My Story

Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.


At 6:40am on 10th September 2014, I will be taking a step which will fulfil two life long dreams:

  • To board a plane with nothing but a lot of clothes and a one way ticket
  • To live in Barcelona 

My next adventure begins.

This video, which was used to announce the reuniting of my favourite band Copeland, was released a few days after I returned from travelling. It was the greatest possible news to return home to and something that quelled the inevitable post travelling blues. But as the release of the new album was so far off at that point, the excitement ended up fading away to a point where I pretty much forgot all about it.

A few days ago I stumble upon the video again and the excitement returned. Although the release of Ixora is still weeks aways, the number of times I’ve re-watched this video, and listened to the single on Spotify since, would suggest that over these coming weeks, my excitement of having my favourite band back together will be doing the complete opposite of fading.

Round II

Yesterday we played another round of our infamous garden cricket. Instead of the usual rule of whoever gets dismissed in the fewest balls has to do a shot, we thought this time we’d up the ante.

  • Out first ball = do a shot
  • Play the ball out the garden = do a shot
  • Wide or wild delivery = do a shot
  • Dropped catch = do a shot
  • Clumsy fielding = do a shot
  • Anything that the mob decides warrants a shot = do a shot 

Ability counts for nothing when you’re faced with 6 close fielders on a field no wider than a few metres and a wicket that’s baited with textured paving slabs. Just like in our youth, we played break free right up unto sundown, when the game finally ended as the last ball disappeared far into one of the surrounding gardens. The empty bottles of Limoncello and Cuervo that remained should be inducted into the Cricketing Hall of Fame as a remainder of how much fun this game can produce.


On Friday I went to London for the first time in about two months. After spending most of my post travelling time back in my hometown, I’ve become accustom to serene life that this part of the country offers. As I got off the train at Victoria, I was confronted with throngs of people waiting impatiently to get through the station’s barriers. It then took me twice as long as it should of to walk the relatively short distance out of the station due to me having to deviate my path every other step in order to avoid colliding into the back of someone aimlessly wondering around the station concourse. When I finally did reach the exit, a din made up of congestion, construction and confusion filled the air. Weaving my way through the endless crowds of tourists plaguing the paths towards Buckingham Palace, I exhaled a prolonged sigh. It’s blood good to be back, were the words that followed.

When meeting old workmates for a casual drink turns into attending one of the country’s biggest beer festivals.

When meeting old workmates for a casual drink turns into attending one of the country’s biggest beer festivals.

Post stag

When on a stag weekend, you drink a lot of alcohol. Alcohol is a diuretic which makes you pee more often. The best way to recover from a stag weekend is to rehydrate yourself by consuming large amounts of fluids. Put those two together and you can work out which room of the flat I’ve spent most of my Monday in.

This is why once you’ve traveled for the first time all you want to do is leave again. They call it the travel bug, but really it’s the effort to return to a place where you are surrounded by people who speak the same language as you. Not English or Spanish or Mandarin or Portuguese, but that language where others know what it’s like to leave, change, grow, experience, learn, then go home again and feel more lost in your hometown then you did in the most foreign place you visited.


This weekend I played cricket for the first time in what has to be a good few years. I say cricket, it was more an impromptu game during a BBQ of who can survive the most of balls with the loser having to do a shot of whiskey. A lot of beer, a dozen guys, narrow garden, close field, one bounce - one hand rule, one ex professional and a perpetual onslaught of banter mixed in between a lot of dubious deliveries. There’s no better way to play this great game.