In which we acclimatise nicely to villa life.
Apart from that, we shall eat and drink and shop. What’s French for ‘like, obviously’?
A train to Tuscany, Neapolitan mermaid donuts, some mild self reflection.
In which I crush on rainy Italy.
What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
400m, 200m, 100m…. And I’m still in predator alley.
You know you’ve done it right when the waitress eyes off the table speculatively and then has to strategically remove the sugar bowl to accomodate all of your food.
I turned 30 last month. I finally admitted, under duress and in the face of unyeilding mathematics and biology, that I’m not a kid anymore.
The seatback ads on the Icelandair air flight from London Heathrow to Keflavik, Reykjavik set the mood for the country you’re about to visit.
It’s the last day of my 20s. The title of this blog has been unashamedly borrowed from Douglas Adams and here I’m going to borrow another of his deliciously pithy phrases: Don’t Panic.