Oranges and armchair travelling
Adding a zesty date to my calendar and a few favourite recent travel reads
On Monday I reached peak cold. Having missed the one day of sunshine afforded to Scotland this year (that’s a blatant lie but it feels true), I hit ‘book now’ on the cheap flights I’d been coveting.
It wasn’t an immediate fix in that I have to wait two months until stepping back onto Mallorcan soil. But it did instantly make me feel better. I can already taste the freshly squeezed orange juice, served from a car boot to trekkers of the dusty trail by an enterprising local. I can feel my toes sinking into sand and salt water, washing away the winter’s hard cast.
Last time we met a man in search of a donkey, this communicated to us via braying and hand gestures. We hadn’t seen the escapee, but admired his style. I sipped Cava at breakfast, knowing I would have a headache by mid-morning but unable to resist the decadence. Felt the impending panic of being lost in death valley by a different name. The joy of an invigorating boat ride that, unexpectedly, took us into a cave for what seemed to be a tale of both geology and pirates, but definitely went beyond our grasp of Spanish.
This time will be different. There will be no adult-only hotel with breathtaking buffet to tuck into on waking. No rainfall shower or sea view balcony. That romantic weekend away for two (pretty exhausted parents) feels like a lifetime ago. It belongs to a time before Covid. To a time when Jay’s commercial photography career was just taking off and he’d recently returned from shooting a big brand campaign on those same shores. To a time before everything shut down. A time we’ve yet to return to. And perhaps never will.
This time we’re taking our daughter with us. And my parents. For a brief moment I harboured a hope of my brother and his family joining us, but it wasn’t to be. This time there will be more anxiety and dysregulation. More trepidation and hanger. The obligatory shopping trip for the perfectly-sized porridge bowl and spoon. We will need to employ more patience. To remember that we are all creatures of habit, bewilderingly adrift in new places. All moving at our own pace, doing our best to navigate often crowded, disorienting spaces with processing systems that soak up all the glorious detail, before glitching into overload. There will be exhaustion and a why-do-we-do-this-to-ourselves moment or ten.
There will also be wonder. And marvelled gasps of how lucky are we, to be together here, right now. There will be conversations that move beyond the contents of the Telegraph (I hope!) and what barbaric thing the Tories have done now. New perspectives and emerging threads. Discovery and connection.
My dad, who is now in his late 70s and still to retire from full-time farming, once said to me: “You’ll learn more in a day in another country than in a year at home.” He has no recollection of saying this, but as an impressionable 15 year-old about to embark on my first trip overseas, I took his words to heart. His travels have been few and far-between, but no less memorable for it. And yet, it still takes persuasion to reignite his sense of adventure. To encourage him to step away from his life’s work and experience a different place. Perhaps another year, was his initial response when I mentioned the trip. How many years do any of us have left here?, was my thought. How long can we take our good health for granted?
Instead I told him about the orange farms of the Sóller valley. About citrus groves nestling under the protective hulk of the Tramuntana mountains. About the wooden, open tram that trundles from coast to old Mediterranean town, where an eco-orchard welcomes visitors. He loves an orange. And a tram. But I suspect it’s the chance to chat to fellow custodians of the countryside that swung it. To experience the childlike wonder that comes with being transported in a metal canister through sky and above clouds, before being deposited that very same day, somewhere entirely different.
Until then, I’m hammock chair travelling, gently rocking by the patio doors, listening to the blackbird as he calls the night in. Being lulled and lifted by the words of writer friends. They bring the change of scenery I so desperately crave, from expansive vistas to cobblestones and brightly-coloured buildings. And in the case of Ruth’s soggy staycation, they make me appreciate this leaking and cluttered, yet cosy, home of ours anew.
Or you could notice the birds -
I loved seeing Lynne’s photos from this trip to Portugal pop up on Instagram - they brought a much needed colour hit to what was a(nother) grey week here in Scotland. This piece captures that oh-so-relatable sense of the need to escape, followed by all the discomfort that comes with having done exactly that.
Copenhagen and the lost art of caring -
An “annual sister weekend” - that phrase alone sparks joy! - becomes a thoughtful meditation on how carving out time to experience a place together can help us to re-connect, both to each other and to the things that matter most.
Notes from an experimental ‘Workation’ -
You’ll need a paid subscription to read this one, but it’s worth every penny to have Ruth’s wise, searching words regularly drop into your inbox. For me, the beauty of this piece was that it made me appreciate not being away in a campervan right now. While also knowing that another time I’d love to do exactly that.
Where have you been travelling - vicariously or otherwise - lately?
I hope you realize that you are a great writer.
Love this 😂 steer clear of the soggy van! I'm so excited for your Mallorcan adventure!