Retreating

Late year I was daydreaming at work. The idea had entered my mind that I might leave my job, but I wasn’t decided. I thought that if I did quit, I’d love to go on a writing retreat. On a whim I googled writing retreats Scotland and came across Moniack Mhor, a writing centre in the Scottish Highlands. There were ‘limited places available’ on the May retreat. I booked there and then.

Usually I’d book off holiday from work at the same time, but this time I didn’t. In my head, this was the first stepping stone to making my idea of quitting a reality. I can be stubborn and irrational: now I had something booked, I had to see the idea through.

About six months later I was on my way to Scotland, officially unemployed, remembering that moment at my desk. I’d actually done the thing! I left behind an oppressively hot and grimy London with a pounding headache, but when I stepped off the plane at Inverness the air was damp and bright and refreshing. It felt symbolic of my new beginning in life.

I lingered outside Inverness rail station, waiting for the shared taxi that would take me to Moniack. I shyly observed every artsy-looking person around me: could it be them? I was unsure of the kind of people who went on these retreats. Would they be mega-serious professional writers who would make me feel like a child splashing about in a paddling pool in comparison? Would they be achingly cool, or exhaustingly eccentric? The taxi driver appeared and led me over to a group of people who looked… normal. People like me. I immediately felt comfortable in the presence of other writers.

We arrived at Moniack and were shown to our rooms, which were simple, cosy and most importantly, lacking in distractions. Mine had a beautiful view of the surrounding landscape, where horses and cows outnumbered houses fifty to one. I lay on my bed for a while, my senses amplified: I could hear floorboards creaking, wind gently rattling the window, Highland cows lowing. It was the most peaceful I’d felt in a while, as if somebody were sweeping out the cluttered contents of my head and filling it with air and light.

In the dining room there was there was wine, tagine and chocolate brownies, and good conversation. We were a mix of novelists, poets, short story writers and playwrights, all there for different reasons – editing, finishing first drafts or starting something new – but we were united by our love of writing, which was so strong we wanted to do nothing else for a week. When I said I’d recently quit my job to write, there were no baffled looks; on the contrary, everybody applauded. I knew I was in the right place.

On the first day the light woke me up at 6.45am, and weirdly I didn’t want to collapse back into my pillow and sleep for another hour. Not being tired was strange: I was light-headed, dizzy. I went out to the straw bale studio in the garden for some morning yoga. Yoga takes on a new dimension when you do it in front of a panoramic view of the Highlands amid silence sprinkled with birdsong. In Surrey I’ve adapted to the constant roar of the nearby motorway, and so true silence was unnerving; the only roar I could hear was the wind through the trees. By the time I was lying on my back watching gauzy clouds drift past the porthole in the ceiling, I was used to it. I could have laid there all day – but there was writing to be done.

And done it was. From 8.30 to 5.30 every day I wrote almost constantly, pausing only to read, eat or walk, and after four days I had over 12,000 words. I’ll admit I was a little dubious about retreats before I came: why not just hire out a cottage for a weekend and make your own? Actually, Omar and I did this once, and we did do some writing, but we also spent a lot of time watching films. There’s something different about a formal retreat – something in the combination of the scenery, the lack of distractions, and the inspiration provided by fellow writers – which creates the perfect space for productivity.

I’d begun the week worried about what the other writers would be like; I ended it convinced that my fellow writers were the best thing about the retreat. My group were the perfect balance of hardworking and sociable. Whenever I was lagging, someone would motivate me. On the last night we ate haggis and drank whiskey, listened to bagpipes, and even contemplated an impromptu ceilidh (although after the whiskey, it’s probably good that didn’t happen), which was great fun. It was wonderful to meet writers working on such different projects, and to grow my writing circle a little larger.

I’m so pleased I made that spur-of-the-moment decision to book onto a retreat, not only because it inspired me to make an important life change, but because it was invigorating, relaxing and extremely productive. It also gave me confidence: I now know the novel idea I spent months brewing in my head while wrapping things up at work might just have some mileage.

In the month since the retreat, I haven’t quite managed to replicate my 3,000 words a day, unfortunately. I know that’s only natural, but still, I’m wondering… when can I go on my next retreat?

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Learning to pass time

I’ve just read David Graeber’s new book Bullshit Jobs: A Theory, which expands on his essay On the Phenomenon of Bullshit Jobs (found here). The book’s theory is that a large proportion of jobs today are pointless make-work and don’t benefit society (and the person in the job knows it). It’s a provocative argument, and some people will disagree; putting that aside, though, I found the book useful in challenging some of my natural assumptions about the value of work, and this has helped me to overcome some anxiety I’ve been feeling about my career break.

For example, Graeber believes our deeply-ingrained attitudes towards time and work are one reason many people accept their bullshit jobs rather than searching for greater fulfilment. In some BS jobs, he claims, the employee doesn’t have enough to do – perhaps because their job only exists to tick a box or make a manager look impressive by boosting her number of underlings – but since it’s taboo to acknowledge this, they’re given pointless tasks to perform. (I once had a summer job in a shop where in the absence of customers we were expected to walk around with an air of purpose, moving displays one centimetre to the left and dusting spotless shelves.) Why not let the employee spend their downtime doing their own thing? The answer is that during working hours the employee’s time belongs to their employer, and so time spent on non-work activities is essentially considered theft.

But Graeber explains that the concept of a person’s time as a commodity to be bought hasn’t always been the natural way of looking at things. In past societies you could own the goods made by a person, or you could actually own the person, but the idea of owning their time would have been bizarre, since time is an abstract concept. This changed because of economic but also religious reasons; the Puritanical mindset that hard work is virtuous and character-building whereas idleness is sin pervades. Our modern conception of time as money means that instead of talking about simply passing time, we talk about spending it, wasting it or losing it – language that I’ve used without ever giving it a second thought!

This was really helpful to me. I’ve always seen life as a race against the clock; if I don’t have any deadlines set for me by other people, I’ll pointlessly impose deadlines on myself. I claim this makes me more efficient, but really, am I just trying to prove to myself that I’m not a waste of space? Why do I feel the need to prove this? In addition, if I miss those self-imposed deadlines, or don’t complete my to-do list, I’ll feel not only that I’ve wasted time but that I’m somehow morally deficient. What a bizarre and needless way of punishing myself…

Now that I’m not in paid employment, it’s all too easy to think of myself as a slob, an unemployed loser, a spoiled brat who can’t handle an office job, and so on. Yes, I’m working on my writing, but since nobody’s paying me for it and I’m not sitting in an office doing it from nine until five, I can fall into the trap of thinking it’s not ‘real’ work but a self-indulgent hobby. For the first three weeks of my break I spent an awful lot of time in my pyjamas, feeling bad about my attire. I’d look at myself in the mirror, still in my dressing gown at midday, hair askew, and think: what am I doing? Isn’t this meant to be my golden age of creativity? Is this what a great writer of the future looks like?

Now, though, I’m thinking about things differently. My time belongs to no-one but myself, and I’m choosing to pass the hours – not spend or lose them – being creative without any self-condemnation. (I’m not complacent, though; I appreciate that I’m very fortunate to be able to have this break.) I’ve stopped trying to calculate how I can justify my own existence, and am focusing instead on how I might use my writing to express things that are important to me. And there’s nothing in the rule book that says I can’t do that in the comfort of my pyjamas.

I worked hard at my office job for five years while trying to write a novel, rushing from one place to another in a hectic city, and burnt myself out. After all that, it’s okay for me to want to sleep in occasionally, to take a long bath, to sit in the garden listening to the birds. Ironically, removing that mental roadblock of self-judgement has meant that over the past few days I’ve felt more inspired, and been more productive as a result. I’ve learnt and grown a lot through the various jobs I’ve had, but I think this new phrase in my life is going to be the most ‘character-building’ of all.

A new beginning

Last Friday, I walked out of the office for the last time; walking away from a job my twenty-one-year-old self would have considered her dream (had she been able to see into the future, she would have rugby tackled me to the ground screaming). It felt strange, as if I were simply going on a longer than usual holiday, and I half-expected someone to email me on Monday morning asking me to filter a spreadsheet by my name and fill in column D. At no point, however – not even now, when I’ve spent the day reorganising the food storage container drawer – have I been in any doubt that leaving was the right thing to do.

It’s not that I hated my job; not at all. But it took me a while to realise that hating your job or getting a better one aren’t the only two reasons you’re allowed to leave.

Last year, as was well-documented by this blog, I wrote a novel after completing Faber Academy’s Writing a Novel course. The course was a turning point for me, as it made me think about myself as a ‘proper’ writer for the first time, but afterwards I became obsessed with finishing my novel as quickly as possible. I saw it as my get-out clause from the mundanity of a nine-to-five office job, and gave it my all: waking up at 6am to write before work, staying up late, turning down social invites. After three drafts, I was so utterly exhausted that I decided my novel was as good as it was ever going to be, and sent it off to agents. I got closer than I ever have to securing an agent, but nonetheless, my inbox filled with (polite, encouraging) rejections.

I still believe the novel was good, but it wasn’t good enough. That might be because it just wasn’t the right novel for that time, or because my exhaustion led me to be too hasty. Either way, I was pretty broken after those rejections. I’d worked so hard. I’d built up my hopes. I’d led myself to believe that this could be it, this might be the one, despite knowing that most writers face hundreds of rejections before they get that ‘yes’. It’s good to be optimistic, but I’d pinned everything on this novel getting published. Of course it was unlikely to end well.

I crashed and burned. I said I couldn’t do it anymore, that I was giving up writing. I became bitterly cynical about the literary world, avoiding Facebook and Twitter because I didn’t want to see people posting about their brilliant agents and their amazing cover designs and their awesome book launches. You don’t want this, I told myself. Doesn’t the struggle continue after you get an agent, after you get published? Do you really want to play that game? I confused the healthy belief that there’s more to life with completely turning away from my passion, and having been so focused on my writing for so long, I felt purposeless. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed because I didn’t see the point. Some of the symptoms of the severe anxiety I suffered at university began to resurface, and when I noticed this I knew something had to change.

So, I took a break. I didn’t write a word for six months. I filled my days with other things I enjoy – reading, singing, playing my piano, yoga, running, spending time with the friends I’d neglected – and started seeing a therapist, learning mindfulness to help with my anxiety. Eventually I felt the urge to write again, and began to chip away at a short story. I started to see my experience with my latest novel in a different way: I’d learnt so much on the course, made some wonderful new friends, and had got to the point where several agents wanted to read my whole novel. All of those things were achievements to be celebrated. If I wrote something else in future, applying everything I’d learnt on the course and with the advice and encouragement of my new friends, what else could I achieve?

I even came up with an idea for a new novel, though I restrained myself from rushing to start writing. Patience has never been one of my virtues.

The culmination of all of this was the realisation that I had to leave my job. For a long time I’d been waiting either for success with my writing, or for some amazing new career to fall into my lap. Neither of these things happened, and so I’d been waiting, waiting. But why not just take a leap of faith? I had enough savings to dedicate some time purely to writing, but had always been afraid: it seemed reckless, stupid, privileged. For once in my life, though, why not do something unexpected, something not involving a detailed plan? There was also the fact I’d gotten engaged and planned on moving to Cambridge, and therefore away from my job, anyway. Wasn’t the year before getting married the perfect time to be a little bit irresponsible?

The more I thought about this plan, the less crazy it seemed, and the more like the most sensical thing I could possibly do. Even my parents agreed, because they wanted to see me happy.  All that remained was to hand in my notice (I’d told enough people of my plan that it would have been embarrassing not to!). That part was scary, but everyone at work was not only completely understanding, but excited for me; they thought it was a great decision.

As I write this now – loving the fact I actually have time to write a blog post and am not cramming it resentfully into my one free evening – I’m inclined to agree.

It’s my second day of unemployment and so far I’ve spent my time (when not reorganising plastic tubs and putting things in boxes) making a plan for the coming months: I have several holidays booked, plus some freelance copywriting and editing work, and then of course there’s my plan to write a new novel. My first trip is a writing retreat in the Scottish Highlands, where I plan to throw myself headfirst into this new idea (after careful plotting, of course). This time, there’s no expectation to get published or be a success: I’m doing this for me.

I’m excited for what the coming months have in store; plenty of surprises, I hope. I’m also excited to restart this blog so I can keep my friends updated on my adventures and share my thoughts on my new writing journey. Initially I wanted to set up a new blog – a blank slate – but actually, I decided it’s best to keep on updating this one. I want people to see the journey that’s led to where I am now as well as my journey going forwards.

I hope that in the future, someone might read this and be inspired to take a leap of faith too.

Goodbye for now

Firstly, I’m not writing this under the illusion there are thousands of people who are going to be weeping and tearing their clothes at the news I’m taking a break from blogging. I’m just writing this for the few people who I know do read and who might be wondering why I’ve stopped posting regularly.

Secondly, I’m not closing down this blog. I’ve been updating it regularly for about six years now – posting at least once a month – and I’m really proud of that. I may not have gained a huge following or gotten a book deal out of it, but that’s never what I wanted. I just wanted a place to write. June was the first month in years I didn’t write a post, which was horribly anxiety-inducing and made me realise that I’m just not able to keep up with posting the way I used to. A blog I’m choosing to write for fun should not be stressing me out. That’s what has prompted me to go on a temporary hiatus.

To be honest, writing a novel utterly exhausted me: physically from the 6am mornings, but emotionally too. I poured so much time and energy into it that my blog posts became less and less inspired – just another chore I had to do to keep up with my once-a-month quota. Because I wasn’t reading as much, or going to the theatre or exhibitions or art galleries, or generally living my life as much, I struggled to think of interesting things to write about here. Perhaps that lack of enthusiasm has showed in some of my recent posts.

So I’ve decided to take a break from it all: writing, blogging, Twitter, Facebook, the lot (sorry if I forget your birthday – I’ve become terribly reliant on Facebook for that). I want to give myself some headspace and regenerate my inspiration. Of course writing is a part of me and I can’t just stop doing it, so I’m sure I’ll carry on, but in more of a fun, relaxed way – jotting down paragraphs in my notebook, perhaps writing the occasional piece of flash fiction or a short story. Who knows, I might even attempt to write a poem, which I haven’t done since I was fifteen and wrote a poem called ‘I Hate You’ about a friend I fell out with in my emo kid notebook.

At the same time, though, I want to explore my creativity in other ways. First and foremost, reading, the best way to find inspiration. Dusting off my piano and learning to play a few pieces again. Going to some art classes. I’ll keep up my regular exercise, yoga and mindfulness practice (which I’ve gotten very into, as it helps massively with my anxiety). I also want to learn how to write code. But – and this is a key but – there will be no pressure for me to do any of these things or become good at them. I’m trying to get past the mindset that I need to be doing, achieving and progressing all the time, exhausting myself and getting frustrated when it doesn’t result in recognition or material gain. Instead I’ll see friends, travel, relax, and try to be creative for creativity’s sake along the way.

To put it simply, I just want to be for a while.

I’m sure I’ll be back in a few months, feeling refreshed and inspired and ready to put things out into the world again. When that time comes perhaps I’ll even reconceptualize this blog and do something different with it. See you then!

Emma’s 2017 adventures part four: Boston

A few weeks ago I went to Boston for work and then play. I preferred Boston to Denver in January, but this may have something to do with the fact Denver was minus seventeen degrees and Boston was thirty, or that in Boston I caught up with a friend I hadn’t seen in five years. Also, Boston’s speciality is clam chowder and cream pies, while Denver does great beer: all nice things, but one leaves you feeling much worse the next morning if you overindulge.

Instead of boring you with typical tourist things you could read about on TripAdvisor, I’ll share my favourite five things about Boston.

The seafood

I’m not that into seafood, because anything with pincers, tentacles or suckers should not go in my mouth, but when in Boston… The must-try dish is the clam ‘chowdah’, which is how a Bostonian would pronounce it. I tried it in a place called Legal Seafood – a chain, but apparently a good one – and it was creamy and salty and warming and oh so good. The crab cakes were excellent too, and I’m sure the lobster is something else, although I didn’t try it because pincers.

Cannoli

I know you can get cannoli, a delicious roll of pastry filled with sweetened ricotta, in many places, for example Italy, which I’m willing to bet does better Italian food than places that aren’t Italy. Boston’s cannoli is famous, though, and the place to try some is either Modern Pastry or Mike’s, both in Little Italy. There’s a heated debate between which establishment does it better (my friend insisted on Modern), but I didn’t really care so long as I got to stuff cannoli in my face. Which I did, and my face was happy.

Outdoor reading spaces

I’m no longer so obsessed with doing every tourist activity in a place at the expense of actually relaxing. In Boston I spent hours reading in the sunshine, as there are so many green spaces: the Public Gardens where there are swan boats and a decent busker on every corner, and the Rose Kennedy Greenway, which was created after a highway was rebuilt underground to reduce congestion and create a greener city. On a side note, the book I was reading was Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here, about a demagogue who becomes US president and introduces a brutal totalitarian regime… hmm.

Art

I’m always momentarily shocked when I go to an art gallery or museum in another country and have to pay to get in. London has spoiled me. Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts in is worth the entrance fee, though, because I spent a good five hours there. They had an impressive range of exhibitions from Matisse’s relationship with objects to Botticelli and faith to Henryk Ross’ photos of the Lodz Ghetto. The exhibitions were really well-curated and easy to follow and understand: unpretentious without feeling dumbed-down.

History

As a Londoner used to seeing centuries-old buildings every day, I appreciated Boston’s sense of history. Walking the Freedom Trail reveals cobbled streets and colonial-era buildings, like the 250-year-old house of Paul Revere (AKA guy who rode a horse really quickly during the American Revolution) and the Old North Church. Next to the latter building there’s also a Historic Printing Office where you can see how the Declaration of Independence was printed; we got a demonstration from a man who seemed to love his job more than anyone I’ve ever met. I know very little about the American Revolution, so found this aspect of Boston fascinating.

The May Queen by Helen Irene Young

Helen Irene Young’s The May Queen is a gently profound novel which explores secrets, love and family ties against the backdrop of a Gloucestershire village and London during the Blitz. It isn’t your typical Second World War romance novel, though; it’s a more literary novel showing the coming-of-age of its narrator, May Thomas. If you’re not expecting the dramatic twists and turns and heightened emotions that often feature in Second World War romances, and prepare yourself for a more gently-paced, reflective novel which ultimately delivers more value, I think you’ll find this one to savour.

Although The May Queen opens immediately to a scene of conflict and tension – May’s sister Sophie has brought shame on the family by getting pregnant out of wedlock – the world Young introduces us to seems idyllic and innocent. May’s life in the country village of Fairford revolves around trips to the Big House to visit her father who’s the gardener, making her costume for the village fair, and cycling around on her bicycle delivering goods from the village shop. As her name suggests, May feels an affinity with nature – she’s awarded the accolade of The May Queen at the fair – and her love of being in the water recurs as a motif throughout the novel.

After Sophie disappears to have her daughter, Honor, May becomes attracted to the son of the occupants of the Big House, Christopher, despite the class difference between them. When May’s parents catch on to her closeness with Christopher, they fear she is going the same way as her sister; this leads May to have suspicions about who Honor’s father might be – but she still can’t quite bring herself to avoid the charming Christopher. The first half of the novel is slow, but there are quiet secrets bubbling under the surface, a sense that something isn’t quite right. Before these secrets can rise to the surface, though, we’re thrown into the midst of another conflict: the Second World War breaks out and May moves to London to become a Wren.

The contrast between the two halves of the novel is effective. While the first half is quiet, gentle and picturesque, the London section is noisy, frantic and dangerous. May trades in her bicycle for a motorcycle, roaring around the streets of London to deliver dispatches with bombs falling around her. I didn’t know much about the Wrens so enjoyed learning more about how women served during the war (which was very inspiring). As the bombs fall May loses people close to her, but Young recreates the Blitz spirit: May picks herself up and gets on with life, revealing a quiet inner strength. She attracts the attention of a sailor, John, but never feels able to fully commit to the relationship – John’s character seems distant, but it feels like an intentional projection of May’s feelings towards him – and the memory of her relationship with Christopher never leaves her. May eventually returns to Fairford and Sophie’s secret resurfaces at the end of the novel, which has an ambiguous ending with a note of hope I appreciated. Real life doesn’t have neat resolutions, after all.

In its exploration of a misunderstanding which disrupts an outwardly idyllic world and reverberates through the years that follow, The May Queen reminded me a little of McEwan’s Atonement, especially with its gently reflective literary tone. I loved Young’s voice, which captures May’s dialect not just in her dialogue but in the way she thinks and observes the world around her. Young also uses some particularly beautiful and unusual turns of phrase which I had to re-read. I enjoyed the fact the novel takes a different approach to the war, using it as a backdrop for May’s emotional journey rather than the focal point. This is an elegant debut and I’m looking forward to seeing more from the author!

The May Queen is published by Crooked Cat Books – support the indies! More information here: http://www.crookedcatbooks.com/product/the-may-queen/ 

Emma’s 2017 adventures, part three: Cyprus

I’m making good progress towards my new year’s resolution to visit four new countries in 2017. I’ve just visited my third: Cyprus. And it’s only April!

I hadn’t planned on going to Cyprus, but the opportunity arose and, unless I’m totally broke, I’ll never say no to visiting a new country. Cyprus hadn’t been on my hit list either, because to be honest I’d always associated it with the kind of beach-and-clubbing holiday I would actually find less enjoyable than being at work. I’m glad I went, though, because Cyprus has so much more to offer than just Ayia Napa.

My friend and I had decided that this was going to be one of those holidays without a packed itinerary; in fact, we had a strong anti-itinerary agenda. We didn’t even want to plan what time we woke up each morning: a day without an alarm set on my phone is the ultimate luxury for me. When the weather wasn’t great on our first day in Cyprus, we didn’t stress out, but took the opportunity to hang out on the balcony of our house with a guitar and write songs about vegetables. Yes, that’s right. I won’t tell you why we did this but needless to say genius happened.

The next day was gloriously sunny, so we headed out to see the sights. We were staying in Limassol, which isn’t one of the beach resort areas, but it’s easy to drive anywhere on the island within a couple of hours. Lovelier than the beaches, in my opinion, are the Troodos mountains in the centre of the island, which we explored on our first ‘proper’ day. We drove up into the mountains – just enjoying cruising past the beautiful, Game-of-Thronesy views as I called them – until we stopped at the start of the Caledonia falls walking trail. Strolling through the dappled light of a forest and clambering over rocks beside tumbling waters was the perfect antidote to the London commuter life I’d been desperate to escape for weeks.

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The Caledonia Falls

There are also dozens of beautiful monasteries nestled in the mountains, though you’re not allowed to go inside many of them; we walked around the grounds of one, until our explorations were cut short by a miniature disaster: a mosquito-bite-gone-wrong, an eyelid so swollen children cowered in the supermarket as we desperately searched for antihistamines, and an impromptu trip to the hospital. I won’t treat you to a picture of that one. It was an adventure, to say the least, though not the kind we were expecting!

We’d had a good dose of nature, so the next day was culture’s turn. A short drive from Limassol is the Kourian archaeological site, well worth the visit if you’re in the area. During the Roman period Kourion was an important coastal city in Cyprus; it was destroyed by several devastating earthquakes, rebuilt in the 5th century, but then raided by Arabs in the 7th century and completely obliterated. It was interesting to see the ruins of a house destroyed by the earthquakes, where the bones of a family plus their horse were found, and where you can still see the horse’s stone trough torn in two by the force of the quake. You can also see the remains of a palace, the Agora, a theatre, the gladiators’ barracks and baths. Once we were ruined out (I’m going to say it: most ruins look the same after a while) we had lunch on the beach nearby: halloumi, iced coffee, views of the Mediterranean and a side helping of smugness.

After lunch we hit the road again and headed somewhere that I hoped would be close to heaven for me: St Nicholas Monastery of the Cats, a monastery surrounded by hundreds of cats, supposedly brought over from Egypt to rid the island of snakes. I’m not sure if my readers know the full extent of my feelings towards cats, but let’s just say I shout ‘cat!’ and point like a five-year-old every time I see one – which in Cyprus was a lot. I only saw about twelve, and they all refused to be fussed over or take selfies with me, which was disappointing. It’s a tranquil monastery, but I’d say that unless you like cats as much as the loser pictured below, you’d probably prefer to spend your time elsewhere.

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CATS CATS CATS

Our final tourist stop that day was Kolossi Castle, a small castle on the outskirts of Limassol containing odd, uncontextualized art installations which blew my mind with their profundity. It has an interesting history – built by the Hospitallers as a Crusader stronghold – and is a pleasant forty-five minute stop. We loved the herb gardens surrounding the castle; rosemary bushes gave the air a sweet fragrance which made just sitting in the sunshine with our eyes closed breathing a deeply therapeutic thing. We finished off the day chilling out on the beach with books and a guitar, though we decided not to blow the minds of the general public with our extreme jealously-invoking talent for composing vegetable-related ditties.

We loved the Troodos mountains so much that we went back the next day for an even longer walk. If you really love nature and inadequate toilet facilities, you could spend several days camping there (can you tell I’m not a camping fan?). This time we tackled the Artemis nature trail, a 2.5 hour circular walk around the top of Mount Olympus, through black pine forests and across rocky precipices that made me feel, just briefly, as if I were on some epic Lord of the Rings-style quest. Who would’ve thought it, there was snow too – you can even go skiing in Cyprus. The walk was breathtakingly beautiful, although our main memory of it is getting terribly lost and me getting heatstroke. It took my friend bursting out of the trees and running into the road, flailing her arms to stop a passing car, for us to discover that we were actually a fifteen-minute walk from where we’d parked our car… nailed it. Definitely do the walk, but definitely don’t get lost.

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The Artemis trail in the Troodos mountains

After our traumatic fight-for-survival in the wilderness we felt we deserved a treat, and so instead of cooking we went for dinner in Limassol Marina that evening. The Marina, with its yachts moored in the glassy water and its luxury flats, bars and restaurants – including a KFC that almost managed to look posh – is a world of its own, and a cool, lively place to spend an evening drinking cocktails and eating fancy seafood. It was the ideal way for us to see off our last full day in Cyprus, and to relax after a holiday that featured several unexpected adventures!

It was a fleeting visit to Cyprus, and I certainly could have stayed longer had I not had a wedding to get back to England for. There was plenty we didn’t get around to doing – more ruins to ramble, more cats to harass, more beaches to lounge on, more mezze to eat – and Troodos alone could have kept me happy for several days. And of course, since I’ll be 30 in the not-too-distant future, I’d better squeeze in that Ayia Napa clubbing package holiday before I’m totally past it.