spain – Live The Life You Love

All at sea on the journey home: vomiting dogs, stinging wasps and Land Rover love

July 14, 2017August 27, 2017Posted in Live Life BetterTagged adventure, dog, kitesurf, kitesurfing, land rover, land rover series, livethelifeyoulove, salamanca, santander, sevilla, spain, travel, travellingLeave a comment

I am only leaving Tarifa for nine weeks – we’re back at the beginning of September for one more month of magical adventures before I head off, sans Tiggy and The Beast, to Nepal. But still, the time to depart had come round far too fast.

I hate packing, I always have far too much stuff. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live life as a minimalist person, a floaty existence, unencumbered from clutter. I often marvel at ‘all white’ interior photo shoots in designer home magazines and try and always fail to imagine myself existing in a home like that.

I suppose our personal possessions are a reflection of our true characters – mine certainly is – busy, busy, busy, always doing something, my own special version of organized chaos, a high-energy life strewn with umpteen different things going on at once. I think it’s why swimming, walking, kite-surfing etc. are so good for me, they either lull me into a dream-free state or force me to concentrate and think of only one thing (where is my kite, my board, the waves, the wind).

I’ve done really well on avoiding retail therapy during my time in Tarifa – I haven’t gone over my designated budget and the only really big ticket purchases I’ve made are for kite surfing. On packing, I reaffirmed my vow to keep de-cluttering and to stop purchasing anything unnecessarily. I say all of this, yet a secret, small part of me still hankers after a rose-gold Rolex yachtmaster…I am nothing if not a creature of conflict and contradiction.

The weather for my final week was amazing – clear blue skies and glorious sunshine. A Poniente breeze blew in from the Atlantic, allowing for blue-bird kite-surfing and serene sea-swimming conditions. And I managed to cram in as much of both as time allowed.

It’s a long and lovely pilgrimage home, taking in some of the finest cities Spain has to offer on a four day voyage; Tarifa to Sevilla, Sevilla to Salamanca, Salamanca to Portsmouth (via ferry) and one last ferry from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight. All in all, 633 miles of driving, 622 miles on a Brittany ferry and a short hop home to Cowes.

After The Beast’s meltdown only the week before, the hero farmer who rescued us had already checked the oil and water and decreed them good. And, bribed with an eight pack of Cruzcampo beer, the local mechanic had agreed to bump The Beast up his one-week waiting list and fixed our frazzled blinkers and headlights in under a day for a refreshingly thrifty thirty euros.

I spent a lot of time sorting through all my things, putting aside one bag of clothes for September and taking four more large bags home with me, along with some books, my half-finished painting canvas, picnic basket and a plethora of other belongings that had hardly been used since my arrival.

Given that I was now the proud owner of three new, beautiful kites (two pink, one blue), a kite-board (pink and blue) and wetsuit (merely blue), I was actually coming home with more than I took out. So, after a not insignificant amount of effort, I was shipshape and prepared to cast off from Tarifa and weave our way home back to the Isle of Wight.

The Beast (thankfully) was sound and ready, I was sound albeit not quite emotionally ready, it was Tiggy, unfortunately, who turned out to be little under par. After my last, best and most enjoyable kite surfing session thus far, I returned home to be welcomed both by Tiggy and a little pile of luminous yellow vomit. These things happen, Tiggy isn’t often sick, and it always passes quickly so I held off feeding her any supper and kept my fingers crossed she’d be ok in the morning.

A lovely Last Supper with the boys came and went, Tiggy survived the night without producing any more radio-active surprises and we rolled into Thursday ready to rock and roll from the Reefa and commence our journey up to Sevilla. At lunchtime Tiggy was fed with her usual post-upset tummy dish of chicken-and-rice which was gobbled down in a flash and the bowl pushed round the floor of the apartment like an ice hockey puck as she licked out every last drop.

The boys came round to help me strategically pack The Beast. And after a slightly stressful incident of puffing up The Beasts tyres (30 PSI for those of you who care about such things) during which the boys were very kind and patient and I was somewhat impatient and unintentionally ungrateful, we all headed out to one of our favourite chiringuito for an ice cream and a bit of a decompress before the journey began.

Tiggy enjoyed a bouncy and fun game of catch while I, for one last time, absorbed the arresting sight of hundreds of kites careering through the skies attached by a tangle of 25 metre lines to the surfers carving through the waves.

Time to go, we said our goodbyes and headed inland from the coast to Sevilla – officially the warmest city in Europe and which, for those of you who believe in mythology, was founded by non other than Hercules.

Fittingly, it was somewhat of a Herculean drive: scorching hot and very dusty. The Beast’s fresh-air conditioning vents were cranked open to the max, my window and the passenger window were both wide open and still it was sizzling. The road was hilly, although not particularly winding and the vistas of the rugged hills of Los Alcornocales National Park, carpeted with one of the largest cork forests in the world, made for a visually impressive and interesting drive.

The Beast is perfectly capable of averaging at 60mph, but it’s far from a comfy cruise, once the speedo needle has tipped beyond 55mph the whole physical experience moves up an exponential notch and he becomes uncomfortably bumpy, bouncy and deafeningly rattly, something one has to endure as opposed to enjoy. As we all know that life is about the journey and not the destination, I therefore chose to cruise at a slightly (although not much) more serene average speed of 55mph.

Comfort factor aside, this meant that absolutely everything overtook us – lorries and buses travel at 60mph so we avoided getting stuck in their wake and as the roads weren’t busy, we could drive along in solitude without having to worry about complex and stressful manoeuvres such as overtaking or driving too close to anyone.

Tiggy always travels up front, next to me in the middle seat. She loves a journey in The Beast, I don’t know if it’s the vibrations or the sounds that she likes the most, but something about it is clearly very comforting to her, as she always curls up in her basket and goes sound asleep for hours at a time. Every now and again she’ll stir, wriggle to a new spot if the sun has moved and then go straight back to sleep. It’s not a bad life she leads.

About forty-five minutes into our journey, she stirred, stretched, squinted at me dozily and then opened her mouth and projectile vomited half digested chicken and rice all over the dashboard. She gave me a look as if to say ‘sorry mummy’, and then proceeded to attempt to eat the bits that hadn’t made it onto the dashboard and had landed on the side of her bed.

Aghast, but trying to remain calm, I saw a sign that said ‘Camino de Servicio’ which was the next exit and so I took it. Just as I was approaching the exit ramp, a wasp flew in via the open air front flap, stung me in the arm and then got sucked out of my driver’s side window before I could personally ensure it’s early demise. I howled loudly both in pain and exasperation. It really, really hurt.

Taking the service road, I looked, but couldn’t see the garage that I expected to be off the roundabout from the exit ramp. I followed the Camino de Servicio signs thinking perhaps it would be a garage in a small village – oftentimes in Spain the garages are about half a kilometer from the motorway, presumably located on what was once the main thoroughfare. But no, none was forthcoming.

After a couple of minutes the TomTom realized the error of my ways and re-routed us, telling us to go straight for five more miles before we could get back on the motorway towards Sevi-R (TomTom’s mis-pronunciation of Spanish towns is worthy of a blog post in its own right).

By the time I realized that the service station was going to be but a mirage in my mind, my arm was really starting to throb and the car was filled with the pungent and nauseating aroma of warm chicken vomit, with chunks dropping off the dashboard onto the floor.

I pulled over and used up half a packet of wet wipes cleaning the dashboard, the floor, Tiggy’s basket and the seat. The one time to be grateful for plastic seating in 35 plus degrees heat is when your dog has just been sick all over it, and you need to clean it up.

There wasn’t much I could do about my arm, which had gone a bit numb and was properly painful. There wasn’t much more I could do about Tiggy being sick either – we still had two and a half hours to go and we needed to get there.

Back on the motorway once more, I saw a Repsol garage on the side of the road, so I pulled in to take stock and gather my senses. Tiggy had some water; I had a small coffee and rubbed my smarting arm.

I bought some Haribo Starmix to cheer myself up and splurged 1.5 euros on a lemon scented car freshener which proclaimed ‘reir es la major vitamina’ – ‘laughter is the best vitamin’, clearly the Spanish version of ‘laughter is the best medicine’. It made me smile, but I was still some way off being able to chuckle about what had happened. Projectile dog vomit and baking hot car interiors do not make for a fun nor happy partnership.

When we finally arrived at 7pm it was still a punishing 36 degrees.

The Novotel where we were staying thankfully had an underground car park, although the corners were really tight, so I had to navigate three fifteen-point turns to get us into the hotel’s parking section – The Beast’s turning circle is diametrically opposed to that of a London Black Cab. If they had offered valet parking, I would have thrown the keys to the bellboy, Hollywood style, and legged it.

Once checked into our room, with the air conditioning on maximum cool and Tiggy tucked up in her basket on top of a beach towel in case of any more chundering, I ran a bath and soaked in peace and solitude for a good half hour.

After getting dressed, Tiggy and I wandered out into the very warm evening – it was still 30 degrees at 8.30pm – somewhat frazzled by the unexpected events and fried by the heat, we circumnavigated the impressive, enormous cathedral and bullring in a slightly lack-luster fashion.

The cathedral is awe-inspiring, dwarfing the likes of St Pauls Cathedral, it took over one hundred years to build when it was started in 1401. Standing defiantly on the former site of the city’s mosque, the spot was chosen two hundred years after the Castilians had successfully booted out the Islamic ‘invaders’ who had only spent the previous 770 years living there. I find the history of this region absorbing, fascinating and horrifying with unnerving and unsettling parallels to the world we find ourselves living in today (what is it they say about history repeating itself…).

Too tired to explore much more, I had a distinctly underwhelming and overpriced tapas supper along with two medicinal beers. We were both tucked up in bed and basket respectively by 10.45pm.

The next morning, we were up early as Sevilla to Salamanca was the longest leg of our journey – a bottom numbing five hours plus. Thankfully there had been no unwelcome mid-night deposits from the depths of Tiggy’s tummy (Tiggy remained nil by mouth to reduce any risk of that) and my arm had finally stopped aching.

I carried our bags down to the car and opened the passenger door to be greeted by an overwhelming onslaught: a stomach churning smell of stale chicken vomit mingled with synthetic lemon air freshener. My heart sank, my wet wipe clean up had clearly missed some nook or cranny where slowly decomposing chicken had made its home.

I still needed to check out of the hotel, so tucking Tiggy under my arm, we got the lift up to reception where, with my best game face on and trying to make Tiggy look as cute and innocent as possible, I asked if I could please avail myself of some disinfectant and a cloth because ‘my poor little doggy had been car sick yesterday’.

I explained that we had to drive all the way to Salamanca in my very old and slow car, at which point the kindly manager picked up the phone to housekeeping and garbled something unintelligible to whomever was on the other end.

He told me to go down to the car which I did, where I was promptly met by not one, but two housekeeping ladies, with a trolley full of cleaning products, along with a bucket and a mop. I repeated the ‘pauvrecito perrito’ (poor little doggy) web of half-truths to the ladies, who shook their heads sympathetically and insisted on doing the job themselves.

One of them took such a shine to Tiggy that as well as vigorously mopping out the foot-well, even The Beast’s dashboard received an efficient spritzing of lavender furniture polish and an energetic buffing. They then wanted their photo taking with Tiggy in front of The Beast, which I was more than happy to oblige (although annoyingly I forgot to take one of my own).

And under a cloud of lemon and lavender scent we executed three more fifteen point turns to exit the underground car park and leave the blistering heat of Sevilla behind us.

There’s not that much to embellish about our journey really – it was long, you basically go straight on for 125 miles, hang a right and then stay on the same road for another 125 miles; the countryside was green and vast and a joy to behold; The Beast was mechanically flawless; Tiggy wasn’t sick and no unwelcome insects invaded or stung.

The further away from the stifling heat of Sevilla we got and the closer to Salamanca, the more pleasant the journey became (although my bottom got a bit numb towards the end).

We stopped to refuel, twice – the first time I bought some Jamon flavor Ruffles – unequivocally the best flavoured crisp in Spain, the second time I topped up on the previous day’s Haribo Starmix (large bag). Whilst neither snack could come close to claiming they were of any nutritional benefit whatsoever, I thoroughly enjoyed them both and scoffed them down in an embarrassingly short space of time.

We arrived in Salamanca at about 3pm, once in our room Tiggy was fed for the first time and as soon as the last mouthful was digested, I took her for a long walk, just in case the dodgy tum decided to make a reappearance.

Thankfully the food stayed down and we returned back to the hotel for a siesta and for me to wallow in another luxurious bath (lots of bubbles) before heading out for yet more underwhelming and overpriced food. I’m really not good at choosing where to eat, and must do more research next time (adds Lonely Planet Salamanca to shopping basket on Amazon).

Tarifa aside, Salamanca is my favourite city in Spain (although I do still have to visit Cadiz and Grenada). To many people, Sevilla is the most beautiful city in Spain, and it really is extraordinary, but for me it’s no contest that Salamanca pips it to the post. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that it’s smaller, so the incredible architecture feels more immersive and accessible or perhaps, because of the university, there’s a higher concentration of ancient buildings to admire than Sevilla.

It’s such a vibrant city, mainly thanks to the large population of both local and international students, stunningly floodlight by night or illumined with soft warmth when bathing in the afternoon sun. The facades of the spectacular buildings make for a visual feast, bursting with mythical heroes, impressive religious scenes and exquisite coats of arms, bestowing the whole city with a magical quality and mystical feel.

Its history is equally as fascinating as Sevilla; the university is the oldest in Spain and one of the oldest in the western world, Christopher Columbus lectured there; the ‘new cathedral’ was only built in 1512 (restoration work in 1992 saw a faun eating an ice cream and an astronaut carved into the façade!); and the city was also Franco’s headquarters making Salamanca the de facto Nationalist capital and centre of power during the entire Spanish civil war.

Take my word for it, just go.

A late breakfast more than made up for my disappointing dinners from the two previous evenings. Outside on the terrace, I over indulged in a smorgasbord of bucksfizz, yoghurt and homemade compot followed by scrambled eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes and a petite pain au chocolat to round it all off. Only when travelling is chocolate ok for breakfast. Somewhat stuffed, dazed and confused from an inevitable food coma, I took Tiggy for a long walk, ready for our last three and a half hour drive to Santander and the ferry that night which would carry us back across the Bay of Biscay and down The Channel into Portsmouth.

As we were leaving, I risked life, limb and the wrath of the Spanish drivers of Salamanca by parking The Beast diagonally across a pavement to get a ‘money shot’ of him in front of the cathedral and another of us going through an ancient tunnel. And then, still satiated and most content, we were off once more.

The lemon scented freshener had already run out of smell, which made it one of my poorer 1.5 euro investments, but thankfully the eau de chicken-sick had definitely gone too, so I didn’t really feel it was my place to grumble.

The road to Santander was hilly and The Beast drank a lot of diesel – we traversed viaducts, zoomed through long tunnels and were in the queue for the ferry in no time at all. There’s not much to say about Santander that’s really of interest (that I saw), it’s headquarters to the bank, it’s ugly as sadly much of the town was destroyed by a fire in 1941, and the port is very big.

My passport was scantily checked, Tiggy’s passport was thoroughly checked and a new yellow “Pet On Board” sticker was affixed to The Beast’s windscreen. And that was that, our time in Spain was up, we were ready to board and commence the penultimate leg of our long journey home.

Once on board, Tiggy and I bundled into the lift up to the doggy deck. It’s a pretty slick and efficient service, except that Tiggles, much to her utter horror, has to go in a kennel that somewhat unfortunately – thanks to its very hygienic stainless steel casing and bars – looks very much like a jail. The nice thing is that dog owners can visit their precious pups any time of day and night, and because the weather on the crossing was stunning, we spent most of the day on the outside doggy deck, Tiggy toasting in the sunshine on my knee, and me writing this blog.

I started to write something about how eccentric, quirky and possibly downright bonkers, the other the dog owners were and then realized that, really, I was more than probably simply verbalising what they all thought of me. Contemplating and chuckling inwardly over this self-realisation for a short time, I stopped typing and sheepishly tapped the backspace button to delete what I had written. We fellow travelling dog owners need to stick together.

Long, lolloping waves greeted us head on as we left the shores of Spain behind and the ferry gently rocked over and slid down the back of them as we headed out into the Bay of Biscay. I looked down onto the waves and thought what fun it would be to kite surf out there on them – a watery, wind powered roller coaster, oh how I do love the sea.

Yet one more unsatisfactory supper later (should have stuck to Jamon Ruffles and Haribo) gave me the excuse to go via the shop after tucking Tiggy into bed that evening and, along with a cup of lukewarm PG tips, I gorged on a whole bar of Dairy Milk Fruit and Nut in bed whilst reading my book. Some crumbs of chocolate dropped and melted onto the sheet, I felt both guilty and naughty – it was rather like being at a pyjama party except I was the only guest. Satiated (and a bit sickly if I’m really honest), I turned off the light and, suddenly feeling utterly shattered, settled into my narrow bunk for a good night’s sleep.

Lying there I thought about Tiggy, up at the bow where it’s way more bumpy, and hoped she’d be ok with the waves that continued to roll towards us as we crossed Biscay. My cabin was towards the stern and, as I’d chosen the cheapest (yet still reassuringly expensive) cabin available, I was only one level above the car decks; I could feel the ship’s propeller shudder and judder beneath me.

Once I’ve got used to the vibrations and the constant noise of the engine, I find sleeping on a ferry really peaceful but annoyingly, despite being really tired, it took me ages to get to sleep that night.

My mind kept wandering – how did I feel about heading home? Would I miss the ‘Reefa? How can the time have flown by so quickly? Am I still doing the right thing? Am I keeping busy enough? Is there anything I else I should be doing that I’m not? I was all at sea; already homesick for Tarifa, and, at the same time, homesick for home. I don’t know how it’s possible to miss two places (or the people in them) at once, but it is.

Everyone keeps asking me what I will do when my gap year is over – the truthful answer is, I don’t know yet. I’ve been in touch with a few headhunters, but the opportunities that would be right for me (and I right for them) are really few and far between. There was one utterly amazing job, it would have been a dream job five years ago, and the interviews involved having Skype meetings with some of the most powerful people in fashion – but it was 50% in New York. I’ve more than been there, done that, got the t-shirt, along with the sweatshirt, cap and shoes – no amount of money or bragging job title in the world will induce me to spend half my life on an aeroplane ever again.

I trust myself well enough now that I will know when I find the right opportunity (or the right opportunity finds me) and when it does, I shall seize and embrace it.

Eventually my mind stopped whirling, I fell sound asleep and, unusually, didn’t wake up until my alarm sang softly in my ear. After showering in what must be the smallest bathroom known to mankind, I dashed upstairs to release Tiggy from jail, give her breakfast and a leg stretch on the doggy deck. Once she realised that food was on the cards, she quickly got over her umbrage at having been incarcerated all night, along with fifteen other howling and wailing four legged friends, and leapt around as much as one can on a gently ducking and diving deck.

It was a blissful day of quiet contemplation, writing, reading and soaking up the sun in the lee of the doggy penitentiary. I considered going for a swim in the open air, postage stamp, roof top pool, but it was closed due to the ‘sea state’ which was causing the swimming pool’s water to slop rather violently from one end to the other as the ferry rolled up and down the waves. I was gutted, it would have been fun I imagined, rather like swimming in a washing machine on a slow cycle.

It’s a long passage from Lands End (which we couldn’t see, but Google maps told me we’d passed) along one of my favourite coastlines in England – past the pretty little seaside towns of St Mawes, Dartmouth and Fowey; where I have spent many a happy summer, pottering around on the water. Seagulls squawked above us in the clear blue sky and a warm breeze puffed gently from the west.

After countless tummy tickles for Tiggy, many cups of tea and a plate of soggy chips for me, we eventually passed Portland Bill, a point around which I have sailed so very often, but never in such glorious conditions. A small shiver of anticipation ran through me.

Sliding Tiggy off my lap, I stood up and we ambled over to the ship’s railings, Tiggy bravely peering at the sea below, me peering out to see if I could spot the Isle of Wight. Squinting into the bright light, far away in the distance, out beyond where the sunlight bounced off the waves and the wind made patterns on the water, I could just make out the outline of a small, dark mound and instinctively I knew; I was home.

For the love of dog: Tiggy cashes in on one of her seven lives…

June 9, 2017June 10, 2017Posted in Live Life BetterTagged chiclana, dog, emergency, land rover, puppy, spain, Tarifa, wind farm, wind powerLeave a comment

A curious turn of incidents has led to a very emotional week for the Tarifa arm of the Neary family.

It all started, I think, with an extra enthusiastic bounce from Tiggy onto the sofa one evening which ended in a squeal and a sore back leg. The next day when I left to go kiting she cried a bit – hindsight being 20:20, I now realise she was trying to tell me her leg was properly sore and not just an ‘ouchy’.

A few hobbling walks later, I started to get worried as it didn’t seem to be getting any better. But I knew it wasn’t broken as she could, when required, still bounce up the steep steps to our apartment, run after her ball or jump onto my lap for a cuddle.

Was it worth a vets visit, I pondered on Tuesday. Having prevaricated and then decided yes, an appointment was secured for 1pm on Thursday.

In the meantime one of the Tarifa Tribe lent me his ‘red light’ therapy lamp – which, he explained, enhances and promotes the body’s natural healing powers. I can’t confess I understood the science behind it, but when he mentioned it was used by NASA to treat injuries in outer space, I concluded it would be good enough for Tiggy to try on terra firma.

Tiggy adores warmth be it a glorious sunny spot, a toasty wood burner and she is especially fond of underfloor heating (let’s face it, who isn’t?). Unsurprisingly then she utterly adored being placed strategically into position and basking in the red light glow for a restorative twenty minutes at a time.

Thursday came and we ambled along the road to see our vet, Eva. Eva was already firm friends with Tiggy as, quite soon after we arrived, Tiggy contracted an infection in her lady-bottom. Quite how remains somewhat of a mystery – although my friends all took great pleasure in concocting stories as to how this had come to pass – each one more outrageous and revolting than the next. One (i.e. me) was not amused. My theory is it was something to do with the sweet yet slobbering boxer who lives below us and who licked her bottom like a lollipop every time we entered or left our apartment.

Anyway…I explained the potential source of the sore leg to the lovely Swiss German, fluent Spanish and English speaking Eva. Tiggy was duly walked around the waiting room like a little show pony so that her limp could be seen from all sides and then hoisted onto the table in the examination room where her leg was manipulated in every angle conceivable (and some that seemed pretty inconceivable to me) whilst being bribed with biscuits.

“I’m sure it’s not broken” said Eva, “but it could be a torn ligament which will show if the bones are misaligned, so we need to do an X-ray.”

That almost worried me more as if Tiggy had torn the equivalent of her ACL, I wasn’t quite clear how well it would heal – you can’t exactly get a knee brace for a little back leg.

Tiggy obediently tottered behind Eva into the x-ray room to be papped at a number of different angles. More than a smattering of the eight thousand plus photos I have on my phone are of Tiggy – so fortunately she’s very used to striking a pose. Tiggy was returned to me for a tummy tickle and yet another treat whilst we waited for Eva to examine the X-ray.

After a while Eva came back and showed me the X-ray results. It was good news, the leg bones were ever so slightly misaligned, which probably meant a strained, not torn, ligament – rest and recuperation were the order of the day along with an injection of pain killer. I also showed Eva a picture of the red light lamp of love and she concurred it was good to keep that treatment going too.

Then there was a pregnant pause and just as I was about to scoop Tiggy up and take her home, Eva told me, hesitantly, that something else has showed up in the X-ray. An unexpected, slightly skewiff, solid triangle shaped ‘foreign object’ in, what seemed to be, her tummy. Not a growth, not a tumour or anything else that would conjure a myriad of consequences – but, all the same, an unwelcome intruder, lodged inside where it ought not to have been.

There then followed a lengthy discussion as to what the alien object actually was. I went through the options – most likely a pebble, possibly a remnant of bone or a bit of plastic from an old ball were the most obvious ones I could come up with. One of the other vets suggested tin foil, which was also entirely feasible.

I wasn’t at all bothered. Hoppity leg aside, Tiggy was in more than great health. Wet nose, waggy tail, shiny coat and no change to her eat-everything-in-sight appetite or digestion.

“It’s probably a stone”, I said, “and I bet it’s been in there for ages”.

When I first got Tiggy, seven years ago, she had just come out of being on heat. She’s a rescue dog having been hideously treated by her cretinous previous owners. The RSPCA recommends all rescue dogs are speyed as, I’m guessing (although I don’t know for sure) if you don’t know what they’ve been through, then you should avoided breeding from them. You have to wait a while after a dog has been in season before you have them spayed and during this time poor little Tiggy developed a phantom pregnancy.

It was a nightmare. She became very territorial over her basket, she’d growl at the boys at work when any of them came into my office and, most heartbreaking of all, she ‘adopted’ some large pebbles from my garden and treated them like her own newborn puppies.

When it was sunny, one by one, the pebbles would be picked up and carried outside and placed in the warmth of the sunshine.

When the sun went in, one by one, the pebbles would be picked up, carried back inside and tucked into her basket.

An injection of hormones at the vets put paid to the phantom puppies and pregnancy and Tiggy buried her own demons from the past to become the much adored and happy, bouncy dog she is today.

So I wondered if the stone could have been an unintentional left over consequence from the puppy-pebble saga.

The other reason I felt there was more than a fighting chance it was a stone was because Tiggy also loves nothing more than a game of throw and catch with anything that resembles a ball. Given that a fair few beaches where we’ve played catch for years on the Isle of Wight are pebbly ones, it seemed entirely plausible that one had been accidentally ingested.

So, as I said, I was entirely unbothered – Tiggy was in fine fettle, it clearly wasn’t causing her any issues at all and I assumed it could therefore just stay put.

Unfortunately, Eva did not share this opinion. She was quite firm, it needed to be dealt with before it became a problem. It absolutely could not stay put, it had to come out. Some more X-rays on an empty tummy were required in order to properly determine the next steps and we were sent home, Tiggy to be nil by mouth until 1pm the next day.

Back we went on Friday, this time with my visiting friend, Gretchen, also in tow. We had an ultrasound to start with. Good news! The object had vanished. I breathed a sigh of relief. It must have been some tin foil stuck to a piece of left over steak brought home from a restaurant for Tiggy on Tuesday.

I felt as if I had exhaled properly for the first time in twenty four hours.

Eva said we should do one more x-ray to be on the safe side. Fine, I said, already looking forward to a restorative gin and tonic and toasting the demise of tummy-gate on the beach with Gretchen.

But no, those plans were quickly thwarted as lo and behold the x-ray showed the pesky little blighter was still there. In exactly the same place, it just hadn’t showed up in the ultrasound for some strange reason.

“What happens now?”, I asked Eva. I was given two options. Either drive up the coast to a pet hospital in Chiclana where they could perform an endoscopy, or have an operation here, which that would mean cutting directly into her tummy, i.e a big operation.

I was still struggling to grasp that my seemingly, healthy, happy little dog was going to have to undergo a major procedure, when, to all intents and purposes, she clearly was feeling perfectly chipper.

“What would you do if she was your dog?” I asked Eva, “I would go to Chiclana for the endoscopy”, she replied. Although she made it clear there was no guarantee the foreign object could or would be excavated by the endoscopy, and then there would be no option but to cut her open.

At this point the enormity of it all hit me and I put my head in my hands and burst into tears. I didn’t want Tiggy to have a general anaesthetic. Even though I’m ridiculously squeamish, the idea of the endoscopy didn’t bother me at all. But the idea of her having a general anaesthetic filled me with an overwhelming gnawing, clawing anxiety.

The vet in Chiclana had already been contacted and an emergency appointment was made for Saturday (the following) morning.

In the meantime I messaged my friends at home who have far more experience in this area than I, having owned not one but five spaniels (at the same time) over the past thirteen years, one of whom had a particular penchant for eating toy soldiers and dinky cars. Get a second opinion, they counselled whilst sending lots of love to Tiggy.

In the end, four vets all concluded that, whatever it was, it had to come out.

There was little more we could do, so Tiggy, Gretchen and I headed off to the beach for a few hours and a much needed beer. My head was still reeling that an initial visit over a sore leg had turned into such a significant incident. I hadn’t had time to brace or prepare myself for this at all.

Tiggy, who already hadn’t eaten for twenty four hours, was now nil by mouth both food and water. Hunger aside she was still full of bounce and fun and was ecstatic that, as a rare special treat, she was allowed upstairs to sleep on my bed that evening.

She started the night curled up in a puffed up part of duvet at the end of the bed. By about 3am I felt the warmth of her body tucked into the small of my back. By 6.30am, when it was time to get up, she’d managed to commando crawl on her tummy and ended up nose to nose with me on the pillow, somehow sensing that she wouldn’t be told off for doing so.

This was the first “early getting up” deadline I’d had since being made redundant. And I didn’t enjoy it at all. Having washed, fed and watered myself whilst Tiggy looked on hungrily it was time to leave.

I packed her bed and her blanket so she’d have some security from familiar surroundings when she came round the from the anaesthetic and it was time to hit the road.

The destination of the pet hospital was tapped into the TomTom and The Beast roared into life, ready to transport his precious cargo up the coast.

It’s a bit of a standing joke in our family that I’m a fairly rubbish driver. I don’t enjoy or like driving and I certainly don’t like going fast. My usual modus operandi is far more Driving Miss Daisy than Speedy Gonzales, I tend to tootle along, very content to be overtaken by all and sundry whilst we amble bumpily to our destination.

It’s partly why I like driving on the Isle of Wight – no motorways or dual carriageways, the sat nav in my old Fiat 500 would often report an average speed of 25mph. For the past ten years my total annual mileage has been under 2,000.

Not today though. We pulled out of Tarifa and onto the main coast road and with a purposeful sense of grit and determination, I totally floored it.

The Beast charged and roared loudly (and rattled) like a raging bull – I think he has something like a 2.5 litre engine, and trust me, it was put to good use.

On any given day it’s an impressive drive – we left the beautiful beaches of Tarifa and Bolonia behind us and turned the corner to stampede through the national park and thunder past the enormous wind farms.

In 2016 Spain was impressively the fourth biggest producer of wind power in the world (after China, the USA and Germany) and 20% of the country’s total electricity comes from the wind. When the conditions are right (i.e. windy), wind has surpassed all other power sources in Spain – the record being November 21, 2015 when 70.4% of electricity consumed on the mainland came from the element. Capitalising on its exposed location, fifty eight giant wind farms power the entire region of Cadiz, a truly arresting sight as you’re driving along.

Not much happens in Spain at 7.30am on a Saturday morning and the wind farm was no exception. The windmills were completely stationary, like an army of mammoth, slumbering triffids, row after motionless row, heads bowed as if to respectfully let us pass through unfettered.

This must have been the first time in my life that I’ve ever broken a speed limit as we arrived in Chiclana at 8.50am, a full fifteen minutes before the TomTom’s estimated arrival time. (Usually we are fifteen to twenty minutes behind its ETA.)

Navigating the many roundabouts in Chiclana, I drove on the principle that anything getting in the way of us would come off far, far worse. It’s amazing how quickly cars get out of your way when they see two and a half tons of noisy, shaking and vibrating Land Rover with a wide eyed woman at the wheel, hurtling down on them at speed.

We pulled into the car park of the pet hospital – a reassuringly clean, modern and clinical looking building. I turned off The Beast’s ignition, the vibrations juddered to a stop and for a few moments I just sat in stillness and silence hugging Tiggy on my knee.

Plastering a brave smile on my face that tried and failed to mask my true emotions, we walked towards the main door, carrying Tiggy’s bed and blanket, where the Vet and his assistant were already waiting for us.

We were immediately ushered into a consulting room – Tiggy who clearly still felt right as rain, was totally oblivious to what she was about to be subjected to. The vet was calmly and clinically efficient. Instructing me to hold Tiggy’s head, he took some blunt ended scissors and started to snip a patch of fur away on her right leg.

Tiggy, at this point, sussed that something untoward was up and started to tremble. She looked at me as if to say ‘what’s happening mummy?’ as she shook from head to tail. I kept talking to her to reassure her as a huge needle was inserted into her little leg and she was given a tranquilliser prior to the anaesthetic.

Then it was time to hand her over to the professionals. The vet picked up her blankie and told me to put her in his arms which I did with a big kiss and ear tickle. Then I looked up at him and said “Por favor ten cuidado, ella es mi bebé” (please take care, she is my baby) and I stifled a sob as he nodded brusquely and walked out of the room.

The lovely, kind assistant squeezed my arm as tears streamed down my face. There was a cafe at the beach I could go to, she explained, and they would call me when the operation was over. “How long will it be?”, I asked, “we don’t know” she said, as it would depend on whether the endoscopy was successful for not. Clearly it was going to be a fair few hours and I was in for a long wait.

By now I was shaking as much as Tiggy and I drove, super slowly, towards the beach where there was a street dotted with small cafes and cervicerias. I plumped for the one that was busiest and, with my book, sat outside waiting to be served.

The waiter approached and I asked for the menu. He smiled and said “Solo tenemos café, chocolate caliente, té, zumo de naranja y churros” (we only have coffee, hot chocolate, tea, orange juice and donuts). Somewhat dazed I decided I needed some sugar and went all out ordering a hot chocolate, orange juice and churros.

On the table next to me was a Spanish couple about my age with a giant Great Dane who came over to say hello to me. Sitting down my eyes were level with his, he was huge. I patted him on his head and explained, haltingly, to the couple that my little dog was currently having an operation at the hospital down the road. They cooed appropriately over a picture of Tiggy and were fittingly sympathetic, saying they had heard it was an excellent hospital, she was in good hands.

I eeked out eating my breakfast, savouring the sweetness of the churros whilst attempting to read my book. After reading the same page twenty times, I gave up and sat simply staring into space, alternately checking my watch and my phone every five minutes. The Great Dane couple left, wished me good luck and farewell and I was alone once more.

Time crawled torturously by. First one hour. Then two. I kept the small family of friends who knew what was going on updated by text and also filled my sister in on the situation. My heart hurt, my tummy ached, and I had to concentrate really hard on not letting myself fall into the trap of “what if” fear-mongering.

Just as I was coming up on the three hour mark, I texted “I’m flapping now. It’s been three hours, I’m getting really worried”.

I was just about to lose it when two seconds after I’d hit send, the phone range. A Spanish number. The hospital. My hands were shaking so much I nearly dropped the phone. The vet’s voice spoke to me “Todo es bueno, puedes venir a recoger a tu perrito” (everything is fine, you can come and collect your little dog). My voice caught in my throat, I couldn’t speak, all I managed was a squeaky ‘Gracias’.

I asked the waiter for the bill, he explained it had been paid by the couple with “the big dog”. I was touched beyond words – a timely reminder that no act of kindness, regardless how big or small, is ever wasted. Dog people really are the best.

The Beast and I sped back to the hospital. And, once again, the vet and his assistant were waiting at the door. I was whisked upstairs this time and taken into a different room. The endoscopy had been a success. There was no need to slice Tiggy open. She would be sleepy and dozy for the next twenty four hours – but she could have some soft food this afternoon. I just kept saying ‘gracias’ and nodding. I didn’t even really feel relieved which was strange, I think I was still numb from it all.

And then, before being reunited with little Tiggy, I was ceremoniously handed over the mysterious alien object and the root cause of all this trauma and emotion. It was a large pebble – smooth on all sides, shaped like a duck (he said). I’ve kept it of course, although I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do with it.

We left the consultation room and went next door, and there, in a tiny cage, in her basket, wrapped in her blankie was Tiggy. The door was opened and she teetered out, like a little drunk, tottering about on jelly legs, still clearly feeling the after affects of the anaesthetic.

I scooped her up and covered her little face in kisses before carrying her out to the car and clicking her into the middle seat. She gave me a look as if to say ‘what was that all about?’, closed her eyes and dozed off to sleep.

Heading back to Tarifa I reverted to “Driving Miss Daisy” mode once more – although clearly the stress and worry of the morning was wreaking havoc on my mind, as we went round a roundabout three times having missed the exit that was extremely clearly communicated both verbally by the TomTom and visually by the road signs.

I drove home at half the speed of the early morning journey, The Beast, far less noisy and rattly now he was not being pushed to the max – a much quieter and calmer ride. Every now and again Tiggy would wake up, lift up her head and snuffle at me, and then plonk her head down again and go back to sleep.

As we closed in on the approach to the national park, I could see in the distance that the wind had picked up and the triffid army of windmills had awoken, their arms twirling in their endless and relentless march to power the region.

The road was busier now too – and we were peeped at and overtaken many, many times as we bimbled along, back home to Tarifa. Once safely ensconced in our apartment, Tiggy dozing contentedly on the sofa, I lay down next to her and, totally shattered, fell fast asleep.

For the next few days Tiggy was definitely out of sorts, very clingy and always wanting to sit on my knee – which isn’t really like her at all as, like me, she’s a very independent little thing. Her throat was clearly sore – although she very much enjoyed being fed home-made chicken stock along with poached chicken and rice instead of her usual crunchy, scratchy kibble.

Little by little she’s got her mojo back, the fur is growing on her leg, and even though her back leg is still a bit wonky, day by day she is reverting back to the fizzing, bouncing bundle of energy we have grown to love so much.

Gosh life can be cruel with its twists and turns – a lost job, a broken heart, an unexpected illness…sometimes we are fortunate enough to be able to take the cards that fate has dealt us and throw them back into the dealer’s deck and select some more.

And other times we have no choice but to deal with the cards we’ve been handed, to make the most of a situation which, particularly when our hearts and emotions are involved, can seem to take on a magnitude all of its own.

Sitting now writing this, with Tiggy snoozing contentedly, sandwiched between the warmth of my lap and the heat from my laptop I can’t help but think, no matter what happens, how lucky we are to have the luxury of this gap year together.

With Tiggy by my side I am never alone and our home, wherever that may be, is always full of love. She waits for me at the bottom of the stairs when I wake up in the morning. She’s right by the door with a little waggy tail to welcome me home. She is Piglet to my Winnie the Pooh, and, as that oh so clever bear of very little brain once said;

“Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart”.

Choose happy – do all things with love.

Sophie, Tiggy and The Beast X

Dare to go bare: the one where Tiggy and I go to the nudist beach

May 7, 2017May 8, 2017Posted in Live Life BetterTagged adventure, bare, beach, bolonia, boobs, bottom, choose happy, clothing optional, dare to go bare, dog, livethelifeyoulove, naturists, nude beaches, nude sunbathing, nudist beach, nudists, sea, skinny dipping, spain, swimming, Tarifa, yolo3 Comments

A few weeks ago Tiggy, a friend and I went for a walk on the giant sand dune on the western most tip of Tarifa’s golden, crescent shaped beach. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sea was sparkling turquoise and crystal clear and the beach was dotted with local families enjoying a glorious Saturday in April.

I lamented the fact that I hadn’t bought my bikini, as it was a lovely day for a refreshing dunk in the sea (in fact, that was the very day Tiggy learnt to swim). “No problem”, my friend replied, “You don’t need one, if you keep going round the point towards Bolonia there are lots of secluded coves you can only get to on foot where the nudes hang out”.

We didn’t end up going that way, I didn’t get my swim and my clothes remained firmly on but a little nugget of a thought began to germinate in my mind.

Nudist beaches are tantalisingly un-British – in fact I’m so boringly middle class that I can probably count on one hand the amount of times I’ve ever sunbathed topless. In my defence this is in part due to the fact that whilst I’m certainly not a delicate English rose when it comes to my character, I most certainly am a delicate English rose when it comes to my complexion and therefore my predisposition to burn.

For this and other unimportant reasons I’ve never been bothered about getting my boobs out on the beach – but, for me, going totally bare feels more than mischievous, it feels deliciously naughty – the sort of naughty that people would gossip about.

“Sophie’s gone completely off the rails on her gap year. Nudist Beaches? Her reputation will be in tatters. She’ll never get another job now”, is what I suspect my parents will think when they read this, but hopefully be sensible enough to avoid vocalising out loud.

Sunbathing bare, to me, is so very different from merely skinny dipping – choosing to nonchalantly lounge around in the buff all day on the beach strikes me as the louche sort of thing that Europeans do very well but us buttoned up Brits do not.

Therefore in the spirit of my Eternity Leave along with embracing, nay rejoicing in my European residency while I still get to claim EU citizenship, I decided it was an adventure worth trying and that I would Give It A Go.

Casting my mind back, I believe the last time I voluntarily took off all my clothes and merrily cavorted around naked in front of a group of people before running into the sea, was when I was playing strip Twister on the front lawn of our house in Aberdovey with my friends.

That was when I was in my mid twenties. All I remember was the next day someone’s boxers were hanging from the lampshade in the sitting room, which I hadn’t spotted when I was clearing up the aftermath of the impromptu party, but my parents immediately did when they arrived later that afternoon.

I do recall getting into an awful lot of bother over that, along with the fact that half of Poppa Neary’s ‘good’ wine had mysteriously evaporated…

So that was a circa twenty years ago, and whilst I didn’t plan to “cavort” naked on the beach here, let alone play Twister, it certainly felt like going bare on the beach was somewhat overdue, except this time I wouldn’t be drunk and I would be alone (apart from Tiggy) and not with friends.

Going it alone was a slightly double edged sword. I didn’t feel emboldened enough to say to any of my (mainly male) friends, hey come hang out on the beach with me whilst I try out this nude sunbathing thing. Plus it felt like dragging someone else along was somehow cheating – this was an achievement to be accomplished on one’s own.

But then being alone was a slightly unnerving and intimidating thought. I certainly felt vulnerable, and with no one to chat to would my ultimate fear of a naked human being coming up and actually attempting to converse materialise?

Tiggy, I concluded, would be my protector. Mirrored sunglasses would act as our deflectors.

I approached our excursion with military precision. The weather and wind direction charts were poured over (no-one needs their nether regions exfoliated by wind-blown sand), friends were consulted for a second opinion and it was determined that Saturday looked promising – no clouds, low wind and lots of lovely sunshine all day long.

Indeed, Saturday dawned bright and clear as promised, time to put the plan into action. I slowly and meticulously pre-applied factor 50 to my never-previously-exposed-parts and got dressed. I methodically quadruple checked my bag and panic-packed an emergency back up pair of sunnies. I got undressed and re-applied even more cream. And then, finding nothing else to procrastinate over, Tiggy and I eventually hit the road.

The route to Bolonia was stunning, winding along a quiet road for 7k, it really was a peach of a drive, spoiled only by the kamikaze, death-wish local drivers who nailed overtaking on blind corners with a faith I’ve never before encountered. Rolling hills and lush, green grass stretched to the horizon, we saw herd after herd of baby goats bounding along playfully before Bolonia beach came into view and arced round in a graceful curve – Roman ruins at one end and nudist beaches off the beaten track at the other.

We followed the road east along the beach until it ran out and parked The Beast by the gate to the coastal path, where he could keep a lookout and stand guard until we returned.

We walked along the coastal path for about a mile – it was simply breathtaking, both rugged and inhospitable yet peaceful and tranquil and, apart from the odd military lookout from WWII, untouched by human hand.

It’s hard to imagine that this coast once witnessed the shock and awe of the combined forces of the thirty three ships of the mighty Spanish Armada and French Navy take on and lose to the invincible nautical battle strategy of Lord Nelson and a smaller British fleet of only twenty seven ships.

Nelson may have sacrificed his life onboard HMS Victory some two hundred years ago, but not a single British ship was sunk, while the Spanish-Franco fleet suffered a crucifying and crippling loss of twenty two. I wondered how many brave souls and spirits had been sacrificed within these waters and now lie, stories and horrors untold, in the shadows and shallows of this vast stretch of sea.

We wandered round cove after cove on a headland carpeted with wild flowers, the air delightfully perfumed by the aroma of the pine trees above and, apart from the grazing cows and spirited song birds, without encountering another living thing. Was I going to end up doing this in total solitude I pondered?

And then, on the next headland, we spotted a man walking towards us. He passed at a respectful distance and gave us a little wave. One quick glimpse informed me he was sporting a sarong which didn’t look like he had anything on underneath – I concluded I was heading in the right direction.

We rounded that headland and there, down on the beach, I spotted no more than half a dozen bodies dotted around, already having made their nests for the day. All were couples, no soloists. ‘There’s safety in numbers’ I decided, and so I scanned the beach for a suitable spot for us.

Descending from the path to the beach, Tiggy sensed that something exciting was on the cards and was being particularly bouncy and boisterous, hurtling along at top speed and running up to show off her doggles and check out if fellow bathers were friend or foe.

The doggles have been an uncontested success but her peripheral vision is definitely now slightly skewif and I had a last minute flap about her mistaking someone’s schlonger for a sausage. You may laugh, but once terriers latch onto something, it’s terribly hard to get them to let go. Much to her distain then, it was back on the lead pretty sharpish and no more untethered exploring for her.

I found what seemed to be a perfect spot – in the lee of some old, weathered, wooden fishing boats that had long since been discarded to naturally decompose. With conviction, I took my towel out, I shook it and purposefully lay it down.

Tiggy, sensing some unusual, inherent weakness on my part, decided to take complete advantage and promptly lay bang slap in the middle of the towel, refusing to budge. Ignoring her for the time being, I set about the task of undressing.

I had already decided before arriving that I would de-robe standing up and not half-heartedly and shamefacedly attempt to wriggle out of my clothes sitting down. I may be a buttoned-up Brit, but I absolutely embody the quintessentially British bulldog mentality that if something is to be done, then it’s worth doing properly.

“Stand up straight, you’ve got this”, I told myself determinedly – I squared my shoulders and attempted a nonchalant stance that certainly did not convey the trepidation I felt. I slid my t-shirt over my head and un-pinged my bikini top. Half way there!

Not permitting myself to pause, I promptly unbuckled my belt, took off my shorts, folded them neatly and placed them carefully in my bag along with my tops. This was it. Time for the big reveal. I stood back up and with a deep breath I pulled down my bikini bottoms with both hands in one smooth and swift movement.

Ta dah! For the first time in my life, I was standing totally, completely and utterly bare, in broad daylight, in public. I stood there for a nano-second with my bikini bottoms dangling from my hand being gently buffeted by the breeze.

In my imagination, I whooped out loud and twirled them round my head in gleeful yet coquettish kind of victory dance, a sort of glorious combination of all the best bits of a “Carry On” Barbara Windsor mixed with the dignified burlesque of Dita Von Teese.

Thankfully for us all (especially my dignity), decorum and Britishness prevailed and I remained totally stationary.

With a nervous yet triumphant smile to myself, I glanced around and then, exhaling and shoving Tiggy out of the way with my foot, I sat down with a bit of a thud.

I started to cross my legs and then, with a gasp, realised that was absolutely not a position to be adopted for today, so hugging my knees to my chest instead, I put my hat on firmly, made sure my sunnies were secure and then rolled over, bottom up first of course.

Giggling to myself, I felt somewhat giddy. The wind was both a bit tickly as well as chilly on my bottom and by my ribs where my bikini top would normally go. And then the sun’s rays warmed my skin, the headiness subsided and it all felt really rather sublimely and delectably divine.

Tiggy got over her huff of having been ejected from pole position and plonked herself down beside me. Contently snuffling, she stretched out sphinx like, and snuggled in for a snooze.

Tickling her ears in her special spot and cuddling her closely, waves of contentment and happiness washed over us both.

After about forty five minutes of reading, I decided it was time to go for a dunk. Plus I didn’t want my bottom to be burnt to a crisp. “Poco a poco”, as they say here in Spain, was my strategy for browning my botty.

Skinny dipping doesn’t bother me in the slightest – so I strode out and immersed myself in the refreshing azure blue waters – I felt like I was in the setting of a Tom Ford perfume advert. Swimming naked is invigorating, I love it, I think there must be something truly embryonic about the whole experience.

Floating along in the shallows I tried and failed to persuade Tiggy to come and join me, instead she teetered at the water’s edge and barked convincingly if she thought I was going in too deep and therefore in grave danger. No one even took a second look at me as I ambled back to my spot.

It was time flip to bum side down and boob side up. In doing so, I definitely felt more exposed and a tinge of self consciousness and self-doubt crept back in. I suppose, if nothing else, face side up you can see more of what’s going on around you and there’s a greater chance of the dreaded eye contact and unwittingly encouraging unwanted human communication.

Tiggy, sensing she needed to be on watch, sat on my hand and kept lookout whilst I started to relax. I pulled my hat down further on my face and let the sun heat up my chilly post-swim-skin.

The sun was hotter now, I was worried Tiggy would overheat and that I would start to sizzle. It was time to call it a day and seek some shade, so not without a tinge of regret I got dressed and gathered my things. Before leaving our secluded little spot I looked around to make sure the view was etched firmly in my memory. I don’t think I could have chosen a more perfect spot for my first nudist experience.

With Tiggy chasing the odd butterfly and finding then immediately abandoning sticks along the way, we meandered back to the strong and sturdy sanctuary of The Beast. We hopped in and carefully navigated home singing along to the melodic and harmonic sounds of Simon and Garfunkel.

Back home, bare again and checking myself in the mirror once more, my newly bronzed bottom felt toasty and warm to the touch, yet thankfully and happily all my hitherto white bits had turned pale golden brown and not burnt.

It dawned on me then, that after all of that flapping and insecurity, all of that unnecessary procrastination and over-preparation, I had uttered not one word to a single person all day long.

Why is the idea of something so often nothing like the reality? How do we know if we are going to like something or not unless we actually get out there and try it?

The only way to ensure failure is to not even try in the first place. Perhaps we should all stop thinking about what might go wrong and, instead, think of what could go right.

Sometimes I worry about whittling my life away with not enough to show for it. How’s this for a sobering wake up call; before they were twenty five, Michaelangelo had created Pieta, Mark Zuckerberg was a billionaire and Keats was already dead.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did so. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbour, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Go Bare.”

That’s my favourite quote from the masterful pen of Mark Twain. I’ll leave it to you to decide which bit I edited.

Will I do it again, I hear you ponder? Maybe, some day, should you wander round the fifth cove to the far east of Bolonia beach you might stumble across a little, bare, blonde English rose sporting a straw hat with pompoms, lying on a pink stripey towel with a small Jack Russell tucked in cosily alongside her – and that, most likely, will be us.

Should you see us, just smile and wave and on the off-chance that we’re feeling brave and not bashful, Tiggy might bounce over for a ball throw and I’ll give you a little, shy smile and a wave back as you walk by.

Choose happy, and remember, it’s not really the time in your life that counts, it’s the life in your time. What are you waiting for? Get out there and do whatever it is you’ve always wanted to do, but been too afraid to try.

Love, Sophie, Tiggy and The Beast X