nerves. After a 9 month absence from the city I once called my own (though constantly aware to add ‘temporary’ to that somewhat misleading title), returning for a weekend felt less like a homecoming and more of a ‘realising’ that I actually once lived there than I could have anticipated. Our walk was laden with personal epiphanies as we rounded corners and walked in the neighbourhood I used to canvas daily to collect groceries, meet friends and complete seemingly mundane daily tasks. My apartment stood in the same place and from the outside, looked identical. I could picture my 9 month younger self strolling through the doors, a local style apparent in my orientated, self-assured approach. But in every way other than structure, the apartment had changed. The image of what I saw was matched while everything it represented now felt amiss. It felt foreign. I had to physically remind myself I used to live there. I didn’t expect my towel to be hanging from the balcony nor our New Zealand flag to be visible through the wide shutters, but I didn’t expect to feel such a loss of attachment to something I had come to call my own so vehemently. Buying falafel in Le Marais, the Jewish district I came to bond with, at Chez Hanna, I recognised the signs, the street and the menu but the familiarity was lost in the sense of abandonment with which I had left. Eating in Place des Vosges, passing shops I spent Sunday mornings in, Chocolatier’s my thighs had to thank for and boulangerie’s nice enough to allow me to buy 90 cent baguettes with 100 euro notes. The pavement was worn with the tread of my footprints, traversed every Saturday for my favourite baguette, but was replaced by the shining remnants of eager eyed tourists and their temporary lust. The brutal reality that this city I had called so much part of me I was now no longer a part of started to hit home, as if the scorn of me leaving was written on every surface; lying quietly behind the ever-present beauty. In some sense, this made the city more alluring; it’s often glossed, shined and buffed image was truer than ever; as we strolled the streets I was falling in love with the City of Love, all over again. It had changed since I had left, and I was cast under its spell once more. Meandering from shop to shop, glancing at shoes, books, movies and watching 150,000 people strong protests before spending a sitting minute in front of Notre Dame and collecting Velib’s to compete with angry taxis on Haussman lined boulevards. A city I knew so well, yet seemingly not at all. Not needing a map to navigate the streets, but requiring a compass to relocate the memories I had experienced in pockets across the city. The day dawned so limited for a vast, expansive city in which visitors spent weeks, but 24 hours seemed long; the fullness depleted from the year I called it my own, the iconic romanticism a blurry veil stretched thin from the bulk of memories I shared with the city. We boarded our bus back to our current home across the channel; a home I feel more familiar in, and more entitled to call my own, but lacking the brightness around every corner, shrouding every moment. Glancing back to bid farewell to a city I may never see again lent a strange understanding to the movements of living, the fragile nature of the human impact and the reality that we are all roaming, we are all gypsies. We move on, part of a restless roller coaster that broadens, twists and turns and which leaves our past behind; stationary and concrete, unable to hold a lasting image of who we were in that moment; before the next group arrives and prepares for the ride of their life.

Tube time.

A sea of tailored black and a heavy silence, punctuated by tired eyes and an apprehension reserved for the day ahead. Shuffling feet move in small perimeters and heads remain bowed as single file movements match herding sheep.

Squashed elbows restrict natural movements and inevitable swaying and imbalance make for risky stretching to grab technicolor hand rails. The bodies are still asleep.

My steady hands enclose my means of mental escape; a book, providing a mechanism of voyeuristic reversal, as only my body remains forcibly tied to the limited perimeters. Heavy breathing and neighbouring earphones constitute my morning melodies. The outside is a whirring mesh of black as inside temperatures soar and sweat beads hang to freshly ironed shirts. Sharp buzzing announces arrival destinations, perpetuating the herding as furrowed brows find paths through crowded bodies. The heat intensifies as the timer clocks in at over 30 minutes before my sign arrives and signifies arrival destination.

My head rises as I pull myself out of the world I chose to escape to, my body coming to as they sync together and I move compactly without stifling the small movements of energy uniform to the environment.

I am now the sheep, but only in an effort to become the bird, and fly free into the fresh, open air.

Flashback! Homecoming.

Google Earth claimed it was part of a supermarket.

It wasn’t.

But it took a similar amount of time to get to the bathroom as it did to reach the fruit aisle.

The first time I ever saw it I had just ran 13.1 miles and couldn’t see straight. I could barely move my legs and thought the smallest of movements would end in vomiting. I couldn’t get warm. It was front door to couch path where I was parked for the next number of hours under thick blankets and endless cups of boiling hot tea. I saw the lounge and the bathroom and soon forgot both. So, my first real night’s sleep at the flat was after arriving armed with minimal clothing, sporadically packed and fresh from a glorious week away in Spain where the sun shone, the sand was soft and doing nothing became mandatory and completely natural.

I knew the flatmates by name, not face and my weary travel logged limbs followed them down streets I’d never seen in an area I didn’t know to a party in which I knew no one, following my feet and trusting my instincts under the glare of the moon.

That was the initial introduction to a home I would be spending a significant amount of time in over the course of life left for me in London. Arriving home in the pitch black night to unfamiliar walls, a strange bed and an unknown feeling welling up inside, I felt a strange sense of comfort surrounded by so much like minded, same age activity. The thought of being in such an unfamiliar location so abruptly was not dwelled on with no room for thoughts to grow, restricted by the ever present excitement and constant happenings.

My pillow was a rock and my duvet a weightless heater. The walls were thick; trapping the product of three people’s heat inside, the windows thin; a constant reminder of the lively city present outside. When the sun rose, the room was a furnace and my mouth’s shouting had turned to cursing from anger at feeling like a desert; I rose. We all rose. As if a family of over-sized children, we woke with breakfast and TV before the steady trek across London to my (now old) home. Apartment in Finsbury, complete with drug dealing neighbours and questionable building standards (but not really that bad…) now felt distant and I was unattached, as if treading on someone else’s abode, their daily rituals gleaming in the remains of products strewn haphazardly across the empty rooms. The only telling reminder of life between the walls was the dust beginning to settle on several unused areas.

Moving day was met with ill fated (read: last night-itis) problems, problemo uno lying on the other side of town as the key to the apartment remained snuggled in amongst my belongings, far away from the door I was at, needing to get into. Hot, tired and defeated by public transport, I hopped on yet another tube to heckle my roommate for hers (managing to catch her in amongst a tight study schedule, LSE kills!) before attempting to carry my legs back the way I came; joining tourists and families enjoying the balmy weather as I focused on opening my eyelids, moving my feet and on anything BUT the complex and harrowing move which lay ahead.

There is an oddly liberating aspect to moving, ridding all content s and material possessions from one place to insert into another. I was able to gather my things surprisingly (perhaps, worryingly) quickly which took a bit of time off the unfortunate beginning. Music blasted and a lot of freshly arrived New Zealand sweets were opened and emptied, crumbs scattered across an apartment I no longer felt rights to (hence the lack of ‘goodbye’ cleaning…) I thrust a travel pack on my willing and able (and dungaree clad, typically) moving buddy; kindly sweating through the afternoon to help me move my swiftly accumulated belongings to my new home. A suitcase (with a weight alluding to several people trapped inside) and a travel pack each, not to mention the mini bags split between us, set us up for a clammy tube ride for 40 minutes across about 20 tube stations (the iconography of the city I now temporarily called my own, sweeping by).

The close proximity of the house to the tube station was greatly received as my knees ached and my back complained. The sun was still pounding down from above despite the darkening hour and upon arriving my first (real) flatmate impression was the Queen of Clogging the Hallway; my stuff owning the small space, seriously reducing the already compact area. Muscles tired and a heartfelt longing to enjoy the last of the setting sun and warm temperatures meant reckless abandon to reach outdoors. Firing up the small BBQ in a miniature, but existent backdoor garden, the plumes of dark smoke billowing over the fence into the supermarket mere metres away, ignited puzzled glances from customers and passers-by. It felt wonderful to be outside in a private area; a luxury ill-afforded to those in apartment blocks and joint flats.

Amongst seven there is always activity, and in amongst eating freshly BBQ’ed sausages and burgers; there was pruning, gardening, digging as well as inventive cricket (swap ball for potato and bat for spade – the idea was the same). Followed by a small stride across the road to the local green for football, some questionable photo taking ensued giggling, pumping and quizzical glances.

We returned to the warmth and comfort of our own home at dusk, escaping the insects as their biting hour arrived. Activity swelled around me; the TV a distant noise drowned out by the lull of mixing voices; a welcome filter of life. As the rooms emptied and the tired bodies made their way to bed, I followed in their wake. Happy to be surrounded by a contagious environment, I was content in being present. Merely, present.