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Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

5 hours ago

There’s a strange moment that happens when you travel alone long enough.

Not long enough to become one of those terrifyingly competent backpackers who own collapsible cutlery and somehow know which bus goes where in six different languages. Nothing that dramatic.

I mean long enough that it stops feeling like an event.

The first few days of solo travel are noisy inside your head. Everything feels heightened. Every decision feels loaded with meaning. You’re aware of yourself constantly. Where you sit. What you order. Whether you look awkward. Whether you should be doing more. Seeing more. Maximising the experience like some deranged middle manager of your own holiday.

And then one morning, usually without warning, it just… stops.

You wake up and there’s no panic. No little spike of adrenaline reminding you that you are Alone In A Foreign Country like it’s the title of a Liam Neeson film.

You’re just somewhere else.

That’s the shift.

I remember the first time it happened properly on the Camino de Santiago. By that point, I’d been walking for days. Proper walking too. Not the pleasant countryside strolls people imagine while wearing clean linen on Instagram. I mean blistered feet, questionable hygiene, and the slow psychological collapse that comes from carrying your entire life on your back while voluntarily climbing hills for reasons that become less clear with every passing kilometre.

The first few days, I was hyper-aware of myself. Every hostel. Every meal. Every awkward interaction with strangers while trying to figure out whether you’re supposed to socialise or just quietly inhale pasta and stare into the middle distance like a traumatised donkey.

And then one morning in northern Spain, something shifted.

I woke up in a tiny albergue after a night that involved forty people snoring in twelve different languages and one man who, I am convinced, was clinically part walrus. Someone’s backpack had exploded in the middle of the room overnight. Socks hung from radiators like surrender flags. The entire place smelled faintly of deep heat, damp towels, and regret.

And yet… I was completely fine.

Not “coping.” Not “being brave.” Fine.

I got up, stepped over a sleeping German man stretched starfished across the floor for reasons no one fully understood, pulled on yesterday’s clothes, and wandered outside looking for coffee.

That was it.

No internal monologue. No dramatic assessment of my emotional wellbeing. No “look at me courageously travelling alone.” I just wanted caffeine and something containing enough carbohydrates to keep my legs functioning for another twenty kilometres.

I found a tiny café just opening up. One old woman behind the counter. No music. No polished aesthetic. No chalkboard explaining the origin story of the beans.

Just coffee.

I sat there in complete silence with this absurdly strong little cup in front of me while pilgrims drifted past outside like exhausted medieval ghosts. And for the first time in days, I realised I wasn’t thinking about myself anymore.

I wasn’t wondering if I looked awkward. I wasn’t analysing whether I was “good” at solo travel. I wasn’t trying to turn the experience into some meaningful personal growth exercise.

I was just sitting in Spain, drinking coffee.

That sounds stupidly simple, but it’s enormous.

Because somewhere along the line, the whole thing stops becoming your identity. You’re no longer “the woman travelling alone.” You’re just a person existing somewhere else.

That’s when the freedom properly kicks in.

You wake up when you wake up. You walk when you feel like walking. You stop when your body tells you to stop, not because someone else wants a break or insists they’re “absolutely fine” while visibly dying on a hillside.

You stop negotiating every part of the day.

And dear God, people are exhausting when you realise how much negotiating normal travel involves.

Where should we eat. What should we do next. Is everyone happy. Does anyone need the toilet. Are we wasting time. Should we maybe check out that church everyone online said we absolutely must see even though we’ve already looked at seventeen churches and at this point they’re all starting to blur into one giant stone gift shop with candles.

On the Camino, none of that existed.

Some days I walked with people for hours. Some days I barely spoke. Some days I took a wrong turn entirely because something looked interesting or because I was distracted by the possibility of tortilla and wine somewhere nearby.

And those accidental moments were always the best ones.

One afternoon, I ended up sitting outside a tiny roadside place with a group of pilgrims I never would have spoken to at home. A retired Dutch engineer, a woman from Korea who could outwalk everyone despite weighing approximately the same as a garden rake, and a deeply spiritual German man called Jurgen who looked like he could split logs with his bare hands but cried openly while talking about lentils.

We sat there for hours drinking cheap wine in the middle of nowhere while someone’s socks dried on a backpack beside us in the sun.

No one was rushing anywhere. No one was trying to optimise the experience. There was no “next thing.”

And that’s when it hits you.

The best parts of travel are almost never the things you planned.

They’re the strange little in-between moments. The roadside wine. The wrong turn. The café you only found because your feet hurt. The conversation with someone you would never normally meet but somehow end up laughing with like old friends.

You can’t schedule that stuff.

It only happens when you leave space for it.

And eventually, after enough mornings, enough wandering, enough quiet coffees in places you never expected to be, you stop thinking of yourself as someone “doing solo travel.”

You’re just living differently for a while.

That’s the real shift.

Not confidence. Not bravery. Just the quiet realisation that your own company is actually enough.

More than enough, sometimes.

Because once the noise dies down, once you stop performing the experience for yourself, you realise something slightly unsettling.

You were never scared of being alone.

You were scared of slowing down long enough to meet yourself properly.

Turns out, you’re actually pretty decent company. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

1 week ago

Getting lost is the whole point

There’s a certain kind of person who travels with a plan.

Not a loose idea. Not a “we’ll see how we feel.” A plan. Timed. Mapped. Optimised. The sort of itinerary that would make a military operation look relaxed. Breakfast here at 08:30, museum at 10:00, lunch at 12:15 because that’s when the reviews say it’s quiet, followed by a brisk but meaningful wander through something described as “historic.”

You know the type. You may have been the type.

Every corner turned with purpose. Every decision pre-approved by Google, TripAdvisor, and some bloke called Dave who left a 400-word review about the lighting.

And then there’s the other way.

The way where you leave your hotel with no plan whatsoever, take a left instead of a right for no reason other than it felt right at the time, and just… see what happens.

This is, according to the planners, a terrible idea.

You might get lost. You might miss something important. You might not “make the most” of your day.

Fuck that.

What they don’t tell you is that getting lost is the whole point.

Because when you’re not trying to get somewhere, you start noticing where you are.

You drift. Properly drift. Not the curated, socially acceptable version of wandering where you’re still vaguely following a route. I mean full, unapologetic aimlessness. You follow smells. Sounds. The vague suggestion that something interesting might be happening just around the corner.

Sometimes there isn’t.

Sometimes you end up on a street so aggressively normal it could be anywhere. A row of identical buildings. A cat that looks at you like you’ve made a poor life choice. A man doing something deeply unremarkable with a hose.

And that’s fine.

Because every now and then, you turn down the wrong street and end up somewhere you absolutely would not have found if you’d been trying.

I remember one afternoon, somewhere in southern Spain, where I had absolutely no business being. I’d set out with the vague intention of finding lunch, which quickly turned into walking, which turned into “I’ll just see where this goes,” which turned into me standing in what can only be described as a residential neighbourhood that had nothing to do with anything.

No signs. No menus. No English. Just a handful of old men sitting outside a place that looked like it might serve food or might just be someone’s living room with better lighting.

I stood there for a moment, doing that internal calculation. The one where you decide whether this is a brilliant idea or the beginning of a story that ends with you eating crisps from a vending machine back at the hotel.

One of the men looked up, clocked me immediately as someone who had taken a wrong turn somewhere around fifteen minutes ago, and waved me in.

No discussion. No explanation. Just a wave.

So I went.

Inside was chaos. The good kind. Loud. Warm. Completely uninterested in catering to anyone who wasn’t already part of it. I sat down, because that seemed to be the instruction, and something appeared in front of me. Then something else. Then wine.

I have no idea what I ate. I’m fairly certain I pointed at something at one stage and nodded like I knew what I was doing. It didn’t matter.

It was, without question, one of the best meals of that entire trip.

No reviews. No hype. No carefully staged photos. Just a place that existed entirely on its own terms, found purely by accident.

That doesn’t happen when you’re following a map.

Or take Budapest.

I had absolutely no plan. None. Which, depending on who you ask, is either liberating or deeply irresponsible. I’d set out with the vague intention of “seeing what happens,” which is code for wandering aimlessly until something interesting presents itself or you get hungry enough to lower your standards.

It was one of those evenings where the light hangs around just long enough to make everything feel slightly cinematic. I’d been walking for hours. No map. No destination. Just drifting through streets that all looked like they had a story but weren’t particularly interested in telling it to me.

That’s when I saw them.

Two blokes. Slightly dodgy. Not dangerous, just… the kind of energy that suggests they know things you don’t. They clocked me immediately, in that way locals do when you’re very clearly not from there but also not trying too hard to look like a tourist.

One of them gave me a look. Not a smile. Not a welcome. Just a look that said, “You coming or not?”

And like a sensible adult with excellent decision-making skills, I went.

They led me down a side street I absolutely would not have chosen on my own. Then another. Then through what can only be described as the sort of doorway you see in horror films, the kind where you sit there shouting, don’t go in there, for the love of God turn around.

You know the ones. Those thick plastic butcher-style flaps, slightly grimy, slightly ominous, concealing something you’re not entirely sure you want to discover.

I went through them.

Of course I did.

And on the other side was chaos. Glorious, unhinged, slightly deranged chaos.

A ruin bar.

Not the polished, curated version you see in travel guides. This was the real thing. Layers of graffiti, furniture that looked like it had been rescued from three different decades and none of them successfully, lights hanging at odd angles, music that didn’t quite match anything but somehow worked anyway.

It was packed. Loud. Alive.

Someone handed me a drink before I’d even fully processed where I was. Absinthe. Because apparently that was the kind of night this was going to be.

And then you’re in it.

You’re talking to people you would never normally meet. A Hungarian guy explaining something passionately that you understand about thirty percent of but agree with completely. Someone else insisting you try something else, then something else again, because why not.

Time does that strange thing where it stops behaving properly.

At some point, reality intervenes in the form of needing the toilet.

Now, this is where things take a turn.

Because the facilities, if we’re being generous, were more of a concept than a fully realised idea. What you’re presented with is essentially a hole. A commitment. A test of balance, coordination, and self-respect.

There is a moment, standing there, where you question every decision that has led you to this point.

And then you get on with it.

Trying to maintain dignity while not actively ruining your own shoes is an experience that builds character very quickly.

You come out of it slightly shaken, slightly impressed with yourself, and ready for another drink.

And the thing is, none of this would have happened if you’d been following a plan.

No one, at any point in a group setting, would have agreed to follow two vaguely suspicious men down a dark street and through what looked like the entrance to a low-budget horror film.

There would have been questions. Sensible ones.

“Where are we going?”
“Is this safe?”
“Should we maybe just go somewhere we can find on TripAdvisor?”

And just like that, the moment would have died.

Because the best parts of travel don’t survive committee decisions.

They require a certain level of poor judgement. A willingness to be slightly uncomfortable. A readiness to walk through the metaphorical plastic flaps and see what’s on the other side.

Sometimes it’s nothing.

Sometimes it’s the best night of your trip.

And the only way you find out which one it is… is by getting it wrong first. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

2 weeks ago

You don’t realise how much you compromise until you don’t have to…

There’s a very specific kind of exhaustion that comes from travelling with other people. It’s not the good kind, the “we walked twenty thousand steps and earned this drink” kind. It’s the slow, steady drain of having to negotiate your own life like it’s a group project no one really wanted to be part of in the first place.

It starts the moment you wake up.

Not with coffee. Not with excitement. With a fucking meeting. An unspoken, poorly chaired meeting about the day ahead.

“What do we feel like doing today?”

Which is code for: we are about to spend the next forty-five minutes politely disagreeing until we land on something no one is particularly excited about but everyone can tolerate. 🤮

Someone wants a museum. Someone else hates museums but is willing to “pop in quickly.” Someone wants to walk. Someone’s tired. Someone saw a place on Instagram that ‘we can’t miss!’ and is, without question, on the other side of the city and absolutely not “just around the corner” no matter how confidently they say it.

You stand there, nodding, contributing just enough to seem engaged, quietly editing your own preferences down to something manageable.

Because you’re easy, right?

You are not easy. No one is easy. You are just good at pretending.

And this is how your day unfolds. Not disastrously. Not dramatically. Just slightly off. You end up doing things you don’t really care about, at a pace that suits no one, with a constant low-level awareness that this isn’t quite what you would have chosen.

No one is to blame. This is just what happens when more than one person is involved.

Then you travel alone, and all of that disappears overnight.

The first morning is almost suspiciously simple. You wake up and there is no one to consult. No one to ask what the plan is. No one hovering outside the bathroom door wondering how long you’re going to take.

You lie there for a minute, slightly disoriented, waiting for the usual conversation to start.

It doesn’t.

So you get up.

You leave the room when you feel like it. Not when it’s socially acceptable or strategically optimal. You step outside and realise there is no itinerary, no compromise, no one gently steering the day towards something “everyone will enjoy.”

You pick a direction.

Or you don’t. You stand there for a moment, take a breath, and then start walking without explaining yourself to anyone.

Walking alone is where it really starts to feel different.

When you’re with other people, walking is a coordinated event. There’s a pace to maintain, a destination to agree on, a constant awareness of whether you’re moving too fast, too slow, too aimlessly.

Alone, you walk like a person who has just been released from some kind of low-security behavioural facility.

You speed up for no reason. You slow down because something smells good or looks interesting. You stop dead in the middle of the pavement because a doorway caught your eye or a dog did something mildly entertaining.

You turn down streets based entirely on instinct. No discussion. No map consultation. No one behind you asking where this is going.

It might go nowhere.

You might end up on a quiet residential street with nothing going on except a man watering plants and wondering why you’re there.

And that’s fine.

You turn around and try somewhere else. No one sighs. No one points out that this wasn’t the plan. No one reminds you that you have limited time and should probably be using it more efficiently.

Because, for once, efficiency is not the point.

Museums, which are usually a polite endurance exercise, become something entirely different.

With other people, a museum is a test of patience. Someone wants to read everything. Someone else wants to skim. Someone is already bored before you’ve made it past the first room. There’s a constant, low-grade tension between staying long enough to feel cultured and leaving before someone openly rebels.

Alone, you can behave like a slightly unhinged art critic with no accountability.

You stand in front of something because you just bloody well like it. Not because you’re supposed to. You ignore entire sections without guilt. You sit down in the middle of it all because your feet hurt and no one is going to ask if you’re done yet or suggest that there’s more to see.

You move through it at your own pace, which is to say, not at a pace that would make sense to anyone else.

Shopping becomes almost suspiciously enjoyable.

Normally, it’s a shared activity filled with subtle pressure. You’re aware of how long you’ve been in a place, whether someone else is bored, whether you should wrap it up and move on.

Alone, you walk into a shop because it looks interesting and that’s the only qualification required.

You pick things up. You inspect them. You put them down. You spend an unreasonable amount of time looking at something you have absolutely no intention of buying.

No one is waiting outside. No one is checking their watch. No one is asking if you’re nearly done.

You leave when you feel like it. Or you don’t. It doesn’t really matter.

Even something as basic as getting a drink becomes refreshingly uncomplicated.

When you’re with other people, there’s always a discussion. Who wants one. Who doesn’t. Should we sit in or sit outside. Proper drink or grab a coffee. Is this the right place or should we find somewhere better.

Alone, you see a place. You go in. You order. You sit down.

No debate. No optimisation. No one gently suggesting that there might be a better option two streets over.

You just have the fucking drink.

And it’s good. Not because it’s objectively the best cocktail in the city, but because it’s yours. Entirely unfiltered by anyone else’s preferences or opinions.

Time, which is usually managed like a shared spreadsheet, starts to behave differently.

With other people, there’s always an awareness of how long you’ve been somewhere, whether you’re making the most of the day, whether there’s something else you should be doing.

Alone, time stretches out in a way that feels almost suspicious.

You can spend an entire afternoon doing what would normally be considered absolutely nothing. Walking, sitting, wandering, watching. It doesn’t feel like a waste because there’s no one there to measure it against.

You’re not trying to optimise the experience. You’re just in it.

And then there’s the leaving.

With other people, leaving is an event. One person is ready. Another isn’t. Someone wants one more look. Someone else has already mentally checked out.

Alone, you just stand up and go.

You feel done, so you leave. No discussion. No negotiation. No lingering debate about whether it’s time.

You just go.

All of this sounds small. And it is. But it adds up to something bigger than you expect.

Because what you start to realise, slowly and then all at once, is how much of your life is shaped by these constant, quiet compromises. The tiny adjustments you make to keep everything running smoothly. The things you don’t choose because it’s easier not to.

Travelling alone strips all of that away.

What’s left is not some dramatically different version of you. It’s just you, without the committee. No input. No feedback. No need to justify your decisions to anyone.

Just you, doing what you actually feel like doing.

And it turns out, that person is a lot more decisive, a lot less patient, and a hell of a lot more interesting than the version that’s been quietly negotiating their way through everything. … See MoreSee Less

Gravy stains and tall tales: A real foodie journey

3 weeks ago

Alone, overdressed, and mildly unhinged… my first attempt at dining alone.

It starts hours before the actual event.

Not the dinner. The idea of the dinner.

You’re in your hotel room, standing in front of a mirror, trying on versions of yourself like outfits. This one looks too try-hard. That one looks like you’ve given up entirely. Somewhere in the middle is a woman who appears relaxed, confident, and completely at ease with the fact she is about to walk into a restaurant alone and announce it to the world.

You settle on something. Not because it’s perfect, but because you’ve run out of time to overthink it.

Hair. Makeup. A bit more effort than usual, because somehow this feels like a performance. You are not just going to dinner. You are staging a one-woman show called “Look at Me, I Absolutely Do This All the Time.”

You leave the room.

The corridor feels longer than it did five minutes ago. The lift takes forever. You check your reflection in the mirrored doors like you’re about to go on stage. The lobby is full of people who seem to belong somewhere. Couples. Groups. People who look like they have plans.

Out onto the street.

The walk to the restaurant is a strange kind of theatre. You are hyper-aware of everything. Your shoes. Your pace. Your face. You try to arrange yourself into someone who definitely does this regularly. Someone who breezes into places alone, orders confidently, leaves with stories.

Instead, you’re thinking about turning around.

You don’t.

You arrive.

The door is open. Warm light spills out. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The low hum of people who are very clearly not thinking about you at all.

You step inside anyway.

There she is. The hostess. Impossibly thin. Impossibly composed. The kind of person who looks like she’s never once questioned a life decision.

“Table for one, please.”

You hear it come out of your mouth and immediately want to grab it back.

For a split second, you are convinced she’s judging you. That she’s clocked everything. The hesitation. The fact you hovered outside for a full thirty seconds before coming in. The internal monologue screaming, abort mission, abort, ABORT!

In reality, she couldn’t care less. But in your head, she gives the smallest nod, possibly an eye roll, definitely a silent acknowledgment that you are alone and have dared to say it out loud.

She picks up a menu.

“Right this way.”

And now it begins.

The walk.

This is the worst part.

You follow her through the restaurant, acutely aware of your own existence. Every step feels louder than it should be. You are convinced every single person in that room has turned to look at you.

They haven’t.

But in your mind, they absolutely have.

There you are, walking behind this elegant creature, like a slightly overdressed extra in a film about people who have their lives together. You imagine the conversations.

“Is she alone?”
“Why is she alone?”
“Should someone check on her?”

No one is saying any of this. One man briefly looks up from his steak. A couple continues arguing quietly over the wine. A group laughs at something that has nothing to do with you.

Still, it feels like a spotlight.

You reach the table.

“Here you are.”

She places the menu down. You thank her with the slightly over-bright enthusiasm of someone who has just survived a minor ordeal.

You sit.

Now what.

You reach for your phone immediately, like it’s a flotation device. You scroll. You tap. You pretend you are answering urgent messages, possibly negotiating something important, definitely not hiding behind a glowing screen to avoid eye contact with the world.

You hold the glass of water like it’s part of the act. Casual. Relaxed. This is normal. You are normal.

Inside, you are counting down the seconds until you can leave without looking like a complete lunatic.

And then someone appears.

A waiter. A menu is placed in front of you.

“Can I get you a drink?”

And this is where something shifts.

Because up until now, this has all been about survival. Getting through the door. Surviving the walk. Managing the seven minutes of pure, concentrated awkwardness that feels like it might kill you.

Seven minutes. That’s all it is. The grand, terrifying barrier between you and the rest of the evening.

Seven slightly excruciating minutes of not knowing where to put your hands, your eyes, your entire existence.

And then…

You open the menu.

And suddenly, it hits you.

You can order whatever the fuck you want.

Not what someone else feels like. Not something you have to compromise on. Not the safe option because someone at the table “doesn’t like garlic” or “isn’t really into seafood” or has recently decided they’re a vegetarian for reasons no one fully understands.

No.

This is yours.

The ridiculous cocktail with the smoke and the theatre. The one you’d normally be too embarrassed to suggest. You want it? Done.

That starter dripping in garlic butter that would normally start a small diplomatic incident across the table. Order it. No one is leaning away from you in horror. No one is commenting on your choices.

The main. Go wild. The thing you always look at and think, that sounds incredible but I won’t get it because no one else will want it. Get it.

Have the steak. Have the fish. Have something you can’t pronounce that arrives looking like a work of art or a complete accident. Better yet, have that thing you don’t know how to eat! Get the Dungeness crab. The full version. Crack it, tear into it, dig through every hidden pocket until there’s nothing left. Butter, salt, fingers wrecked. No one across the table pulling faces. Just you and the thing you actually wanted.

No one is stopping you.

You sit back, slightly stunned.

Because just like that, the fear is gone.

Not in some dramatic, life-changing way. It just… evaporates. Replaced by something far more interesting.

Freedom.

You take a sip of your drink. You look around. The room hasn’t changed. The people are still doing whatever they were doing before you arrived.

The only thing that’s changed is you.

Seven minutes ago, you were convinced you didn’t belong here.

Now you’re wondering why the hell you ever thought that.

The food arrives. You eat it. Properly. Or not. Not distracted. Not negotiating. Not sharing. Just eating something good, exactly how you want it.

And somewhere between the first bite and the second sip, you realise something slightly ridiculous.

You’re not surviving this.

You’re enjoying it.

And that thing you were so worried about?

It was never the restaurant.
It was never the table.
It was never being alone.

It was just those seven minutes.

Seven minutes that tried to convince you not to come.

Seven minutes that nearly won.

Nearly. … See MoreSee Less