For Theresa

The smell is so familiar, so comfortable. It is like a warm hug from your mother, like putting on an old pair of jeans. It is a distinctive smell only found in places like this, of pages steadily collecting dust and ink beginning to delete passages enclosed line by line. 

This is my favourite place to be. A place where the walls are barely visible, but that you know will be the darkest shade of wood, echoing the creaking floorboards that nestle underfoot. A bell tolls somewhere in the distance as the door stammers it's way open declaring the arrival of another kindred spirit. 

In a far off corner looms a proud, battered armchair, holes have formed in the arms where the material has grown weary with age and over use. The ornately carved wooden feet are slightly scuffed and sit upon a vast, faded threadbare rug. Waist high pillars of books teeter precariously either side of the regal throne, making it the centre of an already decaying empire. The entire corner of this room feels so homely it makes my heart throb and ache with a deep longing. 

The air is thick and heavy with age old volumes of preloved history, slicing through this is the soft smell of burning wood pumping out of the cast iron wood burner that's tucked away beyond the counter. 

From floor to ceiling the walls are lined with novels from every corner of the globe, every time period you could imagine. My hand idly finds a well thumbed copy of "The Grapes Of Wrath", it's front cover stripped from the main body. Below the greying title reads the delicately carved inscription, "May you find what you're looking for. H." I hold the bound, yellowing pages in my palms and try to imagine the life this book has lead. It's years in existence exceed mine by over a decade, it will have been loved by so many and travelled well, better than most people. There must be thousands of books here with hundreds more heartfelt messages adorning the pages. 

This is what I love. The feeling that I'm surrounding by a lifetime of old souls, a lifetime of work poured into every sentence and a lifetime of love as each sentence is read and analysed time and again. 

Time has frozen. The room has looked this way for decades and for all I know I have been standing here for as long. I know before I have picked it up which delicacy I shall call my own. The cover is a striking yellow, as glorious as the sun and filled with just as much happiness and promise as a summers day. I pluck the text from the top shelf and fan the pages in front of my nose. 

The smell is so familiar, so comfortable. Like a warm hug from my mother. 

For my Mum who made me love reading and appreciate every written word and who I can't wait to see again. Thank you. 

A Sibling, A Roadtrip and A Suzuki Alto

When I was in Europe family visits came almost monthly for me, the 4 hour journey was a pretty efficient way for them to get a nice little holiday under the clever guise of visiting their beloved child or sister. However the disgustingly long trip to Aus and the $$$ that it takes was apparently enough to dissuade any promised pilgrimages this time, so when my middle brother, Jake, told me that other plans had fallen through and he could probably consider visiting I took this as a definite.  

We had two weeks for Jake to see a reasonable portion of Australia, with the relatively small time frame we decided that renting a camper van and driving a chunk of it would make the most sense. Picking our home/transport was pretty easy, Jake had managed to find a decent sized hatchback that converts into a bed for cheap. We planned a route that would take us from Melbourne to Sydney via Canberra and as much coast as we could, all that was left was for him to fly for a day and meet me. 

True to form, I was of course late to collect Jake from Southern Cross Station but that's besides the point, with a couple of days to kill in Melbourne I figured this was as good a time as any to learn what the hell is going on in AFL. Along with my cousin and her very helpful Aussie mates we had the rules explained and reexplained over the course of a game, and I don't mean to brag, but I'd say I understand around 80% of what's happening. Having never been particularly into sports, I was delighted to find that I actually enjoyed watching this, there's tons of points, loads of players and an almost continuous string of pointless fights. Much more exciting than football I have to say.

Day 1
With Melbourne’s highlights ticked off we collected our chariot and begin the monster of a drive we'd planned. Our “decent sized hatchback” that we had picked must have gotten lost in translation somewhere along the way as what we came face to face with a Suzuki Alto the size of one of Jake’s shoes. Excellent. Yet on we soldiered, the first day's drive was planned to be the shortest of the trip to ease Jake into driving and also because we were dying to see the penguins on Phillip Island. The idea of penguins in Australia is still bizarre to me, but they're here, and in abundance. We watched with childlike enthusiasm as they poured in from the ocean and scuttled their way across the beach to their respective homes. Quality entertainment right there.
As it happens, we are definitely the two less practical of siblings, if our older brother had been present he would have suggested that the first time we assemble the car/bed it should probably be daylight, and he would definitely realise that we had no pillows or blankets… But we're not Nik, so it was by phone light that we attempted to construct our home and it was towels that constituted as bedding. 

Jake with 'Big Mikey'

Day 2
After a very restless night (every time I moved I hit the horn) we began our second leg to Lakes Entrance. With the mix-tapes in full flow the journey flew by, having only really travelled large distances via bus here you actually miss a lot. There's something truly fantastic about driving on a road for 3 hours and not seeing another soul that puts the whole mass of Australia into perspective a little bit.
Prior to Jake’s arrival I had spent multiple dollars on an app that I'd been told would make paying for a campsite a thing of the past. The first night we had weaned ourselves into camping by paying and having a surprisingly lovely shower and power sockets, however tonight we would go full Bear Grylls. If you've ever seen the film Wolf Creek you will understand why when we arrived at our “campsite” we were aptly terrified. A clearing in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere would be our home for the night, which would have possibly been alright if mine and Jake’s phones hadn't died and my iPad and only source of maps wasn't on 10% (Nik would have also brought a map). The night was spent with zero forms of entertainment and the constant fear of abduction. 

Day 3
Another broken/terrified sleep later we began the longest leg of our journey, a trip inland to the nation's capital, Canberra. I had been told/warned several hundred times to steer clear of Canberra, but I liked the idea of visiting the capital and I reasoned that they surely must have invested some time and money into this place. I was wrong. But we'll get into that later, the drive itself was by far the best of the trip, miles and miles of dead straight roads, beautiful weather and we even crossed three state lines that day. After treating ourselves to a night out in the capital (most places were shut and you could walk across the centre in around 20 minutes) we decided to hit up parliament the following day. When you think of the places in the world where all the major decisions are made, The Houses of Parliament, The White House, The Reichstag, you cannot imagine them not being coated in a dense layer of human pollution. This is not the case in Canberra. Including Jake and myself there was no more than 11 people clustered around the façade of the underwhelming structure, after nosing around inside for a little bit we concluded that every person who had warned me off Canberra was in fact correct and went on our way. 

Day 4
With the debacle that was Canberra behind us we headed back to the coast in search of Wollongong, this I'll be honest was a pretty uneventful leg of the journey and a pretty uneventful place. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the place, but in this case it is quite literally nothing to write home to my mother about. 

Day 5

Hiking around the Blue Mountains

Until now the car had done a reasonably sufficient job, speed was not its strong suit, but we weren't in a rush, the bed was cramped and a bit of a pain to assemble, but it's part of the adventure but hills were another matter entirely. Before heading into Sydney centre and whilst we still had the car we ventured from Wollongong to the Blue Mountains, a stunning and enormously vast mountain range tucked away just a few hours out of Sydney. The Alto was best suited to downhill slopes, we had even been to known to overtake people on these slopes, but this was a predominantly uphill journey, and by uphill I mean upmountain. I swear at some points we were going in reverse. Having been to the Blue Mountains previously I was pretty excited to show it off, it's difficult to explain just how enormous this place is and how tiny it can make you feel. Much to my pleasure Jake was as impressed as I'd have hoped. With great excitement we left the mountains, the hills now on our side, and made our way to a hostel with an actual bed and shower and plug sockets.

And that's where our journey in the Alto over, we spent four more days in Sydney doing all the things you're supposed to do in Sydney, returned the Alto, which we had actually grew quite attached to and flew back to Melbourne. Jake went back to England with a suitcase full of Tim Tams and Pizza Shapes and I've since returned to finish off my 88 days of farming. 

The Down Under of Down Under

After finishing cutting all the grapes that there apparently is, I found myself a little jobless and a little lost and following standard procedure for myself when I'm lost, I booked a flight to somewhere I know nothing about. Tasmania. With no knowledge of this odd, somewhat isolated, Australian state and a backpack full of unnecessarily summery clothes I headed to Hobart.
My first impression of Hobart was one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever witnessed. Stepping off the plane and onto the Tarmac it struck me that I have never found a runway beautiful before, the oppressive buildings and masses of concrete usually stand in the way of any perceived beauty yet somehow Hobart defied this. Overhead a smattering of feather light clouds dusted the sky, acting as a filter for the astoundingly pink setting sun and projecting the phenomenal colours across the entire horizon before dropping behind the surrounding mountains. As the rose tinted sky faded to black I was crossing the Tasman bridge, a structure spanning the river Derwent and one that allowed views to the fantastically illuminated city that lay before me in waiting. Butterfly's filled my stomach at the prospect of this new adventure.
Before I get properly started, here's a couple of facts about me, Grace Malbasa.
i. If someone tells me that I must/mustn't do something or need something I go especially out of my way to make them wrong (hence making me right).
ii. I don't have a drivers licence. I know. Shock horror. How have I survived as a human person for 22 years I hear you cry? Two ways, my legs and my father, but credit where it's due it's mainly been the latter.
When I announced my intentions of exploring Tassie the first reaction of all people, friends and strangers alike, was that I simply must have a car. “Hah” I would cry in response, “Do you not know who I am? I am the great explorer Miss G Malbasa who has successfully and single handedly traversed 10 countries by the age of 22 without your precious drivers licence!”
Turns out you do actually need a car here. Damn it.
Hobart itself is really very lovely, being surrounded by water and mountains makes the whole place feel very quaint and somewhat undiscovered despite the numerous Cotton On stores and enormous Discount Chemist Warehouse outlets that line the streets. These generally quite ugly features are successfully overshadowed by the picturesque harbour and tiny beaches dotted along the coast line. They also have a relatively broad public transport system, but most places are walkable regardless. On my first full day I decided to catch the first bus that came along with a destination that sounded appealing -‘Sandy Bay’- how adorable. Along with the car advise, people had bombarded me with information about hiking and how it's a must do in Tasmania and it is here that I found myself accidentally scaling a small mountain and completing my first of several Tassie hikes.
 Hiking is a reasonably new concept to me, born around the time I entered this country. Back in England I would take the dog for a walk, and a country jaunt in general is a common enough past time, but turning walking into some sort of sport is beyond me. Transforming a relaxing stroll into a competitive, blood pumping, heart pounding exercise seems absurd. However I have now done my fair share of hiking and I can say with some confidence “Meh”. You wake up feeling sore but without quite managing to have burned off that muffin you ate for lunch, either go for a run or have a little sleepy, not this weird hybrid.
But I digress. Hobart, it's delightful and beautiful and I really couldn't recommend it enough, Launceston however is another matter entirely. Prior to getting on the bus from Hobart to Launceston the bus driver enquirer as to why I was making this journey.
 “To see Tasmania of course!”
“Well if you wanna see Tassie don't bother going there, it's a hole in the ground in an island where a bunch of odd bods live.”
Excellent. On we go though, I'm sure it's delightful and this is just some age old town rivalry. In the cold and drizzle we pulled into Launceston and I could feel my excitement beginning to dissolve into the puddles that now surrounded me like some pathetically sad Berocca. The days that followed my arrival in Launceston reminded me of the one thing I really don't miss about Britain, the rain. The kind that freezes you to the bone, that makes your clothes heavy and misshapen and that makes you want to do nothing but stay indoors and eat litres of soup. Thankfully after two days of driving rain and copious amounts of Netflix I woke up on Monday to glorious sunshine and so I headed off to Cataract Gorge to of course hike. I can't deny it was beautiful, crystal clear waters, fantastic views and not an overly taxing walk, however this doesn't make up for the fact that Launceston is in fact a hole in the ground. Shame.
Very happily I headed back to Hobart for one last day with the mild intention of climbing Mount Wellington, I say mild as a google search had informed me that it would in fact require some effort of which I wasn't sure I was overly keen for. Wednesday morning came and I had resigned myself to the idea of catching the shuttle bus to the summit of said mountain, however much to my annoyance the bus was full which meant I would in fact be climbing.
 The hike itself is supposed to be mildly difficult, however I immediately took a wrong turn and little did I know began the “expert” level trail. Brilliant. It is honestly a miracle that I didn't die on that mountain, when I discovered I was on the far more difficult path I wasn't past the point of no return, but as I mentioned before, if the elders of hiking want to tell me I won't be able to do this then they can do one. They probably had a point though, although I finished the hike I managed to cross several different trails in the process and ended up doubling the time it should have taken. But that's besides the point, I finished it and the feeling of looking out over all of Hobart knowing that I had achieved this was really phenomenal.
During my nine days in Tasmania I have successfully climbed two mountains and hiked what feels like the length of Finland and I'm certain that it won't be long before I return, next time either with a drivers license or my father.

Those Times I Tired to Farm...

I once cried for at least 40 minutes because I thought a fly had gotten trapped in my ear and I would die whilst it laid eggs in my brain and I became nothing more than a husk of my former self. Turns out it was just the wind and there was in fact nothing in my ear. I have been known, on occasion, to wash my hair as frequently as three times a day and as a child my brothers would mock my, often hysterical, reactions to moths getting too close to my face. Even as recently as living in Byron I left the cockroach maintenance solely in the hands of my housemate.
What I'm getting at, is that “outdoorsy” is not a word that I have ever been described as. I am not a wimp however, if a job needs doing, I'll do it. And it is with this mentality that I left Byron to start my farming adventure. For those of you who don't know, in order to secure a second year visa in Australia you must complete 88 days of “regional work”, which is more often than not on a farm. It's a very clever way to get the masses of agricultural land that Australia hosts farmed, without having to make residents complete the hours of essentially slave labour. Good move Straya.
After a brief stop in Sydney (Opera house. Bridge. Blue mountains. Done.) I headed to Adelaide with the prospect of work. After having spoken to the farmer on several occasions, it was agreed he would collect me from Adelaide airport where I would travel south to the wine regions and start harvesting grapes the following day. As my plane landed into South Australia I was informed by the captain that they were currently experiencing a heat wave and it was 45 degrees at present. I knew that this was hot, I understood that, but hearing the large number and actually being immersed in it are two very different things. I had until then assumed that everything past 37 degrees was the same, that your body reaches a point where it just says “bloody hell it’s hot” and you can't comprehend anything higher. I was wrong. It's hard to describe heat, but the most notable thing for me was breathing, as soon as I disembarked the plane my nostrils began to burn with every breath and my mouth was immediately dry. The lack of wind meant that you just inhale, stale hot air that heats your insides as well as burning your skin and sucks your body clean of any moisture. But I was still positive. I had a job and I would get my farm sorted and I could just chill out in Australia for a whole extra year if I wanted. I reclaimed my trusty backpack from the luggage carousel and phoned my farmer, no answer. Several unanswered phone calls, text messages, emails and hours later I began to realise that Derek wasn't going to appear and booked myself into the first hostel I could find. Bollocks. All together I ended up spending a week in Adelaide, which was actually quite delightful in a strange small town sort of way.
The good thing about the masses of land in Australia means that it's reasonably easy to find alternative farms to work on, and with gumtree posting new listings every ten minutes, I found myself heading across state lines once again, this time to Victoria. Putting my Adelaide experience down as a “learning curve” I was full of hope for my new job harvesting tomatoes in a small town called Rochester. A quick google revealed it to be a picturesque village from a time forgotten, where all the houses were ordained with porches and sprawling front lawns and you almost expected everyone speak with a southern drawl and wear bonnets. This time I was in fact collected from the train station by my new host as promised, so I got further than Adelaide at least, and this was a win for me. However it would be here that the winning would dwindle to an untimely halt once again. Now I'm not going to go into too much detail because I like to think of myself of having a reasonably sunny disposition and this just makes me sad and I don't want to be sad. If I could give only one piece of advise to anyone thinking of doing their farm work it would be to make sure you are paid per hour, rather than per bucket/bin/bag. To surmise my week of tomato farming into a couple of lines, I kneeled in the dirt for 9 hours a day filling a bottomless pit of a bucket with cherry tomatoes for $1.50 per bucket. For my week of back snapping physical labour under the harsh sun, I made a grand total of $95. That's about £50 for anyone back home, it's also so crappy that I quit immediately. Two farms down and a total of 5 days work completed. Only 83 left.
All is not lost however! I am writing this from the comfort of a lovely double bed (a luxury unknown to travellers) in a town west of Melbourne having completed my first week harvesting grapes for a lovely company which pays me per hour and pays taxes and makes me aware of health and safety and all other terribly boring but also fabulously refreshing and comforting protocols. I don't want to speak to soon, but they do say that the third times the charm.

Where I Lie Now.

Hello all, it's been a while, and for that I am sorry. It won't happen again… maybe. 

I'd love to tell you that I haven't been writing because I've been crazy busy doing constantly awe inspiring things, but that would be a lie. I haven't been writing because I thought I had nothing to write about, my life is pretty standard in terms of Byroners (Byronees? Byronians?) and I had forgotten that just because something is routine, it doesn't mean it isn't pretty spectacular. For me it took getting out of Byron for a couple of days over Christmas and explaining to other people what it is exactly I do with my days to appreciate its small beauty. Whilst I attempted to rush through the explaining of things as quickly as possible, fearing they would think me terribly mundane, I was bombarded with questions and grins and remarks about how lucky I am. 

And I am. 

It is only now that I find my time in the Bay nearing an end, can I fully appreciate just how special my own personal mundane is. The next series of posts are going to b solely dedicated to some of my favourite memories in this beautiful place, but for now we'll start with the beginning. 

The beginning. 

If we were to go back just a few short months, we'd see me living in the staff room of Aquarius Backpackers with 11 other fantastically insane work for accommodationers. 12 people in this tiny room was a squeeze, and it was gross, and you lost everything you owned, and there was a small maggot infestation and it was just the purest example of friendship. Being thrown into living and working and socialising with a group of people whom you've never met is beyond daunting, but it also creates some of the tightest social links I've ever known. In one short week I'd seen majority of them naked, swapped clothes with most of them and fallen in love with all of them. I mean don't get me wrong, they're all absolute freaks and misfits and if it were in any other situation non of us would have befriended one and other, but somehow that made it work all the more. 

For two months I lived in the squalid pockets of these people, and then one day Aquarius offered to pay me in money rather than room, and so I packed up my few remaining clothes and moved to the locally known “happy houses” with my fabulous Canadian friend, Ariya. Within three weeks there were 10 former AQ staff and guests living within three houses of each other. For me, I have what I deem to be the perfect set up, still working at AQ means I get to visit the one or two last remaining ones of our bunch who are still living there, but having my own studio means I no longer get woken up at 4am a host of hammered people, and I no longer find jars of pickled herring in the toilet. Bloody Swedes. 

A general day of cleaning at Aquarius sees me out of the house from 9.15am until around 2pm, and this is not English 2pm, it's Australian. That means it's still over 30 degrees and the beach is calling. I don't think I can stress just how close work and the beach are, so I've included a map for reference. Yeah. Be jealous. After lying down for several hours on a pristine beach, with the mountains to the left and the lighthouse to the left, I'll make the pilgrimage home, with my bike, Carol, it takes me just six minutes to get home. Evenings vary from crazy nights out to cuddle puddles and Disney films and to be honest, it's pretty beautiful what ever we choose. 

Where I lie now. 

Currently I am lying in my garden, the late afternoon sun is fighting through the large canopy of trees that protect me from the harsh rays, creating a kaleidoscope of  colours and patterns on the rug beneath me. I am also warmed to my core from the low beams, penetrating through my thin layer of skin and spreading it's heat and joy through my veins. A small breeze is quaffing my hair slightly and creating a peaceful rustling in the fallen, crisp leaves that reminds me of the English countryside thousands of miles away. The smell of our, now weekly, family BBQ tinges the air with the sweet scent of onions and evokes a sense of excitement at the prospect of a beautiful, long summer evening in this, my perfect home, stretching out in front of me.

This is where I lie now. And though it may be unremarkable, it is real, and it is mine and I could not be more contented. 

 

Byron Bae

“Hello, I'm from the UK and I'm backpacking around Australia and I love Byron Bay!” Said every tourist ever. Including me.

Well, I've been in Australia for two weeks now and I've made a decent dent in the list of touristy stereotypes. I've fed a kangaroo, cuddled a koala, drank copious amounts of goon and fallen a tiny bit in love with Byron. But let's not get ahead of ourselves shall we.

i. Jet lag
Good lord this was disgusting. Having never done a long haul flight before, I was filled with optimistic naivety, assuming that I wouldn't be effected simply on the basis that I was me and I'd told myself it wouldn't be an issue. As cramped and uncomfortable as spending 24 hours in ‘super economy’ was, the discomfort didn't come close to what I experienced over the next few days. Anyone who knows me would agree that sleepy and hungry were two reasonably accurate ways to describe me, so the shock of sleeping two hours a night and hardly consuming a single meal whilst in Brisbane was horrifying. As a result of this, Brisbane admittedly sort of passed me by in an irritable, confused haze. All I can tell you about the city is that there's free city wide wifi (21st century description of beauty right there) and that the South Bank was pretty decent. Sorry Brisbane, I'll try again when I feel more like an actual human person.

ii. Hot England
From Brizzy I moved slightly further south to the Gold Coast, Surfers Paradise to be exact. With my first full nights sleep proudly accomplished I headed off to the beach in an attempt to transform my very British milk bottle white legs, to something that more resembled a caramel shake. I will point out here that my knowledge of Australia is/was pretty limited, but I had made the assumption that there would be some Australians here. I was wrong. In my room alone there was eight of us Brits, delightful. Adding to my initial confusion was that Surfers appeared to resemble a sort of cleaner, hotter Blackpool. The iconic seaside tower rubbed out and replaced by great monstrous skyscrapers that loom over the beach ominously and donkey rides swapped for hoards of American Au Pairs trotting their gaggle of children up and down the beach. I would just like to point out that I did actually end up having a good time there, I met some really lovely people and it worked as quite a nice base to travel to further town and beaches (Burleigh Heads being a personal favourite). It was however a culture shock, in the sense that the culture was no different to my own.

iii. Barefoot, acoustic guitar playing hippies
Even before I got to Aus people were telling me to go to Byron, this intensified ten fold when I actually arrived. I would never in a million years describe myself as a ‘hipster’ yet we do share several traits, I like my fancy camera and drinking from mason jars, I have a blog and if someone tells me I'll love somewhere, I actively seek out reason to loath it. It was with an arrogant air and an already negative attitude that I went to Byron Bay. Stepping off the bus I was greeted by a barefoot man wearing tie die and playing an acoustic guitar, my eyes rolled so far back in my skull that I'm pretty sure I saw my corneas. “How stereotypical. I've been here 5 minutes and it's already far too mainstream for me.” It wasn't until a few days later when a group of us had gone to wash some music that it clicked. The dace floor was full of people, every sort of person, old, young, posh, bogan, hippy, traveller, local, all together, all happy. No judgment was passed from any group of people, everyone was there to listen to the music and that was all that really mattered.

So now I write this on the beach, after spending last night wearing a tie die jumpsuit and listening to reggae, and without a pair of shoes in sight.

You may call me Grace: Queen of the barefoot hipsters.

The Countdown Begins

I'm back! Well I never really went anywhere, and I suppose that's been my problem since I came back to England, but I'm back not being back…

Seeing as my last post was an unforgivable amount of time ago, I'll recap how things ended for myself and my European adventure. Through the genius that is Workaway, I managed to get myself a very lovely job working at a fabulous hostel in Bratislava, Wild Elephants. Responsibilities included checking guests in and getting them drunk. Which really was a dream, but as with most things, money gets in the way, and a lack of it more so. So with a pitiful 19p in my bank account, and the heaviest of hearts, I returned home.

I'll give you some context about my hometown, a recent article in The Guardian by Mike Carter on Brexit (don't even get me started on my rage/embarrassment about that whole façade) sums up Nuneaton in a description as accurate as it is depressing. “Nuneaton, the home town of George Eliot and Ken Loach, had more charity shops in its high street than anywhere I’ve ever seen. And some of those charity shops had closed down. What does it say about a town when even the charity shops are struggling?”

Now, I don't want to seem heartless here, it was so wonderful to give my parents a long anticipated cuddle, catch up with all the people who had made my life here complete and meet my lovely new god son. It really was. I adored the small things as well, having multiple pillows on my bed, being able to leave my shampoo in the bathroom without it getting pinched and the knowledge that I had more that two outfits, but inevitably things began to feel much the same as before I left.

I woke up, went to work, went to the gym, came home. Repeat. Maybe on a weekend I'd spend all the money I'd earned that week in the one, very questionable, night club our town has, but that's about the long and short of it.

Sometimes people would ask about travelling, and at first I was so keen to inspire others to travel, but even that wore very thin very quickly. Every time my stories of the magnificence of being really and truly free fell on deaf ears or were reciprocated with a bemused smile and an elongated silence, I lost another part of where I'd been, what I'd achieved. So in the end I stopped answering questions with anything more than a “yeah, it was good thanks” which seemed to satisfy. Then suddenly, I woke up. I mean properly woke up, and four months had passed. In this time I'd found myself both made redundant and promoted in a new job. The mundanity that made up my everyday life had seemed acceptable, however it promptly became an obscene elephant in every room I entered. So the frantic saving began.

At first I wasn't entirely sure what it was I was saving for, Australia floated around in the back of my mind like a hazy, unachievable, dream. I could (should) learn to drive, I could (shouldn't) get a flat, there were plenty of things I could/should/shouldn't do with this money. However, somewhere deep inside me, I knew what it was for, but the idea and the reality were two very different things, and the reality was overwhelmingly enormous.

And then it was August. Eight months had passed. I'd been back as long as I'd been away and that really was a horrific sensation.

Something inside me needed to go again, and needed to go quickly. The same primal sense of running free that I’d had last year came back and I hit me like a truck. It tore my world apart and threw me into a free fall, I simply could not go on living how I was.

 With a sense of déjà vu, I quit yet another job and booked yet another one way flight and rescued my lovely backpack from the attic. Somewhat further afield this time, Brisbane, Australia but I guess it's a similar premise to before though. Hostels and backpacks and long ass busses and washing my pants in sinks. And I can't wait!

Two weeks Aus! Be prepared, because I’m not.

The Unknown Family

In recent months it seems that every time I log onto a social networking site, be it Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, I have to scroll through page after page of anti-refugee posts. In light of all the negative connotations floating around at the minute, I thought I'd share something I wrote on the train from Serbia to Hungary when I was confronted with a young family of migrants for the first time.

Initially I wrote this only for myself, as a way of processing the scene that played out in front of me, but now I feel the need to share my personal experience. I know that some people will feel differently than I do, but for me, this trip helped me acknowledge the faces in the otherwise faceless media coverage.



"Friday 25th - Train to Budapest

Sitting in the four seats in front of me is a family. I can see the back of the Mother and Father's head, I can hear the constant wails of the baby in her arms, and I can see the two young boys and their even younger sister squashed contently into the two opposite seats. Their presence however is made apparent not through sight, but through the smell. The heavy scent of stale sweat and urine fills the entire cabin and initially makes me wretch. With them are several large plastic bags of 'stuff', I can just about make out that one contains some clothes, but the others are a mystery to me.

The Mother and Father are dirty, their clothes, their face, their hair. Much like her parents, the little girl is dirty, she also has a tendency to wander and sprints up and down the isle giggling as she goes. She is the one who intrigues me the most. I would say that she is no older than three years and still has a small amount puppy fat that gives her a cute little pot belly. Clothes wise, it's not great, I am guessing that her jumper is supposed to be white, but the colour is far closer to a shade of brown, whilst her purple corduroy trousers are black and muddy on the knees and bum. She has enormously wide deep brown eyes that stare with innocent enthusiasm at everything, including myself, surrounded by gloriously long black lashes. Her beauty is obvious, and somehow manages to be the first thing I notice about her face, but when I look for longer the sheer grubbiness of her skin shocks me. Dark circles encase her eyes and a clump of mud has dried behind one of her ears, her short hair is matted to the point of dreadlocks.

The eldest of the boys, probably 11, has clearly taken on the role of ring leader. He commands his sister to sit down, and rewards her with a kiss and a kit-kat when she does. He too is laughing the majority of the time, when he opens his mouth I can see that his front two teeth are badly chipped and the rest are discoloured. I think it is his optimism that saddens me the most. Somehow the innocence of the three of them makes the situation worse, the fact that for them this is just another day of their childhood. From what I can make out, I think the father has fallen asleep, and the son has taken on the responsibility of his siblings, consistently showering his sister and the baby in kisses, whilst he entertains his brother with a series of animated hand gestures that makes them both howl.

I have the strange feeling that this isn't a journey that I will forget. In years to come when people talk of the 'migrant crisis ' I know that this is what I will think of. This exact point. This family, these people, this smell. I wonder where they will be in ten years time, what their future is, where they will call home.

This I will never know.

I can of course pretend that they make it to prosperous Germany or England, that they are given some sort of social housing and the children are provided with a decent education. That in ten years the bright eyed, dirty girl is stressing about her GCSEs and boys, her face clean, her hair long and smooth. That her brother is finishing university and is an annoyance rather than a carer. I can imagine that she has forgotten all about this journey that she is having to make, about the anguish which her parents must be suffering, about the filthy white jumper.

I can see it.

Unfortunately I also know the probable outcome. I know that the Hungarian border is closed for them, that they are not wanted here or anywhere else. I know that even if by some miracle they do make it to the West the life that is waiting for them isn't going to be what they imagined. An unskilled, minimum wage job - if any - for the father. A flat too small for the six of them, no money and limited schooling. It is hard to imagine a situation where this is the better option, where the unknown is still more promising than staying where they were. I can imagine that we both share the same fantasy scenario, that this chance, however small, is what they cling to.

Still the baby cries."



After I finished writing this the family quickly disembarked the train at the last stop before the Hungarian border. I will never know what happened to this family, but it changed my somewhat shallow view immediately. It is easy to dehumanise a situation when you only see it through a screen, to remove the individual cases and lump them all together, I know I did, but in situations like these the reality hits home with a blunt force.

I hope I never forget the face of the adorable little girl with the beautiful wide eyes.

Budapest, Bratislava and a Birthday

What I've learnt since staying in hostels is that your experience in a place is entirely dependent on the people who your'e staying with. I've stayed in some really beautifully equipped places, with gorgeous clean kitchens and bathrooms, but horrifically dull roommates, and for me that overrides the otherwise good experience. I've also stayed in some total dives, with really fantastic people, that make you not care about the fact that there's no locks in the toilets or hot water in the showers. This is exactly what happened when I headed north from Novi Sad to Budapest.

Budapest

As usual I had booked the cheapest hostel on HostelWorld - The Hangover. As far as drinking is concerned I haven't actually indulged too much on this trip, it's expensive and travelling on my own, I like to have some sense of what's going on around me. However Budapest provided me with the perfect set up to have a fantastic time, drink, hardly spend any money and feel completely secure in doing so.

My 8 bed dorm consisted of a group of four Australian guys, a Canadian girl, a Finnish girl and myself. Luckily for all of us we got on phenomenally. Unlike a lot of groups who travel together, and tend to keep themselves to themselves, the Aussies were more than happy to have myself and the other girls tagging along for the entire weekend. Our five days there were spent doing the typical touristy things, visiting the stunning Parliament building and castle, whilst our nights were spent in some of the 100s of bars and clubs that Budapest has to offer.

The highlight of the entire weekend for myself has to be the Thermal Baths. Sunday afternoon, all feeling slightly 'tender', the executive decision to actually leave the room was made. Definitely not by myself, I was pretty adamant that being hungover and going swimming was a recipe for pure disaster, but we trudged on anyway. Even the idea of an outdoor pool in late September in Central Europe made me shiver, and as our group headed out into the cold kitted in our summer bikinis and shorts, pneumonia was all that was on my mind. Yet as I sunk into the 40° water it felt like pure heaven. We spent all day there, only leaving when they closed the pools.

The nights out also proved to come in useful when by pure chance I bumped into a guy I'd met on my first day travelling in Venice, who lives in Budapest and offered to give me a little tour around! I adore being shown around by people who actually live in the city, there are so many things that Lonely Planet miss off or simply don't know about, and I'll be honest, at this point I still hadn't seen as much of the city as I probably should have. It was also lovely to see a familiar face, the whole 'it's a small world' cliche has always made me cringe. Yet here I am, using it. Because let's be honest, what were the chances of me deciding to leave a particular bar, just as he decides to enter this particular bar, in a city of 1.7 million people. Seeing someone again, especially after all this time, reminds you that maybe all the constant goodbyes that you say aren't necessarily as permanent as they might feel, and that's a little bit beautiful.

Outside the parliament building.

Post Thermal Baths.

Brent, myself and Katriina on our
 last night.

View of Budapest from the Liberty Statue.

Team Baywatch.

Bratislava

After my very full-on few days in Budapest I traveled North to Bratislava to start my new Workaway position in A Wild Elephants Hostel.

I was told by a few people about how dull Bratislava is, and that scene in Eurotrip didn't give me much hope, yet on my second day I was being thrown from a bridge and on my third we broke into a black tie gala event... Not quite as dull as I'd been warned.

Again I got tremendously lucky with my first group of guests staying in the hostel, who were a dream, and the team that were already working there made me feel immediately welcome. Something which I was slightly nervous about however, was my impending birthday. The thought of being away from home for my birthday didn't bother me as much as I thought it would, I've been having such a fantastic time I really don't need one specific day to do wonderful things or relax. I did feel slightly guilty for also missing my older brother's birthday (coincidentally also on 5th October) but other than that I was quite happy to have a nice day and let it pass without too much of a note.

I was working my first night shift (9pm-7am) into my birthday, which generally consists of letting drunk guests in, and when one of these guests found out that it was my birthday, he went out and stole for me: a bouquet of flowers, a pepper mill and a dining room chair. Gift originality at it finest right there.

A fantastically unique start to my 21st. The rest of the day was spent in the most hipster-indie-chic coffee shop Bratislava has to offer, and eating a disgusting amount of Slovakian food. Slovakian cuisine is quite similar to the other Balkan states, heavy and filling and fattening and delicious. Potato dumplings covered in cheese covered in sour cream covered in bacon - bliss.

And then came the shots. Dear God the shots. As a general rule, alcohol in this part of the world is horrifically pure, strong and frequently consumed. Despite drinking litres of pure alcohol, a good night was had by all. I think. I don't remember. I'm sure they did. Well I did at least.

Team IT gala.

The Wild Elephant (and Monkey).

My lovely carrot cake and chocolate muffins.

'Take it sleazy' Mark, myself and Lorna.

Birthday gift from my boss, 15 year old palinka.

Lorna and myself.

Selfie time.

Pain in an image,

Meeting The Serbs

For those of you who don't know, my Grandfather was Serbian, Yugoslavian if we're getting technical. Hence me having the not-very-British surname, Malbasa. Seeing as I am currently ascending through Eastern Europe I figured I'd take a pilgrimage to the homeland if only for a couple of days.

On discovering that I planned to visit Belgrade, the capital, my Dad decided to get in touch with some rather distant relatives who live there to see if they wanted to meet me. To my surprise they did, and a lovely time was had by all.

Now I'm not sure if it's a British thing, or if it's because I come from a pathetically small family (I have one cousin) but anybody who I don't see on Christmas is considered distant to me and therefore a polite nod and small grin is an acceptable greeting. However this is not the Serbian way. My knowledge of this culture is somewhat stunted and comes purely from my Father's God Father and his wife. Visits to them typically consisted of my face being squeezed and kissed repeatedly upon entry, then I would be force fed buttery biscuits and Ocean Spray until I thought I would ruin their nice clean floor with my (by that point no doubt very pink) vomit. Whilst I was being told that I was too thin and should eat more (what a great thing to say), my brothers were being handed plates of salami and glass after glass of Slivovitz, a plum brandy with a percentage ranging between 50 and 70. These were people I had known my entire life and so it was alright to skip the 'nod and grin', but I had every intention to resume said protocol when meeting my new relatives. I would soon discover that British formality is not allowed in Serbia, my initial intention to the bring it to the east failed immediately and spectacularly when I first met Duska.

But lets not get ahead of ourselves, first I had to get from Thessaloniki in Greece (a really fabulous city, far better than Athens in my opinion) to Belgrade.

The Night Train

If for some bizarre reason you were unaware, there is currently a migrant crisis in the EU and hopping between borders isn't as easy as it once was. The former ethos of "It's Europe, if you've got a passport come and go as you please!" has been replaced with several large fences, tear gas and water cannons. As a result of this, the first leg of my train journey actually took place on a bus. I didn't really mind, having read all about the Macedonian border controls, I had that sort of sick inquisitiveness to see it all first hand, like when you can't not watch a car crash. I had envisioned a sea of distraught looking families all pleading to get through the border, thousands of police pushing back this tidal wave of mothers and children in a vain attempt to protect their country from the flood.

This is not what I saw. In the half an hour it took for my passport to be verified I probably saw around 15 cars trickle through. The enforcement was somewhat lapse also, three bored looking men waving all the cars through, bar one, who's boot they searched (it was an old Fiat Punto, you can barely fit a weekly shop in there let alone a family of Syrian refugees). After being processed and deemed not to be a threat, myself and the other 13 people on the bus were dropped at the Macedonia train station.

CUT TO:

EXT. MACEDONIAN TRAIN PLATFORM - NIGHT
Several confused people huddle around murmuring quietly in the pool of light from a solitary street lamp.

CONDUCTOR

There might be a train in 10 minutes. Then again there might not be.

PEOPLE

*Sequence of obscenities*

Oh f...abulous. By now it's around 11pm, I'm three hours into my 14 hour journey and I have moved about 10 yards. And then it appeared. My golden chariot to Serbia. My bed for the night. My God it looked like something that Soviet Russia would deem 'too depressing'. The loud grinding noise that it produced was accompanied by an exterior coated in graffiti and a conductor who looked like he might *definitely* want to kill me in my sleep. I did find myself in the fortunate situation of having my own cabin, I assumed that this would mean that at least I could get some sleep, and dream that I wasn't on a train that had a very distinct smell of sweat and urine, but you know what they say about assuming. The hourly torchlight-in-the-face, passport and ticket checks impeded the sleep idea to such an extent that at 3am I decided to just quit trying and become nocturnal.

This is when I encountered my first (and only) group of migrants, accompanied by two police men. With the vast increase in numbers I assumed that I would have cabin partners imminently, and I did, but not how I imagined. After asking one of the officers for the time it was made immediately apparent that he spoke no English and I no Serbian, however, this didn't deter the officer from deciding that we were in fact now pals. Through various drawings, graphs and several metaphors involving my handbag, he managed to explain to me the current financial situation in Serbia, politics, religion and Germany's role within the EU. At around 6am he told me (through the art of mime) that I should get some sleep and he would watch my bag for me.

For me this little 'conversation' and hospitality more than made up for the fact that the journey took three extra hours and that the toilet was a hole in the floor.

After that very tiring journey I was more than happy to meet my extended family. At this point I'll explain how relations work in Serbia through the people I met. My Grandfather's sister, Anka, should technically be my great Aunt, but she is just 'Aunty Anka'. That one isn't overly difficult. Her daughters, Dragana and Milena, my first cousins once removed, are also my Aunts. Their children, Borjan and Iva, my second cousins once removed, are my brothers and sisters. Their children, Lukas and Mia, some sort of third cousin once removed (perhaps), are my nieces and nephews. This took far too long to work out and only exacerbated my sleep deprivation.

In addition to this I also met my 'aunty' Duska and her sons, (also my brothers) Stefan and Nikola. As I mentioned earlier, the greeting was one of traditional Serb style, I was invited to their house, kissed, face squeezed and fed. It was quite nice I'll admit, but the Brit in me will never admit this again.

Having lost my grandfather at a very young age a lot of my memories of him consist more of memories of photographs, so seeing a whole new set of images was like seeing him again for the first time which is something really priceless. As well as learning more about my family history, having people there who wanted to show me all of the city meant that I saw Belgrade in a very different way to most people, which I greatly appreciated.

I have since left Belgrade, with a very full stomach and very fond memories, and am currently in Novi Sad in the north of Serbia before I head into Budapest tomorrow.

I understand that this post is a little long so here's a nice little summation for you;

• I am a bit Serbian.
• Thessaloniki is beautiful and full of life. Go there.
• Serbians like to feed you.
• Only accept Slivovitz if you are prepared to get real turnt up real quick. (The link is there purely for my mum. There you go mum, hope that helps.)
• See John, I did listen in my film script classes.
• The night train smells.
• You can have meaningful discussions with anyone if you have a pen and an appreciation of mime.
• Everyone in Serbia is somehow your aunt or brother.
• Even if you are only distantly related to a Serb they will give you everything they have because they put family in front of everything.
• Also the Serbian Dinar isn't worth a great deal so you can live like royalty for zero money.

Suck it Nuneaton.

Sunset over a secret nature reserve
in the centre of Belgrade.

Thessaloniki nights.

My new 'sister' Iva and I.

Duska and I.

My Great Aunt, Uncle and myself.

My Little Skyrian Break

It's been quite a while since I last posted, partly due to me being pretty busy but mainly as a result of my non existent internet connection!

So, I've just arrived in the city of Thessaloniki after spending the past six weeks living and working on the tiny Greek Island of Skyros. 

With its tiny whitewashed buildings ordained with vibrant blue doors and shutters, the village looks like something straight out of Mama Mia. I however have been living in the minuscule farming town of Trachi, home to one taverna, a couple of farms and us. Which I must admit has been testing at times. 

Skyros is home to a rare breed of pony, and the farm where I've been staying is all about preserving and reestablishing the breed. The work it's self was simple enough, feed, muck and water three times a day. I can do that. Having been around horses back in England since I was small theses things were a breeze.

I was also fortunate enough to have some other fantastic volunteers staying with me, from spending my lunch breaks kayaking with Lucia, Spanish, and Iris, Austrian, to failing to make a beach bonfire with Elia, German, and Davide, Italian, it's safe to say I've had a pretty fun time and met some really lovely people. What I struggled with personally was the isolation that being on a mountainous island brings. 

Although the main village was only a stones throw away, the several large mountains in between prove to be somewhat of a hazard. Many people love this side of life though, the lack of wifi and people can be a real lure for the more reclusive type.

What I have learnt about myself is that I am not this type of person. I am a people person. I need constant social interaction with a host of new faces. I must admit this is news to me, at home I had my group of friends whom I adore and was more than content with keeping it just us. Not in a selective way, more as a result of the comfort that comes with a tight knit group. Since I've been travelling however, my eyes have been opened to the fact that there is an entire world of people out there with the same travel/life ethic, and it's wonderful! 

I can meet people from the other side of the world with whom I have so much in common, and for the past few weeks I haven't been meeting the constant flow of these guys, and I've missed it. I remember leaving the first group of strangers I made friends with in Venice, I was adamant that I'd been really lucky and wouldn't meet anyone else that I got on with. 

Of course I did, immediately.

Although I have had a really nice time having somewhere to call home, and learning about a whole new style of horsemanship, for me it was time to say goodbye. I'm more than a little excited to get my backpack on again and head off into Central Europe. Just in time for the cold weather of course... 

Arrivederci Roma... and Italy

After two blissful months I have finally left Italy and moved onto the next stage of my journey, Greece.

I really couldn't have asked for more from my last few weeks in Italy. The hostels in Rome and Naples were pretty much perfect, and I had the pleasure of meeting some of the most genuine people I could imagine.

Initially I was a little dubious about stopping in a hostel a short train journey outside of central Rome, but it worked out to be a perfect base. In 20 minutes I was in the centre of bustling Rome, mingling in with The Colloseum and The Vatican, keeping up with the pace of the capital in over 35 degrees heat. Yet on a day when I really just needed to rest the peaceful old town of Zagarolo was waiting with open arms, and more importantly, an open pool.

Of course I managed to fit in a decent amount of 'touristy' activities between the pool sessions, The Colleseum and the Roman Forum being particular favourites of mine. The Spanish Steps were more than a little underwhelming I'm not going to lie. It's literally just some steps.

I also have a confession to make, I kind of skipped The Vatican a little bit... It was a friend's last day and the queue was three hours long so we just left. In all honesty though I feel like it's something I should see, but not neccessarily something I really wanted to see.

After hearing a general consensus of horrid reveiews of Naples, and being only recently reuinited with my cards, I decided to yet again stay just outside of the city. Unforutnaly after some slight travel issues I ended up with only two full days to do everything! Day one was spent with one of the seemingly endless supply of Australians staying at my hostel, visiting Vesuvius and Pompeii. The views from Vesuvius's sumit are phemominal, and the sight of misinformed tourists attempting to climb it in flip flops and jeans is even better! At Pompeii we deceided to save some money and skip the audio tour. Terrible idea. I still have no idea of the things we saw...

Day two and yet another of the Australians had suggested renting a Vespa. Yes! We caught the train to Sorrento and from there rode down the length of the Amalfi coast. That has to be up there with one of the best experiences I've had so far.

After 35 hours travel via several busses, trains and one ludicrously long ferry journey I arrived in Athens. Here I met my parents and am now spending the week in Naxos, an island which my mum lived on when she was my age!

Day 49

As a child the thought of the six weeks summer holiday seemed like a lifetime, yet here I am, seven weeks into my trip and it has passed at an unbelievable rate!

To keep you up to speed here's a list of where I've been so far!

Venice - Bologna - Chianti - Florence - Pisa - Grosseto - Siena - Venice - Milan - Venice - Rimini - Perugia

I thought I'd do a slightly different post today, and share with you some misconceptions that I had prior to traveling, and the truths about these that I have learnt so far.

What I Thought
Keep all of your money and cards in one safe place, this way you won't lose track of anything.
What I Know
If/when you lose this holy grail of money, you are stuck. SPREAD IT OUT. Most backpacks have several different internal pockets, utilise these, hopefully this will prevent you being completely without cash or cards. 

What I Thought
I'll need a new outfit for everyday. Just because I'm backpacking doesn't mean this can't be a glamorous European adventure.
What I Know
It means exactly that. If I had but one word to sum up the trip so far it definitely wouldn't be glamorous. It would probably be sweaty. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, it just means that wearing a freshly washed and pressed ensemble everyday would bankrupt me in laundry fees. Also, the weight of carting around all of this stuff would no doubt cripple you.

What I Thought
Hostels are dirty and have terrible facilities, but they're cheap.
What I Know
Currently, I'm sitting with my legs dangling in a pool, in a hostel with the most stunning panoramic views of Perugia, for €15 a night. That's £10, less than what I'd spend on my lunch break back at home. Majority of the places I've stayed have been really lovely, granted there have been a couple which have left a great deal to the imagination, but to me a hostel means social. Yes you share a bathroom, a kitchen, and more often than not a bedroom, but it also means that you share your experience. I have met so many interesting and wonderful people who I would have missed had I stayed in a solitary room in a hotel. No its not the height of luxury, but what you lose in tiny shampoos and mints on the pillows, you more than gain in friendship. 

What I Thought
You need loads of money to travel for an extended period of time.
What I Know
In the past three days I've had nine delicious, filling meals and it has cost me €8.24 (£5.79). A bag of pasta that lasts five days costs me €1.20 and anything else is a treat. If you truly want to travel and experience as much as you can, for as long as you can, you simply can't afford to be picky about it! 

Unfortunatley I find myself yet again without a computer, meaning that a whole host of my photos are currently trapped inside my camera. As soon as I can I'll be sure to bombard the blog with them! 

Heading off to Rome tomorrow, and will post about all the wonderful, ancient sites just as soon as I can get my hands on an SD port!

Ciao.

What Grace Did

As I write this post I sit aboard the Frecciarossa train bound for Rimini, leaving the perfect serenity of Venice, where I have called home for the past month, behind me. 

Much like the first time I left Venice, I do so with a bitter sweet feeling in my stomach. I have heard nothing but good things about Rimini; sun, beaches and bars, yet I am still hopelessly in love with Venice and all it means for me. The start of my adventure, my first group of friends, my first job overseas, the first time it really hit me that I could actually go the distance with my travel plans. But I am leaving.

In addition to feeling a little low about moving on, this morning I waved my older brother, Jake, off after having him visit for the past week, and what a week it's been!  

I met him and four of his friends last Friday in Milan for a Libertines gig, and I was beyond excited. For them it was a music trip, for me it was a Jake one.
Back at home we worked within a two minutes walk from each other, so I would see him most days for lunch or just a chat, so five weeks without seeing him was a little odd to say the least! I'd be lying if I said I wasn't pleased with the reaction I got, being told that I looked like a "proper traveller" and how he hardly recognised me, made me realise just how much I have changed so far. 

I have always been a very dependent person, always having someone in my life who would pander to my demands of handbag carrying or lift giving. Although these things are initially done through love, it has meant that I had absolutely zero idea of what I am capable of. Although the change into a perfectly capable young woman has been a gradual one, all Jake saw was his helpless, insecure, little sister wandering across a busy train station carrying an enormous 70l bag wearing "sunglasses bigger than your shorts". 

The initial blissfulness of the reunion was cut short however, due to me discovering that during a quick hop on the metro my purse had been taken from my bag. I can't quite sum up the feeling I had, it was a mix of panic, anger and disappointment in myself. The confident backpacker of the past hour had been stripped back, and there stood the useless girl of before. To say I felt like a fool would be an enormous understatement. 

Putting the incident behind me, the rest of Friday passed quickly in anticipation of Saturday's concert. I know the Libertines, not to the extent of travelling to Milan just to see them like my brother and co. however I was not disappointed. The crowd sung passionately along to all the classics, with their Italian twang reminding us exactly where we were, while only the truly dedicated managed to keep up with the new releases. Watching Carl Barât and Pete Doherty perform together live there is no doubt as to how the band broke up previously. The performance is a constant battle between Carl attempting to lead and remain centre stage (literally) and Pete nipping at his heels, trying anything to steal focus, throwing guitars and microphones whenever possible. Despite the Lovers' tiffs it was still a thoroughly brilliant set, the new material slotted in nicely between the well loved oldies. 

After a weekend of over indulgence and over spending I was lookin forward to being able to spend a few days showing Jake my Venice. I showed him all my favourite places and managed to convey the image that I knew exactly what I was doing and where I was going most of the time. I'm glad to report that he loved it almost as much as me! 

So now I'm back on my own, after a month of knowing the town, people and places to go, I'm back to being a backpacker again, and honestly I'm not sure how I feel about this. I know that it's just a matter of time before I find my feet again but currently I feel like I'm starting all over again! Will hopefully have some photos to upload soon. 

Next stop Perugia. 

Ciao.