A Pagan Thank You

If it wasn’t already so obvious, I’ll just point it out again – I am pathologically obsessed with storytelling. I’ve been doing it since I was eight-years-old and after reading some choice creative non fiction by some far more established bloggers, I made a conscious decision to include some of my own creative non fiction on my new blog. This little yarn, which I had originally entered into a competition that I oh so obviously did not win, entails a memorable moment about my crossing from Spain to Morocco. I hope you enjoy!

Tarifa, Spain – 2016

Help me out you divine pricks, I shout wordlessly to Janus and Poseidon – I woke up this morning deciding I’d play pagan.

I watch the bus accelerate towards Cadiz – it left me on a sloping road in Tarifa with two mismatching backpacks weighing me down, the smaller of which hangs over my chest.

Wind picks up as I look around – Tarifa’s the place for kite surfing. It’s a mix of architecture, old and new, that’s been bruised by the elements. On one side are custard yellow bricks and on the other is peeling paint. My chubby cheeks are bitten by cold as I smell salt, courtesy of the Strait of Gibraltar and my gateway into Morocco.

Perdon?’ I ask an old woman, in a red raincoat, about to pass me by.


Busco…’ but I don’t know how to say ‘ferry’, which would be useful. I stand on the spot looking lost – it’s all I’ve been since five this morning.

The old woman politely gives me the ‘No I don’t know what you’re saying little foreign man’ (I’m a head and half taller than her) look, so I make the ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay’ five digit hand gesture before we part ways. My anxiety is firing up again.

I remind myself how convenient the ferry to Tangier should be, provided passage is void of warring waters – Janus and Poseidon, are you boys still listening? A lone, fat seagull flies over. Still smelling the sea, I walk what I think is south down a sloping footpath.

They might be little soccer fields – they’re small and look neglected, like my native suburbia.

I’m surrounded by several wire fences looking nothing like a ferry port which has me feeling defeated again and ready to shout at another random. A few men sit near the wire fence watching non-existent soccer games and talking old amigo talk. I’m about to leg it and become lost before one of them smiles at me.

‘Can you point me towards the ferry?’ I ask in English, hoping like hell either one of them understands.

The smiling man points at a building to my left – the door is wide open (okay then). I step inside, feeling some animosity, and find another man sitting behind a counter playing with his phone. He can’t be older than forty, has stringy brown hair and wears a woollen hoodie.

Señor Stringy and Woollen takes one look at me.

Hola,’ I start, ‘a man outside told me–’

Señor Stringy and Woollen doesn’t come off impressed – he looks at his phone again and I’m all out of Spanish (I just want on that damn boat to Africa).

‘I need help–’

Inglés,’ Señor says with a sigh.

I pause at the way he sighs.

So he’s not big on the English – he has a smug exterior going for him, but lucky me.

‘I’m Australian,’ I say back.

Señor looks at me again, his eyes going wide like I’ve offered him enlightenment.

Maybe a light bulb moment has happened.


‘Yeah.’ My response is laced with some hesitation, but my animosity might be on its way out.


I nod – Señor Stringy and Woollen starts smiling like a crazy man.

‘Ah, Australian!’

Within the moment I’m not one of those Ingleses, which suits both of us just fine.

Señor is sharing everything he think’s great about where I come from – he mentions Melbourne a few times so maybe he’s been. I tell him Melbourne’s my home which makes things even better for this Spaniard.

I really can’t understand half of Señor’s enthusiasm and I want to get to the boat – he picks up on this and stands. I kind of make out that he’s going to walk me there himself, which makes me picture two old gods, one two faced and the other rocking a trident, next to me demanding that I quit my bitching, which leaves me smiling.

Optimism kicks in once again.

Señor and I step out the door.

Humans Are Just Selfie-ish!

And this here is the first archive post to reach the new site – it was posted back in July of 2016.

On what has proven itself to be an inevitable day of all things different (baking, eating a uncomplicated hamburger, playing Pokemon Go) I find myself birthing this word child, which is mostly thanks to the exploits of other nomads who at some point were smart enough to learn how to get paid to travel – intelligent bastards.

So far, on this day, I’ve watched the Naked Traveller (dressed at all times) Contiki it from California to New Orleans (I am tempted to book that ticket) and Lauren Juliffe over at Never Ending Footsteps regale her top 100 tips on how best to tackle the big wide world. Interesting and most enviable stuff kiddies; yes, I do have a ticket to Fraser Island in September but everywhere else is still most desirable.

That all said, I’ve been spending more time thinking about those I know personally who are going to… or are currently hitting the road. The make-up is so different and they – I have no idea how I came to know so many travel bloggers and badarse Canadians, just to point out a few – but I can guarantee one little constant they’re bound to have in common, provided they aren’t sociopaths at heart; they know how to get homesick.  

Guilty of this, why yes I am, but that might just be because I’m human. I’ve had bad stints of homesickness and anxiety attacks in the past (not something I’d wish on anyone), which have made the social media news, but it was recently I learnt that one of my friends was going through a very similar situation.

Said friend has only just jetted off for six months of adventuring – yes, I am envious – and she’s made it no secret that there are a few reservations going through her head, the most prominent of which is leaving her family for so long. I know her and her people to be very close so this is understandable… and something I can relate to. Channeling a bit of Marlon’s epiphany in Finding Dory there in case anyone was wondering.

Going back to my troubles abroad, of which I’m still hating on, there was one little action that eventually got me out of my misery and back on my own two feet; selfies! Since there are a lot of them in this post, I will make it clear that I’m not self-obsessed. Back on topic, said friend was very happy to recieve my bit of advice.

Here’s how this trick came into being…

Walking through Dublin Airport back in… mid-ish February and before my memorable flight to Madrid (two guys having a mouth fight mid air, nuff said), I was treating myself to some cold medication and cheap water, totally oblivious to the fact that I hadn’t had my ticket Visa stamped (the bloody thing went through five pairs of eyes so somebody important could’ve told me before I lined up at the Ryanair gate) when, thanks to some free airport WiFi, my mum messaged to ask how I was going.

These kinds of talks are staples for all of us – who’s beloved Ma wouldn’t check up on them when they’re away seeing the world… and I guess the correct answer to that is Livia Soprano – and that was when my dear mum asked for a selfie, which I had no issue with. Simply taken, confusingly sent off, but an effective means of self maintenance in the making.

Fast forward to my gypsy induced anxiety attack in Seville, it was here that, feeling displaced and disturbingly silent (everyone knows me to be loud – a Manchester male model made no secret of this) I messaged my family back home for some selfies – specifically of my niece and nephews who I love unconditionally.

This proved itself to be a benevolent action – it got my tears to stop running; it brought my heart rate down. So, it’s this that I encourage, should you find yourself in a less than ideal state of mind with a suitcase weighing you down. I mean, my selfies are normally really bad (which is something I appreciate, strangely enough) but they’ve been getting the job done and especially for those I love back home.

This post is for you all…


I’ve Been Thinking About Marrakech

The Halloween episode on The Simpsons, where Homer buys the shitty wish granting monkey hand, is how I first learnt about Marrakech, and watching Almost Famous is how I learnt that Morocco is a country in North Africa (with some confirmation from my older sister) – as you can tell, watching the moving image ironically gets me off of my arse, but these images directed me to a city where I proved to myself that I could be a more independent backpacker.

I’ve spent four full 2016 days in Marrakech, but I speak confidently when I say that I got so much out of them. I arrived via the overnight train from Tangier because my preconceived idea was that, if I’d flown in, I’d get a dose of culture shock that would set my anxiety off. Unfortunately Tangier made that a reality, so, upon my arrival at Marrakech Railway Station, I found my ideas to be completely wrong. Yay!

I was passing (I was picked up) gardens and theatres and horse drawn carriages and I wasn’t once getting a dose of the anxieties, and this was very similar with the traffic leading to the airport, so I’m definitely considering a flight to the city when I return. To me, Marrakech is singular and for the time being, the most interesting city I’ve visited.

Now I’d originally intended to stay very close to the main square of Jemaa el-Fnaa, but my first hostel manager proved himself to be a dick. So, upon my return from the Sahara (I did the Sahara – they’ll be a post) I set myself up at the Dream Kasbah hostel off of Rue de La Kasbah. I feel that if you have the right kind of accommodation, where you’re comfortable and at ease, the rest of the world becomes so much easier to reach – I just didn’t have that with the first hostel.

This neighbourhood is a little further from the square but it is so much nicer, quiet and something to look at – one of its most distinguishing features is the Mosquée Moulay El Yazid. I found no great fault with the hostel or the area, except for a guy who wouldn’t work the horn on his motorbike and some teenagers who insisted I pay them for a handshake – yes, they will go far.

Back to this oh so interesting city, where secluded back alleys and hanging flowers by taxi ranks prove most picturesque, you will find a blend of artists, randoms willing to help out (one guy offered me a stool to sit on whilst my companions haggled for a handbag – all true) and all the rest, most of which will kindly inform you that the royal palace is closed, even if you’re not looking for it.

Despite the few who will want to take advantage of you (more mellow here than in Tangier, I swear it), there are genuine people out there in the world, so it’s important not to lose faith in that fact.

On the ‘what to do’ side of things, there are a couple of staples I’d happily recommend. Again, some things are best done with a friend but if you’re travelling solo, like I did, buddy up with whomever you’ve had breakfast with. Speaking as an anxiety ridden introvert now, Marrakech, as well as Tangier, did wonders for my ability to socialise with other travellers.

Firstly, hit the souks! Next to Jemaa el-Fnaa, this market is huge, mental and the guaranteed epicentre of getting lost (you haven’t visited a souk right if you haven’t gotten lost) so that’s where having a buddy proves beneficial – things should be a little less Blair Witch also.

You will find just about anything you could need, from handmade woodworks, leather products, spices and even socks. Now, haggling is a big part of the souks and low and behold, I’m a terrible haggler (this is where befriending a Finnish-Swedish type artist pays off) but I learnt enough to get a wooden cobra for ten dirham cheaper on my last day – hashtag winning.

Additionally, if you wish to find your way back to the square, simply ask to be pointed towards  Koutubia Mosque (having a fixed point to go back to can be a blessing) – my suggestion is to ask a security guard or a vegetable seller because I found little chance of them wanting to rip me off. Also, when it comes to communication I was doing just fine with English, as well as my limited French, Darija, Berber and my very polite hand gestures.

On the topic of local sites, I found myself drawn to two of them – one intentionally and the other completely by accident… but some accidents can be a happy thing.

The first is the Jardine Menara, an olive grove with its own man-made pond where you might find a turtle looking back at you. This was a picturesque morning experience and I’m glad to have found it – the walk from Kasbah was a big ask (crossing a Marrakech street can amount to being a blood sport – THERE, IT’S SAID!) but the locals I crossed were happy to help (thank you limited French).

Menara, also describe as a garden, was quite peaceful and inviting – the only downside is that you might get pestered by a random to buy a t-shirt.

Palais Bahia is the second stop worthy of mention – whilst I may not have seen the royal palace, I’m happy to have had a stroll through Bahia. It wasn’t too far from my first hostel (which will remain hated) and like I mentioned earlier I found it completely by accident (I was supposed to be on a day trip but I missed the bus because I wasn’t given specific details).

Palais Bahia was a visual experience – there was art on display but I was more drawn to the architecture, especially the outdoor areas, where I was taking in the colours (it should be noted that I don’t really travel for architecture so this place certainly left an impression). It won’t cost much to enter either.

Now before Morocco I wasn’t the biggest foodie – I was one of those who didn’t like eating alone in a restaurant – but after Marrakech I feel more comfortable taking a seat and looking over a menu because food kinda does keep us alive, right?

Whilst I had my share of tagines, I have to mention the plate of schwarma, ordered on Rue Bab Agnaou, that I downed on my final day. THIS WAS A FEAST! That’s right, I ate like an Avenger and my inner fan boy couldn’t be more proud.

When it comes to drinking Marrakech is good for alcohol… but I don’t give a shit about that – I’m not a big drinker… of booze, but I love orange juice.

After mint tea, which I’m happy I converted to (I absolutely hated mint before I hit up North Africa), I’m fairly certain that orange juice is Morocco’s second national beverage of choice. However, whilst the taste is beautiful, it’s the juice vendors in Jemaa el-Fnaa who deserve a special mention. Whilst competing for business, they were lively, funny, inviting and happy to have a conversation.

Still on the topic of consuming nice things, if you have a sweet tooth, go. to. Marrakech! I tried a few sweet things and one I’ll highlight is the m’hanncha I brought from the Patisserie des Princes on Rue Bab Agnaou.

For those unaware, m’hanncha is a pastry wrapped log filled with a mix of citrus, pistachios and rosewater – I’ve made my own but it was very different (and I’ll say inferior) to what I tasted on Bab Agnaou. Another element I found interesting about the Patisserie des Princes is that they kept live bees in the display cases. I don’t understand why but a woman sucking said bees up with a vacuum cleaner can become a lasting image in one’s memory.

And lastly, and this is a favourite for many, I suggest you sit back and take up a spot of people watching. This is a good addition to when you’re sitting at a café, eating nice things, and the rest of the world just proves way too interesting to ignore.

And that’s what can happen if you give the big tour the flick and go your own way. I feel far more capable of taking my own steps now, and without someone keeping an eye on me, and that can be the ultimate reward when you go travelling. Anyway, these are the things that will come to mind when I think about Marrakech.

All Along Antrim

This is the tail end of January, 2016.

I looked up from my breakfast as other guests rushed to the nearest window in the International Youth Hostel, all of them abuzz about something big. So, after putting down my fork I joined them and got one of the most pronounced reality checks to date – it’s snowing in Belfast.

This was something different indeed.

Naturally I got my share of photos for the inevitable Facebook post (this is the first time I’ve seen snow in an urban environment so it is something) before casting the experience to the back of my mind – the impression doesn’t last much, mostly because I’m seeing Northern Ireland’s Antrim Coastline. That’s all I’m caring about.

Now, I’m a loud and proud Game of Thrones fan (I’m sure there’s a name for people like me a la Whovian and Sensie) and that’s the kind of tour I hop onto outside the Europa Hotel on Great Victoria Street (the snow had stuck around so the Europa’s staff were allowing tour members to wait in the lobby – good karma to them!)

The show has influenced a lot of my big backpacking adventure so I’m ready to see the Northern Irish locations on the A2, which will be topped off with a stint at the Giant’s Causeway. Whilst I do enjoy experiencing the locations used in film and television, I’ve always primarily been drawn to the natural. With that said, today should be something special.

The Antrim is absolutely stunning – I’ve grown up visiting sun drenched stretches of coastal road so I was most welcoming of the drastic change in the weather (I’m from Melbourne so I’m conditioned for influxes of cold) – the fresh snow on the green compliments everything.

On the itinerary are Carrickfergus (where the rising sun greeted us) and Carnlough, and then some of the stops whose names I have sadly forgotton.

The cave where Lady Melisandre birthed her ‘shadow baby’ was on the tour, which in fact serves as a resident’s driveway here in the real world (cosplayers were in attendance there) and the quarry where Brienne and Margery made their first appearances – think it was there that I got a look at the far off Scottish coastline… so I have at least seen Scotland!

We moved on to Ballintoy Harbour where the sun made another comeback (we’ve had a mix of snow, rain, wind and grey clouds since leaving Belfast) and the sea was foaming – I have never seen so much foam. It was wonderful to gaze at. This is the kind of natural that sticks with me. 

Nerd fact – Ballintoy Harbour served as Lordsport in the Iron Islands, where Theon reunited with his sister Yara and had what could be the last of his more notable hard ones… before Ramsay wanted more pork sausages.

The harbour was being overtaken by the sea, but it was something else to marvel at – I loved feeling the fierce wind, tasting the air born salt which had landed on my lips and watching a fully geared up surfer take on the waves. My personal nature normally dictates that I head away from the cold but Ballintoy may have changed that to some degree – well done!

Next on our list, and this is the icing on the cake that is the day – the Giant’s Causeway. My love of nature might have been amplified here.

Now for those unaware, the Giant’s Causeway is made up of many, many, many basalt columns that at some points are submerged into the North Channel. Many of these columns are hexagonal in shape which allows for them to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Additionally (and this is a big positivo for me), there’s a legend that goes with the Causeway – mythology and legends are sexy to me in case you were wondering.

It’s believed that the Causeway was constructed so that Fionn mac Cumhaill (Finn MacCool – who’s loving this?), who was either a giant or a human warrior, could do battle with a Scottish opponent. Scotland’s island of Staffa has a similar formation of columns in Fingal’s Cave which supports the legend of a bridge that once stood across the sea.

Upon arrival we all had the freedom to walk down the road leading to the Causeway, thus allowing us to go at our own pace (there is a shuttle bus service for anyone interested.) It was scenic and beautiful and everything else I love to see when on the road, but it was at that point when Northern Ireland showed me what it could do… weather wise.

As I, the weather beaten Melbournian Sheep, said earlier there’s been a share of rain, snow, wind and sunlight… but the Causeway treated us and about a hundred plus others to some of the hardest hail I’ve ever felt!

I am not kidding – hail is no one’s friend. NO ONES! Short of diving under a parked van that the attending rangers were using, there was nowhere to hide. NOWHERE! One reprieve I can think of is that it didn’t last longer than a few minutes.

When it came to leaving, we were treated to two final sights – Dunluce Castle, which left us all satisfied, even if it was a drive by, and the Dark Hedges.

This stretch of country road, lined with amazing and looming beech trees, serves as the King’s Road. This is where the day got a little bit ‘fairy tale’ and I was appreciative – I’ve never seen a picturesque road like this back home. It’s quite singular. Again, people were everywhere but this is a travel quirk I’ve long since learnt to hate but accept.

Now of course I’m going to recommend Antrim (this post should suggest such a thing) but mostly because I was left with a sense of satisfaction that only a fan of fiction can be left with. Add to that, the Antrim is also the most northern point on the planet that I have ever experienced so that’s an effort I’ll always smile about.

I wasn’t in Northern Ireland for long (I no longer plan every aspect of my journeys for that and other reasons) and I’m still peeved, but the country has given me my share of reasons to go back and see what else it has to offer – I’ll probably hire a car though. I like going at my own pace.



So I Needed Something New

This, I can assure you, has been a long time coming!

A bit of housekeeping first (I do like that word for some reason).

I travelled to Thailand for the first time back in 2014… and it was there that I had an interesting experience.

Ups and downs were had so naturally it is in the traveler’s nature to share said experiences with the people back home.

So, following my return to Melbourne and with a few extra weeks thrown in, I sat down to lunch with a friend in a foodcourt and let everything out (stories I mean – the… KFC stayed down).

It was a nice hour and something worth of conversation, but I was left feeling certain of a few things at the end.

A, my jaw was hurting like hell and B, I knew I couldn’t stop talking about my adventures.

Enter the unregrettable decision to start travel blogging – I haven’t encountered anyone who can say otherwise.

I made the move to Blogspot and it was there that I shared my stories about backpacking around Australia and abroad – I’ve done this up until now, 2017, but there comes a point where nice things like a menu bar become highly desired.

So that’s why I’m here, on WordPress, and ready to make a change with these words and pictures (that you can tell that I’ve taken with a Samsung) I love to share.

Add to that, a few of my older stories will be tagging along from the first incarnation to join in with the new – I’m sure they’ll get along.

We’ll see how I go but because I believe that a cup can only be ‘half-full’ I’ll choose to be optimistic and say that I’ll be here for the long run.

Happy and safe travels, and here’s to the words to come.