Last week, I attended a St. Patrick’s Day gathering in the House of Lords in London, where stories of peace, prosperity, and growing ties between Ireland and Britain offered an uplifting spirit beneath Westminster’s grandeur.

St. Patrick’s Day is often mistaken for noise and spectacle, but beneath the surface, it is a day threaded with memory and meaning, shaped across centuries of faith and belonging. My main takeaway from these conversations was a desire to understand Ireland’s culture more deeply, especially through the concept that lingered in my mind: Ireland Unrushed.

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The Real Story Behind St. Patrick’s Day

17 March, marks St. Patrick’s Day. It’s always been a poignant day in our household with a family birthday, so I was eager to understand more about the celebration.

St. Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland, but he didn’t always live in Ireland. Born Maewyn Succat, likely in Wales or Scotland, he was abducted by Irish pirates at 16 and enslaved on Slemish Mountain in County Antrim. But during his captivity, he experienced a spiritual awakening. After his escape, he returned to Ireland and changed his name to Patrick, spending decades converting the Irish to Christianity.

St. Patrick used the shamrock, the “seamroy” of Celtic tradition, to teach about the Holy Trinity, with its three leaves representing the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The plant, long sacred to the Irish as a symbol of spring’s arrival, became forever linked with the saint.

Here’s a detail that might surprise you: St. Patrick actually wore blue, not green. The colour green only became associated with St. Patrick’s Day after the Order of Saint Patrick was established in 1783, and it has since become inseparable from Irish identity. A fascinating reminder that even our most cherished traditions evolve.

Patrick died in 461 in Saul, County Down, where he had established his first church. March 17th marks the date of his death, which is why we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on this date, a day traditionally meant for spiritual renewal.

What was once a religious holiday has become an international celebration of Ireland, its culture and history. In rural Ireland, or ‘down the country’ as they say, St Patrick’s Day is much more likely to be celebrated in traditional style, especially on the islands and in the Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking) areas, with traditional music, singing, dancing, and horse racing.

The Case for Slow Travel in Ireland

Listening to Tourism Ireland, I kept returning to two words mentioned: Ireland Unrushed. The idea of moving slowly, of letting time stretch out and noticing what might otherwise be missed, it gave me a nudge to research places to visit in Ireland.

I’m told there is no single way to travel slowly here. Some will be drawn to the calm of bookshops or the sound of poetry in old pubs. For others, slowness is found in the kitchen or the fields - a morning spent searching for wild herbs, or learning the patience of bread rising in a farmhouse kitchen. The act of preparing food becomes a way of listening to the land.

Some may choose to move quietly through the landscape - by train, by bicycle, by boat, or simply on foot - letting the scenery unfold at its own pace, and allowing the stories of place and people to surface slowly.

Slow Travel Options: Where to Start

If you’re drawn to slow travel, these options will be a place to start.

A Culinary Tour Through Cork

Cork, known as the “Real Capital” by locals, is an absolute revelation for anyone seeking to understand Ireland through its food. The River Lee winds through the city centre, creating an intimate landscape where food markets, craft breweries, and Michelin-starred restaurants sit harmoniously alongside traditional pubs. Slow travel in Cork means spending time at the English Market, one of Europe’s finest food markets, where you can chat with vendors about seasonal produce, sample local cheeses, and pick up ingredients for an evening meal.

The surrounding countryside offers farm-to-table experiences where you can meet the farmers, foragers, and chefs who are reimagining Irish cuisine with respect for tradition and celebration of local terroir. Imagine spending a morning in the Blackwater Valley learning about artisan food production, then spending the afternoon in a farmhouse kitchen taking a cooking class, preparing traditional Irish dishes with ingredients you’ve sourced yourself.

In the evening, venture into Cork’s vibrant dining scene or settle into a traditional pub where music sessions flow naturally and the talk turns to storytelling. The Beara Peninsula nearby offers dramatic coastal views paired with small seafood restaurants where you can taste the catch of the day, the mussels, prawns, and white fish pulled from these waters just hours before they reach your plate. This is slow travel celebrated through the senses, understanding not just Irish culture, but the very landscape that sustains it.

A Literary Pilgrimage Through Dublin and Beyond

For those drawn to Ireland’s extraordinary literary heritage, Dublin and the surrounding regions offer an endless journey through centuries of storytelling. Walk the streets where Joyce, Beckett, Wilde, and Heaney lived and worked. Spend hours in independent bookshops like Hodges Figgis or the Winding Stair, where books and conversation flow like Guinness. Visit literary pubs where writers gathered, and settle in for an evening of storytelling and traditional music sessions.

But the literary journey extends far beyond Dublin. Yeats’s country in County Sligo offers the landscapes that inspired his poetry, with guided walks and literary tours that connect the place to the written word. The Beara Peninsula has inspired countless writers and artists. Seek out author homes that welcome visitors, places where you can step into the worlds that novelists created. Attend poetry readings and literary festivals that happen year-round in villages across the country. This is slow travel for the curious mind, where each destination is not just a place but a chapter in Ireland’s ongoing story.

Scenic Train Journeys: The Romance of Rail

The Shannon-Erne Waterway: A Slower Pace by Water

The Shannon-Erne Waterway connects two of Ireland’s most iconic waterways, passing through stunning countryside and offering one of Europe’s most tranquil navigation experiences. Glassy waters, mysterious islands with ancient statues, and a pace of life that forces you to go slow all combine to make this region irresistible for sustainable travel. Base yourself on a barge, canoe, or cruiser and spend days exploring charming waterside villages where locals gather in cosy pubs for traditional music sessions. The Fermanagh Lakelands in Northern Ireland are particularly magical, with Lough Erne’s mirror-still waters reflecting ancient monuments and modern-day stories. Picture yourself on these waters, the mist rolling off the surface at dawn, perhaps joining a St. Patrick’s Day celebration in a waterside village where the traditions run deep and the welcome is genuine.

The Causeway Coast: Dramatic Beauty and Hidden Treasures

Northern Ireland’s Causeway Coast is a slow traveller’s dream, offering some of the most dramatic and varied landscapes in all of Ireland. The legendary Giant’s Causeway - a UNESCO World Heritage Site of basalt columns is just the beginning. Walk along clifftop trails where the Atlantic crashes against ancient rock formations, pausing in charming villages like Bushmills and Ballycastle that time seems to have forgotten. These coastal communities host their own St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, often featuring traditional Irish music, local crafts, and the kind of authentic cultural experiences that make your heart sing. Spend your days hiking, exploring hidden coves, and visiting local distilleries (Bushmills is home to the world’s oldest licensed whiskey distillery). In the evenings, settle into a fireside pub where storytelling and music are as nourishing as the warming stew.

The Westport-Achill Greenway: Pedal Your Way Through History

Follow the greenway from Westport’s warmth, a charming market town with colourful streets and welcoming pubs, to the windswept beauty of Achill Island. This dedicated cycling route, built on a restored railway line, connects communities and offers intimate views of the Irish countryside that you simply cannot experience from a car. You move slowly enough to notice things: the wildflowers that dot the verges in spring, the ancient stone walls that mark field boundaries, the welcoming faces of locals in small towns who remember when this route carried trains instead of cyclists.

Westport itself deserves several days of exploration. Nestled at the foot of Croagh Patrick (Ireland’s holy mountain), this is a place steeped in pilgrimage and spirituality, perfect for a contemplative St. Patrick’s Day. The nearby Clew Bay offers stunning vistas, and local farm-to-table restaurants celebrate the region’s bounty. As you cycle towards Achill Island, you’ll pass through Croagh Patrick National Park, across dramatic moorlands, and finally onto the island itself, a wild, beautiful place where golden cliffs rise from turquoise waters and the pace of life slows to match the rhythm of the Atlantic tides.

Coastal Villages Around Belfast: City Charm Meets Seaside Serenity

Belfast is often overlooked by slow travellers, yet the coastal villages within easy reach offer surprising depth. Explore the city’s vibrant street art and cultural scene, then venture to nearby Carrickfergus with its imposing castle overlooking the lough, or Greyabbey with its atmospheric monastic ruins. The Ards Peninsula offers quiet country lanes, sandy beaches, and villages like Donaghadee, where fishermen still work as they have for centuries. These communities celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with genuine warmth - this is where you’ll find local church services, family gatherings, and pub sessions that reflect the true spirit of the day. The Cave Hill walk offers panoramic views over Belfast Lough, and the waterfront district has been beautifully regenerated, with galleries, restaurants, and music venues where traditional sessions naturally take place.

Dublin and Surrounding Coastal Villages

While Dublin itself can feel touristy on St. Patrick’s Day, the city has remarkable depth if you venture beyond the obvious attractions. Spend time in independent bookshops, literary pubs where Joyce and Beckett once sat, and neighbourhood restaurants where Dubliners actually eat. The Southside offers Georgian squares and local markets; the Northside reveals street art, independent theatres, and authentic working-class neighbourhoods.

But more rewarding still are the coastal villages within easy reach: Howth, a fishing village with dramatic clifftop walks and seafood restaurants overlooking the bay; Dún Laoghaire with its Victorian seaside charm and harbour walks; and Malahide with its castle and coastal walks. These villages offer a gentler pace than the city centre, with local pubs where you can hear traditional music, chat with fishmongers about the day’s catch, and feel the real pulse of Irish life. Spend a day cycling the Dollymount Strand, a beautiful 5km beach that offers a surprising escape from urban Dublin, or take a boat trip to Howth Head to spot seabirds and enjoy coastal walks with views back to the city.

The Invitation

I have been inspired to visit Ireland to see what stories I might uncover on a slow, scenic journey. I’m still in the planning stage of which region to settle on, but it is sure to include beautiful landscapes and food connected to the land!

If you feel the same pull, perhaps you’ll find yourself on a train through the countryside, cooking food in a farm or staying in a small town until the routines become your own.

If you are ready to plan your own slow Irish adventure, visit Tourism Ireland’s website (Ireland.com). It’s a wonderful resource for slow travel inspiration, local events, and authentic experiences.

Or if you have already visited and have stories to share, I would love to hear them! They might just shape my final itinerary. Add your tips to the comments below.

Journey in Colour began with the urge to move more slowly, to let the world reveal itself in its own time. The longer I lingered in a place, the more its character emerged, not just in its shapes or sounds, but in the colours it wore like a second skin.

From the pink clay of Marrakesh to the black-and-white of my hometown. The more I started to understand about colour, the more I appreciated its magic.

Every colour you see - the grey that flickers on your screen, the spill of light across your window, the red that clings to an apple - is a kind of mirage. It lives only in the mind, nowhere else.

Nothing Is What You Think It Is

Begin here: the chair beneath you is not as solid as it claims. Nor are you. Both are mostly space, energy gathered into patterns, trembling and shifting like water finding its way downhill. Everything is movement, everything is energy, even when it pretends to be still.

Light is energy in motion, travelling in waves of different lengths. Red stretches out, blue contracts. The sun sends these invisible messengers to earth, and when they touch the world and find your eyes, your mind quietly translates them into colour. All of this happens before you have time to notice.

Here is the strange part: your eyes carry only three keys - one for red, one for green, one for blue. With just these, your mind composes a symphony of colour, as if mixing a thousand shades from a handful of notes. Without this translation, there would be nothing but silent waves passing through space. Colour is what happens when energy is invited in and given meaning.

You Are Living in a Private World

Consider the red apple resting on the table. Light from the sun has crossed the distance, touched the apple’s skin, and found its way to you. Your mind receives this quiet message and invents the red you see. In this small exchange, you are both witness and creator.

But the red you see belongs only to you. No one else can step inside it. The colour that appears in your mind may be nothing like the one that appears in mine. We live in separate galleries, each painting our own version of the world, and yet we use the same words and pretend we are understood. The experience itself remains solitary and quietly yours.

The Illusion We Create

Once we learned the science, we began to play with the rules to make synthetic colour. The screens we stare into - phone, television, all of them, whisper to our eyes in red, green, and blue, weaving the illusion of a world that isn’t really there. It is not light itself, but the memory of light, conjured in the mind. Because we have only three keys, the trick is almost perfect.

But nature is always ahead of us. Some birds carry five keys instead of three. The mantis shrimp holds sixteen. There are colours brushing past you now that you will never see, wavelengths that slip through the net of your senses. The world is infinitely more colourful than we can ever imagine.

A Brief History of Chasing Colour

For thousands of years, people have chased colour, trying to hold it still. Long before Newton split white light into its hidden spectrum, artists were already grinding earth and stone, coaxing colour from whatever nature would give. Colour became a kind of currency, traded and treasured.

I once read a book by Victoria Finlay, who wandered the world in search of colour’s origins. She found Indian Yellow born from cows fed on mango leaves, Carmine Red pressed from insects so rare it was reserved for the wealthy and the devout. Indigo seeped from woad in the Indus Valley, Lapis Lazuli Blue from crushed stone, Tyrian Purple from the patient work of thousands of snails. Each colour carried its own story, its own cost.

Orange once came from safflower, then from madder root. It found its way into the varnish of Stradivari’s violins, and into the red tape that bound legal documents. Each colour was a record of labour and longing. But when chemistry caught up, we learned to make colour in the quiet of the laboratory, no longer needing snails or rare plants. Colour became something we could summon at will.

Why This Matters When You Travel

Learning where colour comes from changed the way I move through the world. On a slow walk through the grounds of a local castle, I noticed the feathers of a mallard shifting from emerald to deep violet in the sunlight - a colour that took thousands of years to invent. The red in a setting sun is light scattered and bent by the air, a private performance that happens only for you.

Now, when I travel, I find myself searching for the colours beneath the surface - wondering about the energy hidden in each wavelength, and how easily we overlook the quiet spectacle unfolding around us. I think, too, about the colours the earth keeps to itself, the ones our eyes will never know.

The world around you is a gallery without walls, a quiet illusion waiting to be noticed.

The first time I tasted Alain Ducasse’s hot chocolate, I didn’t know how to describe its flavour; it took me by surprise. This was a hot chocolate crafted by someone who had spent a lifetime learning how to taste.

My chocolate arrived in a takeaway cup to warm me up on a chilly day. The usual taste I’d been expecting arrived in a thicker, silky-smooth form, with a note that surprised me.

The taste belonged to someone who has spent years learning what a rainy season tastes like in cocoa beans, or how the steepness of a hillside changes their flavour. Someone who can taste whether butter was made with an electric mixer, in a hand whisk or if the cows have been pasturing in a neighbouring field.

I felt fortunate to have found Alain Ducasse, and I discovered him in a chocolate shop in Borough Yards, London.

A Farm in Les Landes

Everything traces back to a farm.

Alain was born in 1956 in Les Landes, a rural region of southwestern France, where he spent his childhood watching his grandmother cook and tending the family vegetable garden. He remembers the aromas drifting from the kitchen - roast chicken and sautéed veal. But it was the taste of vegetables he had picked himself, still warm from the earth, that shaped how he would think about food forever.

His childhood wasn’t privileged. It was observant. He learned that taste tells stories: stories about seasons, about care, about place. A vegetable tastes different depending on when it was picked, how it was handled, and who grew it.

He also learned the art of patience from his grandfather, who would fell oak trees and let them rest for three years before using them. The principle was simple: good things take time. You don’t rush the process. You respect what you’ve grown and the labour involved.

These two lessons, “Taste Tells Stories “ and “Patience Matters,” would become the foundation of everything he built.

The Rise

Alain trained under the great chefs of his generation: Michel Guérard, Gaston Lenôtre, Alain Chapel, and Roger Vergé. But he was only in his twenties when he received his first Michelin star at the Louis XV restaurant in Monaco. Today, he is one of only two chefs in the world with 21 Michelin stars.

But numbers and stars don’t capture what matters about Alain’s restaurants. What matters is that he never forgot where he came from.

In every restaurant that bears his name, chefs bring the terroir, the taste of local earth and seasons, to the plate. They use vegetables picked that morning. They work with local suppliers and pay them fairly, recognising their labour as part of the final dish. The philosophy is consistent: taste what the land is telling you, then respect it enough to let it speak for itself.

Vegetables were always the star of his plates. But so was something else: wood. The wooden tables in his restaurants come directly from his childhood, from the oak trees his grandfather taught him to fell. It’s a small detail, but it’s intentional. Every diner sits at a table that carries the story of patience and time.

The Obsession

But chocolate was different. Chocolate was an obsession.

For years, Alain had trained as a pastry chef under Gaston Lenôtre, but chocolate kept drawing him in. He wanted to do something that had never been done before: create an artisan factory that could manufacture chocolate at scale without losing the handmade quality. He wanted to compete against industrial chocolate: the addictive, cheap, soft-scoop ice cream, the mass-produced pralines. He wanted to prove that people would choose something better if given the choice. He became “drunk on chocolate,” as people said at the time.

He travelled to Brazil to learn about cocoa and coffee beans. He studied the fermentation and sun-drying process. He learned that a single cocoa region could taste completely different depending on the vintage, elevation, and exposure to sunlight. He memorised regions and vintages the way a sommelier memorises wines. He understood that chocolate, like wine, was a story written in geography and climate.

Every Le Chocolat Alain Ducasse shop has its own workshop, a small factory visible to customers. In the Borough Yards location, the talented artisans shape truffles, pralines, and ganaches by hand while customers observe through open windows. It’s the opposite of industrial chocolate: it’s transparent and respects its labour.

Walking Into a Jewellery Box

The first time I stepped into Le Chocolat Alain Ducasse, I felt like I’d entered a jewellery shop.

Rows of truffles, pralines, and ganaches were laid out like shiny gems, each one catching the light. The wooden tables and chairs are Alain’s, bringing a bit of himself to the store.

I kept returning, first for the hot chocolate in winter. That first sip was a revelation. Unlike any hot chocolate I’d ever tasted, it was smooth and luxurious. A slight floral note from the honey that made the cacao sing, rather than the way sugar overwhelms. The shop recently started selling madeleines to dip into the chocolate, following the French tradition of dipping a croissant. Another first for me, which will remain a perfect pairing.

In summer, I visit for the ice cream. I always order chocolate and pistachio, although I know I should keep discovering new flavours. The texture is different from commercial ice cream - it’s denser. Each spoonful tastes like it’s been created with the same care as the chocolate itself.

Single-origin chocolate: what makes it special

Single-origin chocolate comes from a single region or country, which means the flavour profile reflects the terroir - the climate, soil, altitude, and growing conditions unique to that place. Unlike mass-produced chocolate that blends cocoa from multiple origins to achieve consistency, single-origin chocolate celebrates the distinct characteristics of one source.

Alain Ducasse works with approximately 12 different single-origin chocolates, each from its own region (Bolivia, Madagascar, Peru, etc.). Rather than blending them together, he keeps them separate so customers can taste the difference between regions. A Madagascar cacao tastes different from Bolivian cacao because of where and how it was grown.

Reflection

Walking out of the store holding a cup of hot chocolate and learning about Alain Duccase, I realised: this man spent decades learning how to listen.

Not to critics, or the market, although I am sure that influenced him along the way. But more importantly, he listened to the earth. To the seasons. To the hands of his suppliers and growers. He listened to his grandmother’s kitchen and his grandfather’s patience, and he built an entire empire on what they taught him.

This philosophy of patience and stripping life back to simplicity is a journey I find myself on. Turning away from consumerism. Buying less, but when I do indulge, I look for quality. Valuing craftsmanship.

I recently wrote a blog about Borough Market and included Le Chocolat: Alain Ducasse as a highlight. But I felt it needed the backstory to bring the chocolate to life. Next time you visit Borough Market, don’t miss the chance to treat yourself or someone else.

Imagine discovering that one of the most famous and internationally recognised artists of the 20th Century has an extraordinary art display just five minutes from your home.

So when a good friend revealed that this very opportunity was on my doorstep - tucked away down a country lane, in a humble church surrounded by apple orchards and hop farms, I nearly let it pass me by. Yet, as curiosity often does, it nudged me to visit on a quiet weekend, and I am profoundly grateful I did.

I was humbled to realise how little I knew about Chagall - an artist whose legacy is nothing short of iconic. By the 1920s, he was celebrated in Paris, Berlin, and New York, exhibiting alongside legends like Picasso, Matisse, and Kandinsky. His art graced the walls of the Louvre, a rare honour for any artist of his era, as well as the MoMA in New York and the Tate in London.

So, I am sure you are thinking: why is his art on display down a country lane in a church in Kent? Sadly, it’s a moving memorial linked to a tragic story.

In 1963, Sir Henry and Lady Rosemary d’Avigdor-Goldsmid lost their daughter. Sarah, who was 21 at the time, died in a sailing accident off the coast of Rye, Sussex. They wanted a fitting artistic tribute in their local parish church.

Lady Rosemary had encountered Chagall’s work in Paris and commissioned him to design a single stained-glass window for the church. After the East window was installed, Chagall was captivated by the building’s simple architecture and the way the light fell on the space, and and went on to design all twelve windows.

All Saints Church is the only church in the world whose windows were all designed by Chagall. Pilgrims of art, travel from far and wide from over the world to experience this hidden masterpiece - yet for me, it sits quietly, just minutes away.

When you enter the church, you are instantly drawn to the radiance of the blue hues of the stained glass window hanging over the altar on the east wall. Look closer, and the drama unfolds: a young girl, drowned in the dark swirling waters of the sea. To the left, her mother cradles her two young children, while on the other side, a kneeling figure expresses the family’s grief. A ladder reaches up to the figure of Christ, where an angel is waiting.

It takes a moment to realise that the church’s beauty lies in its modesty. It’s a simple space with basic architecture with no elaborate carvings or grand monuments. The simplicity allows the art of the stained glass windows to shine with luminosity, flooding the nave with glorious golden yellow tones to the deep blues in the north aisle.

The remaining 11 windows are symbolic to the bible - birds, flowers, floating figures, flying angels, harps, butterfly wings, saints, insects and whimsical human faces.

While working on the windows, Lady Rosemary took Chagall to a pub called the Startled Saint in West Malling. Chagall was so taken with the pub’s sign that it gave him the inspiration to incorporate the saint’s pose into one of the windows shown below.

Visiting Chagall’s luminous windows was an unexpected gift - one that awakened my creativity and inspired me to design my own stained-glass feature at home. Sometimes, the most extraordinary sparks of inspiration are waiting just around the corner if we seek them out.

I write slow travel stories on Journey in Colour. Read the blogs on my website

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The Journey in Colour logo

Nearly a year ago, I set out on my Journey in Colour adventure - a project born out of a desire to capture the vivid moments and emotions that travel brings. As I reflect on how far the journey has come, refreshing my website’s branding felt like a natural next step. Because my site is not commercial, I never felt the need for a traditional company logo. But as my presence starts to grow on social platforms, creating a visual identity that feels personal and true to my story has became more important. With no branding team or budget, I took on the challenge myself, determined to craft something meaningful and representative of my travels.

The logo for Journey in Colour is simple at first glance - an abstract bird in motion. But for me, it carries a lifetime of meaning.

A bird represents freedom

Growing up as a teenager, it was just my mother and me. Our house didn’t have many rules. In fact, the only one I can clearly remember was never to walk home alone. Beyond that, I was free. Free to try new things, free to make mistakes, free to fail and try again. My wings were never clipped. That freedom shaped who I became, and it’s something I hold onto fiercely as a free-spirited adult.

A bird has always represented freedom. They can soar without boundaries and migrate effortlessly across continents. That sense of perpetual movement reminds me of why I’ve always been drawn to travel: the freedom to be curious, to immerse myself in unfamiliar cultures, to taste new flavours, and to discover the world.

An expert traveller

A bird is a superior traveller. It uses quantum physics to navigate. It can fly thousands of kilometres through clouds in skies with no landmarks or GPS to visit the same tree each year.

In a bird’s brain, a protein called, cryptochrome, absorbs sunlight. When blue light hits the protein, it excites neurons, creating a pair of radicals which become quantum-entangled.

The Earth’s magnetic fields influence the quantum state of the radical pair, creating a field line signal that the bird can follow through a visual pattern - like natures’s own GPS. You can’t help but to respect how such a small creature with a tiny brain compared to a human can conquer such a quest, travelling across the globe.

A reminder of how precious life is

Just as music can transport you to a memory, the unexpected song of a bird has always grounded me - a gentle nudge to pause and appreciate the present. My connection to birds deepened profoundly after my grandmother passed away. She was more than family; she was my confidante, a second mum, and friend rolled into one. The day I visited the hospital after she died, I stepped out of the car and was struck by a chorus of birdsong - so loud and vibrant it felt as if the world itself was singing. In that moment, I realised she would never hear birds sing again, and the sound took on new meaning.

Suddenly, their song became sacred. Something fragile and to be cherished. It was a reminder of how fleeting life is and how important it is to truly live while we can. That experience stayed with me. Now, every bird reminds me not only of freedom and flight, but of the preciousness and fragility of life itself.

Live a purpose driven life

Birds don’t just travel - they flow. That natural grace mirrors the way I aspire to move through life: open-hearted and purpose-driven.

Purpose has guided my personal and professional path. I’ve never been someone motivated by money. Although it’s necessary to pay the bills and build security for the family, most of my career choices have been working for not-for-profits, in education, or in international development.

My quiet companions

Birds have also become quiet companions on my travels. If you have read my blogs, you may notice that they have been part of my travel memories, from the soft trill of a bulbul in Marrakesh to the most beautiful bird song I have ever heard: a nightingale. That moment has always stayed with me - such a simple pleasure. Sitting on a wooden stool outside Miss Can in Lisbon for longer than planned, eating tin sardines in the sun, intoxicated by the sherry wine and bird song!

So this is how I came to design my logo: a simple, abstract bird.

Last week, I stepped out for my usual mid‑morning coffee and noticed that an art exhibition had appeared beneath the railway arches behind my office. It was free, and curiosity won over caffeine, so I traded my coffee break for fifteen minutes of intrigue.

Inside, I found myself in a dimly lit, warehouse‑style space. Three large art scenes hung suspended in a triangular formation, each with a bench facing it. I chose a seat, leaned back against the cool wall, and fixed my eyes on the scene directly ahead.

As my vision adjusted, the landscape in front of me began to shift. A photographic projection dissolved into the scenery, the transition so fluid it felt almost organic. Nature sounds filled the room, the lighting shifted in gentle waves, and droplets of water fell steadily into a shallow puddle on the floor, punctuating the ambience with soft, echoing taps.

The exhibition was the work of Noémie Goudal. After researching hydrology and hydrogeology, she created a desynchronised interpretation of the water cycles she had studied - making visible, through colour and movement, the particles carried from one landscape to another.

I had wandered into this immersive world on a whim, knowing nothing about the artist or her intentions.

Sitting on the metal bench, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, my mind drifted. At first, I felt awkward - half adjusting to the darkness, half trying to understand the scene. Shadows emerged on the canvas, shifting slowly with the projections. The moment transported me back to childhood: lying awake at night, staring at the shapes cast across my bedroom walls, deciding whether they were harmless or a reason to run to my parents’ room. For a moment, I felt like that child again - curious and alert.

The seasons began to change before me. It was like watching a year unfold through a window in time‑lapse: day to night, warmth to frost, monochrome to colour. The canvas turned white as rain froze into a misty storm. The child in me resurfaced again, remembering the thrill of pulling back the curtains on a winter morning to find the world transformed.

As I settled into the exhibition’s rhythm, my thoughts shifted to something more recent. I had just finished reading Elif Shafak’s There Are Rivers in the Sky, a novel that left a deep impression on me. It explores the idea of water memory - the notion that water carries stories, histories, and connections across time. The book follows a single drop of water as it lands on the hair of a king, evaporates into the atmosphere, returns to a spring, travels to the open sea, rises again, and eventually becomes a snowflake that melts on the lips of a newborn baby centuries later. A cycle both ordinary and extraordinary.

Before reading it, I had never given much thought to the movement of water. Living in an area where our water network is frequently disrupted (this day being one of those times!) the topic suddenly felt more relevant, more personal.

Back in the exhibition, the scene in front of me shifted once more, from photographic realism to hyper‑colour abstraction. Bright streaks of colour traced the paths of water, revealing the invisible journeys of the world’s most essential resource.

What began as a spontaneous fifteen‑minute break became something unexpectedly meaningful. It reawakened childhood memories, echoed the wonder of a novel still fresh in my mind, stirred my concerns about our fragile water systems, and left me wanting to know more about the artist who had given me this brief but powerful escape from the working day. This is one of the reasons that I love art so much: its power to move the mind.

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About the artist:

Noémie Goudal Is a graduate of the Royal College of Art, London and is based in Paris, France.

First impressions of Uganda

My flight landed in Entebbe, and Uganda greeted me with the soft blush of morning light. The air was warm, and a short transfer away, Lake Victoria shimmered like a sheet of polished silver. We sat for breakfast on a terrace overlooking the valley and lake - a serene, unforgettable welcome to Africa.

In contrast, we continued our journey through the vibrant pulse of Kampala. The streets buzzed with life: mopeds zipped past, piled impossibly high with sacks, crates, a mirror, people, and even the occasional goat, clinging on like a seasoned commuter. Street vendors called out from roadside stalls beneath concrete buildings. Women passed by, dressed in colourful clothes, some balancing goods on their heads.

A quick stop in Jinja

In Jinja, we paused briefly by the roadside for a comfort break. A row of shanty stalls greeted us, with delights for the passing trade. Women sat on the dusty floor selling piles of oranges. Stalls sold hot spicy maize, and Rolex - a flatbread rolled with vegetables. My curiosity led me to try a skewer of gizzard, a local delicacy with an acquired taste.

A journey to East Uganda

The town of Mbale

As dusk approached, we reached Mbale and settled in for the night. Travel after dark isn’t advised here - the roads are unpredictable. We booked a table at a local restaurant that didn’t have a menu. We made a few suggestions for food and reached a mutual agreement on chicken and chips. A delivery of live chickens tied to the roof rack of a car arrived about 30 minutes later, and around 1.5 hours after that, our chickens were served up. We tucked in, appreciating the effort that went into the dish. I quickly realised there was a difference from my usual M&S roast chicken. This one was the ultimate free-range variety - it had clearly had a job as barnyard bouncer with drumsticks of steel before it met its fate.

A bumpy ride to a school in Kapelebyong District

At first light, we pressed on toward Kapelebyong District, near Kumi. The landscape began to shift. The minibus jolted and swayed over red-dusty, uneven tracks, winding through open woodland. The trees thinned, the air grew drier, and the road became a ribbon of ochre leading us deeper into the heart of Uganda.

The anticipation of our arrival was palpable. The locals knew our visit signalled the presence of donors who had stood behind their community, and their welcome was never anything short of jubilant. We turned the final bend and arrived at the school we visited. A walking sunrise emerged through the swipe of the large bus wipers - an explosion of colour and warmth leading us into the community.

Around a hundred people had gathered, their clothing a radiant mosaic of culture and celebration. Children in bright green school uniforms skipped beside mothers wrapped in vibrant skirts and patterned headscarves with babies tied to their backs.

Teachers stood proud in crisp shirts and ties. The air pulsed with song and dance, and above all, one woman’s ululation soared - a piercing, joyful cry that welcomed us to their culture. The crowd danced in front of the bus, leading us through the way. Having previously worked as a teacher, the opportunity to support fellow teachers and work with students in a rural African community was both exciting and rewarding.

The first few days humbled me. I felt the happiness within the community, which I had felt was lacking back home. The children met us with broad, unforgettable smiles, their eyes bright with curiosity and warmth. We visited many schools, each of them giving us the warmest welcome through song and dance - some we were invited to join in (excuse the mum dancing!)

What amazed me most was their resourcefulness. Nothing was wasted. A discarded water bottle became a toy, a tool, or a treasure. Their creativity was boundless, born not from abundance but from a spirit of making the most of what they had. We played sports, and though barefoot, they put me to shame with their goal-scoring skills.

I also noticed the freedom they carried so effortlessly. Unlike the screen-bound solitude of many children, these young ones roamed freely, miles from home and fearless, with no gadgets or hovering concerns. It stirred something in me: a quiet ache for my childhood, when life felt unfiltered, before the digital age had arrived.

I visited several family homes, most of which were a humble constellation of mud huts, each built with a purpose - one for cooking, another for sleeping, and others for storage, all arranged around a central open fire. Their thatched roofs were thick to keep the buildings cool, and the occasional brick house showed the local ambition among the simplicity.

Between trees, homemade washing lines sagged with freshly laundered clothes. Chickens wandered freely, pecking at the floor, and families slept on woven mats laid out on earthen floors.

I sat beside a mother on a wooden stool as we peeled cassava together. Our guide translated her words from the Teso language. She spoke with quiet pride that both her children were in school. Each morning, they fetched water, and each afternoon, they returned to help with chores.

What struck me most was the care taken in the smallest details. Though the home was basic, the men’s shirts and children’s school uniforms were perfectly ironed - crisp, clean, and worn with pride. It was a quiet testament to dignity and discipline.

After the evening chores, the communal fire became a gathering place. Families gathered around it, singing, laughing, and sharing stories. One father told me a local tale about a hare and a drought—a parable with a clear message: greed and secrecy fracture the bonds of the community. It was a wonderful experience to get to know the local people we supported through the projects.

The impact of poverty

But it wasn’t long before the reality of poverty struck me, and I learned the stories of women who had endured hardship and had fought to survive.

The first time I truly grasped the impact of poverty was while helping in a classroom. The students were focused, diligently repeating the teacher’s English phrases. But one child caught my eye - slumped over her desk, limp and pale, she looked no older than six. At the end of the lesson, I asked if she was alright. The teacher told me she had malaria. I asked if she shouldn’t be at home, resting, but the response was a vague silence that made me feel bad for asking!

As the lesson ended, I moved to the next classroom, but I couldn’t shake the image of that little girl. I stepped outside for air and noticed her wandering across the school field. Then she turned and looked at me. It wasn’t a fleeting glance but a long, piercing stare - it felt like a silent plea for help.

I asked the teacher where she was going. “She’s walking home,” they said. Home was several miles away. There was no transport, no one to accompany her. Just this fragile six-year-old, drained and unwell, making the long journey back to a traditional mud hut where she would sleep on the floor with no access to medical support or medication.

The next moment of deep appreciation came when I met a woman who had launched a small business initiative. She was a widow, a survivor of a brutal attack by two men who had raided her village. In defending herself, she suffered horrific injuries - two of her fingers were severed by a machete. No longer able to work the fields as she once had, she struggled to feed her two children.

She became part of a start-up project, selling Mukene fish - tiny, silver fish from a local lake that she gutted, salted, and sun-dried with care. Alongside these, she sold tomatoes and other vegetables, slowly building a livelihood that allowed her to live independently. She constructed a small clay-brick house from her modest profits, inviting us inside for a cup of herbal tea with quiet pride.

She moved me deeply. In this region, many girls are denied education - families often prioritise sons. At the same time, daughters are expected to work the land and enter arranged marriages at a young age. Many girls do not have a say in who they marry. They are sold for a dowry, and some still have their virginity tested for purity. For widows, the path out of poverty is steep and unforgiving. Their futures are rarely their own.

Her story unexpectedly mirrored an experience of my own, igniting a fire within me to become more involved in women’s empowerment projects. I had my daughter at eighteen, right after graduating from school. I found myself trapped in a violent relationship. Pride kept me silent, and fear kept me isolated. I didn’t want to burden my family with the violence or truth, and I lacked the financial means to leave. So I rode the rollercoaster of his aggression and guilt, absorbing the blows and burying the shame.

One day, while walking through my local town with a black eye and my daughter in her buggy, I felt an overwhelming wave of helplessness. I collapsed and slid down against the wall to the pavement outside the market hall. Something snapped in me, and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. My daughter was facing away in the buggy, blissfully unaware of the problems behind her. A woman passed by and asked gently, “Are you okay?” I wasn’t. And in that moment, something shifted. It was the start of the decision to take control.

I picked myself up, soothed my daughter, and walked straight to the local police station. I told them everything, the truth I’d buried far too long. That same afternoon, we were taken into refuge with nothing but the clothes on our backs. I didn’t tell anyone where I was, not even my family or friends. I couldn’t risk bringing violence to their doorstep. After a while, I relocated my job to a different town and started over - just me and my little girl.

The stories of these women, of survival, strength, and self-determination, inspired me. They reminded me of my own power and sparked a commitment to helping others reclaim theirs. The most significant gift to give a girl is an education, along with the confidence to be independent.

Having worked as a teacher before my time in Uganda, I was passionately committed to the projects we supported, such as early learning - providing books in Teso and English; training teachers in child-centered learning; offering local role models to communities that demonstrate the benefits of educating girls, and delivering menstrual and sex education to prevent unwanted teenage pregnancies.

Village Loan and Savings Schemes

We also provided other grassroots initiatives, such as teaching basic math to older girls who had not been in school and had children, and set up Village Loan and Savings Schemes. These schemes are community-based financial groups that offer an accessible alternative to formal banking, especially in rural areas with limited traditional financial services. The women pool their savings and can borrow from the collective fund. The women put forward their needs and borrowed the money at a low interest rate, and the scheme is managed on a trust basis.

I spoke to various women who the scheme had helped, and it had been a lifesaver, especially with paying school fees, uniforms, or setting up micro-businesses. Some women originally used the money to buy maize to sell, but after reaping profits, went on to purchase cattle.

My time in Uganda was always enlightening. We attended lessons, played sports at lunchtime, and participated in the celebrations of the first day at primary school (which included a conga around the school!) We also collected water from the rivers with the children and celebrated the construction of new boreholes that would provide the communities with clean drinking water.

I spent time with locals with different faiths and beliefs. I really enjoyed spending time in a small Muslim community. We celebrated Ramadan with the community, buying the children treats who were allowed to break their fast.

Before we left, the community always put on a show featuring dance and sports, and we ate together a mixed bowl of meat, rice, vegetables, and millet bread. Elders would play the thumb piano, people would sing, and the odd child would join in with homemade instruments.

Working in international development and within the Ugandan communities was one of my most valued and treasured roles. I was passionate about my work, so it felt right to open the kimono and share why I was so invested. I spent time in Mbale, Bukedea, Kumi, and Ngora, visiting many schools and community projects.

As the Brexit vote was cast, funding to these areas dramatically dropped, forcing me to rethink my career plans. However, the experience remains part of me. Now, in a senior role as a director, I can support colleagues in developing their careers, helping others strive for financial independence. Fostering a workplace that values diversity, equity, and inclusion empowers those around me. And stories spread like birds; you never know where they’ll land. So, if you need to empower your life, the first step is to be ready to take control; the next is to seek help. Whether in Africa or England, most of us will have a family member, friend or access to a charity or support group to set us on the right path.

During a brief visit to Palma, I visited Es Baluard Museu d’Art Contemporani de Palma. I wandered the galleries, but Cinto’s immersive universe stilled my thoughts. Her work offered a pause, a sanctuary from the city’s overstimulation, inviting reflection and contemplation.

I sank into a beanbag and let the waves, stars, and constellations wash over me. Delicate silver lines stretched across deep blue walls, mapping a vast cosmos. But the ladder, suspended between the stars, struck me the most. It made me consider my own path in life. Where am I on my own ascent? And in that moment, the art became a mirror of self-reflection.

Life’s path is rarely straight; it twists and loops along the way. Sitting there, I felt the quiet tension between momentum and intention. Life is a conversation between the energy that moves through us and our choices in response.

There are currents that we don’t see - the quiet forces of timing, emotion, intuition, environment and even coincidence, which shape where we drift or where we are drawn. It’s like an invisible pulse that nudges us towards certain people or moments. We feel it when we encounter a situation that effortlessly flows. Of course, we still have choices in how our lives unfold. The more attuned we are, the more gracefully we move - whether we resist, surrender, or leap toward what’s next.

Over time, I’ve begun to understand how the energy around me shapes my path. I’m a headstrong, spirited woman, rooted where the air is kind and I feel in step with the rhythm. If the conditions in my environment are right, I stay. But if the balance shifts, I quietly slip away into the undercurrent elsewhere. I’ve learned not to resist it. To trust my intuition; the river always knows where it’s taking me.

The power of art is profound. Cinto’s work wasn’t there to decorate - it stirred something deeper, inviting me to feel, pause, and reflect on the contours of my journey.

I recently returned from cycling 200 miles from the Dolomites to Venice. For some, that might be a breezy ride—but for me, approaching my fifties, with little cycling experience and at my most unfit, it was a serious challenge.

The journey began with a mix of excitement and nerves. As our coach wound its way toward Dobbiaco after a three-hour journey, the mountains rose like giants, and the reality of pedalling all the way back began to sink in. But the beauty of the Dolomites quickly softened my fear—emerald lakes, snow-dusted peaks, and air so pure it felt like breathing for the first time.

Each day brought fresh terrain: quiet valleys, wildflower meadows, exhilarating switchbacks, rustic hilltop towns, and sunlit flatlands. The adventure tested, surprised, and rewarded me at every turn.

In the valleys, I was serenaded by the gentle chime of cowbells echoing through the landscape. Feltre buzzed with the energy of the Dolomiti Race, while Asolo offered sweeping 360-degree views that made the savage climb worth it. The journey gifted me countless memories.

Venice provided the perfect end to the journey. A contrast to the cycling days: winding canals, historic architecture, gondolas, gelato and vibrant piazzas to sit and celebrate with Prosecco.

Over six days, I racked up 200 miles and learned a valuable life lesson. In the past, I’ve been offered opportunities that felt too big, too daunting and haven’t always taken them. But if life were a cake, you wouldn’t eat it all at once. You’d savour it—one slice at a time.

This trip reminded me that progress comes in stages. Splitting the cycling over six days made it possible. I took each day as it came, and in doing so, discovered strength, joy, and a new way of seeing possibility.

If you fancy cycling the Dolomites to Venice, have a read of my blog, or listen to the audio version below. And if you are not an experienced cyclist, you’ve got this—one day at a time.