They say that travelling broadens the mind. I think it narrows our focus onto the things that bring us comfort in our lives. Wherever we are in the world, we are still the same people with the same thought processes, problems and passions. We can still have a panic attack in a crowd whether it’s in the local Tesco or a grand UNESCO site. It's been almost three weeks and to be honest, I still can't believe we made it to France. This is the story of how we got there. We’d not left the UK since October 2017. For the last two years, I didn’t even have a valid passport. It was yet another thing on the list for one day but not really a priority for several reasons, the first being the obvious matter of expense. We all know that travelling does not come cheap, especially so when you have a disability which I will come to in a little while. Adding to the fact that we live in the far-flung westernmost point in Wales which is miles away from everything, our overseas travel options include a small local airport that offers private chartered flights at great cost, or a ferry that travels to Ireland a few times a day. Last time we checked a ticket on that ferry including the things that we need medically would cost more than £500. So, to that avail, travelling for us since 2017 has been predominantly by road. Starting in the middle of the night and ending late in the day such as the many trips we have taken to the Scottish Highlands over recent years. Yet with Scotland now becoming increasingly on trend even in the winter (no thanks to the sheer level of Instagram, TikTok and other social media emphasis), we were both ready for something different. Our last time flying in 2017 was from Luton airport; a harrowing experience before the days of hidden disability awareness. Due to overnight flight restrictions, the airport lounge was extremely cramped and overcrowded, with no seats, and people everywhere. I’d gone to the disabled bathroom to get some space as I’d felt sick only to come out to a smartly tailored woman with a walking stick glaring at me as she had barked “What are YOU doing in there?!”. I’d mumbled in response, 'I’m disabled, you see…'. Before I could explain she had smirked and haughtily told me that I was preventing disabled people from using their bathrooms. I was already feeling quite unwell, so simply showed her my medical documentation that I carry when I travel and politely told her that she needed to refine her perception of disability. This was before the signs had appeared stating that ‘not every disability is visible'*. Once our flight had eventually left, we were both completely exhausted by the entire experience. Returning home, we both vowed to never fly from that airport again. (*We did receive a written apology from Luton Airport surrounding this experience and shortly after they began to display hidden disability signs). The Judge... It was when we got our van earlier this year, also known as 'The Judge', that we both realised how different travelling could be with our own space and comforts. The little things like being able to travel with your own toilet, your own blankets, your kettle, your chairs, your bikes. All of the things that give you comfort and take you away from these overcrowded and at times, negative communal experiences. I don’t think van life is fully explored through this lens. Often it has more to do with the depiction of a free-spirited or nomadic lifestyle, being cool and being able to get away from it all in a forestry car park off the A9. But for us, having the Judge has been more than taking on this stereotype. Sometimes, the Judge is the only place where we can escape, even more so than home. We sit in the back with her curtains drawn and not a single person can see us. If the outer world becomes loud and busy (as is often the case) we can simply move on to a new place. The Judge offers privacy, comfort and psychological safety. For this reason, wherever we travel, the Judge is now our first choice, always. It took seven years... Fast forward from 2017, here we now were on a very dark and early morning in September 2024. We had decided on France. It felt to be a gentle re-introduction to going overseas and to get there we were taking the ferry from Portsmouth to Caen. I know that this sounds completely standard but this was quite the moment for us. Neither of us had travelled by ferry since we were teenagers; J to France and me to Belgium. I’d never been to France before, I had no idea what was coming in transit or at the other side. I didn’t know if we would be sick (as everyone said about ferries), I had no idea whether people would be rude or if I’d need to wear a tailored shirt or speak broken French out of respect. We were very much venturing into the unknown with only the disjointed stereotypes and fragmented internet discourse to inform us. We had to wait a while for this trip. Firstly, for the summer season to be well and truly over so we could ensure that the experience would be as stress-free as possible. With the holiday season now extending well into the depths of September here in Pembrokeshire, this was a fine balance between avoiding the crowds and avoiding the wild storms that arrive as soon as autumn is here. Finding space away from other people is often the only way of being able to do the things that ‘normal’ people do without any further thought. Imagine being in a queue or a crowded place where you can literally feel the intensity of the noise screaming at you, the rising heat from other people, the pain of their eyes staring at you which only becomes more intense if you begin to display any signs of anxiety. I don’t think a lot of people believe us when we try to explain these sensory aspects of social anxiety or the days of rumination that follow. A lot of people feel uncomfortable in crowded places so they perhaps believe that those of us ‘making a fuss about it’ are seeking a privilege or something. Only this week, Kemi Badenoch launched her attack on autistic people stating that we have 'advantages'. Believe me, Badenoch, try to walk a day in our shoes and you'll soon be getting your spin to pack that statement away. There is a huge difference between feeling uncomfortable and being completely overwhelmed to the point of distress. It can take hours to come down from these events, at times resulting in trips to see a doctor. That is not something that I would wish on anyone. For this reason, trips such as this are not only about waiting for the quieter times but also waiting for funds to allow the adjustments and assurances of space. We had booked a Commodore ticket that came with a spacious cabin and priority disembark so you are parked in the first rows to get off at the other side. I can honestly say that it was worth every single additional penny. We also needed to do a little work on the Judge to ensure that she was road-ready for Europe. She’s an older girl with a few hallmarks of age such as a disintegrated front tyre and her rear air suspension packed in just a week before we were due to leave. So we had to spend a little and plan a lot to do this trip and we knew it would be a while before we’d get to do such a thing again. This is why making it to France was such a big moment for us. It took us seven years to do this trip for one reason and another. Leaving the country is not that easy, and for many of us, it's not that commonplace. The ferry and the Judge changed everything for us. Notes from the ferry... Being searched  It happened to us both ways and it wasn’t terrible. You read horror stories but our experience of being searched was simply a quick check and one or two questions about what we had inside the van. The check itself involved a quick request for us to get out of the van while they looked inside (in France). Arriving back in the UK, they just wanted to look inside the back of the van. It took not more than a few minutes and the customs staff were very friendly on both sides. UK border force also had the sunflower sign displayed clearly, stating that they support those with hidden disabilities - a refreshing change from 2017. They’re not cruises Perhaps not an obvious association, but ferry travel is much calmer than a cruise. First, there isn’t a guarantee of thousands of people. Second, unlike a cruise, you don’t have everyone in one place for the same reason. For many people, the ferry is just the mode of transport whether it’s ferrying freight for work, ferrying children for a school trip, or ferrying something else. Ferries today are becoming a bit more like cruises in terms of what they offer onboard, e.g. the restaurants, the cinema, the entertainment, but they aren’t the same because you can be onboard with next to no one around as we found during a very quiet crossing on the way home. For those who like that cruise experience but perhaps want a quieter ride, I’d recommend taking a ferry trip for this reason. They're not cruises. The toilets are going to be disgusting  I’ll keep this brief, ferry toilets can be disgusting. They don’t have the best flushing system which was shown when I briefly visited the public toilets towards the end of a very rough crossing. In rough tides, it’s to be expected that some of us are going to be hurling up the croissants, but honestly, after the turd in the cupboard incident in Scotland (I don’t know whether I ever told that story), this was a light touch. So, if you don’t have a cabin with your own bathroom you may just need to find a quieter toilet block, or hope for the best and brave it out with either a face mask or a stealth bladder on this one.  The staff are mostly amazing  Me and J were both astonished by the level of service on our ferry trip. It was beyond anything we’ve been used to. While we were sitting out on deck in the rain about to leave Portsmouth, we’d only just finished our drinks when a man appeared and offered to take the empty cups from us. This was in the pelting rain stood at the back of the ship, nowhere near the actual restaurant. We offered to dispose of them ourselves, but he was having none of it. It truly was next-level customer service. The same can be said for the service we received in our cabin. The Commodore service is absolutely spot on. Food arrives before you’ve even begun to imagine what it tastes like and anything needed is there in the moment you need it. We don’t expect nor want to be waited on hand and foot, I always feel a sense of guilt about it. But the staff were honestly amazing and so friendly. The only time we experienced anything different was when we got told off which I will come to shortly, but that wasn’t at fault of the staff member concerned. We just needed an out in a wild moment.  Sickness isn’t a guarantee (even in rough weather)… It’s often assumed that when you go on a ferry you’re going to be sick— when I told people we were going to do this trip this was the first reason others gave as not wanting to go on a ferry. I get it, I have been sick before now on ferry crossings as a teenager and we did have quite a rough crossing back from France. We knew it was coming, the weather app I use showed high wind and waves, but as we left port you would have thought the prediction was wrong (see the sunrise in the video at the end). We were sailing for around an hour when we hit the rough weather. We were out on deck when a thick shroud of sea mist suddenly surrounded us. The ferry then started to sway from side to side, forward and back. That mist was eerie, the visibility so poor that you could only see the waves below and shapes in the very near distance. Some children came and told us that their sisters were being sick. Inside was like an apocalypse. There were no passengers in the shop or communal areas, only the odd person sat in the seating area. We fared reasonably well with it. I’ll admit that being inside the shop was a bit disorientating while trying to focus on a shelf as everything was swaying, but i t was more a case of utilising core strength to keep balance... We went back to the cabin to get a view. By this point, we felt a bit woozy (as though a few too many drinks) but when lying flat the swaying became quite comforting and actually sent me to sleep. We didn’t need anti-sickness medication on either sailing. That said, this was only the channel crossing and we are yet to sail the dreaded Bay of Biscay which many warn me is another story. We'll see. But the point of this point is that yes, you may be sick, you may feel a bit weird, but when the waves get rough it’s not a guarantee that you need medication or are going to end up in a toilet. Again, being on a ferry is far less social than a plane. If you do feel sick there is plenty of space to move around or find a horizon to look at, and failing that if you are going to be sick there are ample places to go and get it over with. This ferry had sick bags available on almost every corridor. You’re well-supplied and you won’t have the awkwardness of a stranger sitting right next to you while belching into a bag. …but you may end up stuck indoors  We were snoozing in our cabin when the announcement came over the tannoy; "All passengers to remain inside, all decks prohibited!" This part wasn’t easy, I’ll admit. Being able to get outside is my deepest calm when stressed out and we had chosen the ferry to have the freedom to do so. I understand the reasoning behind it, safety first and all of that, but unfortunately, the command lasted the duration of our journey back, even once the waves had calmed and we were sailing without swaying once again. I’ll be completely honest, I’m like a caged animal when kept indoors so when we wandered around to the side doors and saw some other passengers out on the deck, we walked out too. I needed to vape, and could see that others were having a smoke so fair game, right? Wrong. This was the part where we got told off. We must have blown it for everyone else as almost immediately after we’d got out, a stern French woman followed shouting out onto deck... “All of you, in - now!” It was like being on a school trip. She was absolutely furious. I completely understand that she was following health and safety protocol and just doing her job. I also know that we shouldn't have been out there and I wouldn’t suggest breaking the rules like we did. But what I will say is this. There are times when we need to be outside and there are times on ferries when it may not be possible. If you do need to do something that usually happens outside there are ways and things that can make that happen very discreetly. What I will also say, is that towards the end of the journey as we were almost coming into port the doors to the upper decks were opened (there was no tannoy announcement about this) but the side decks had remained closed. So, if one way out is barricaded, keep having a look around as the chances are you will be able to get out eventually even if it’s on another part of the ship at a later part in the journey.  Check your prices before travelling. Just a practical note on duty-free shopping. We’ve all been sold the duty-free is cheap line for years and years now, but it’s just not the case. The thing with ferry travel and probably similar to the duty-free cart on planes, is that we’re already thinking in holiday mode and more often than not we don’t have data or Wifi access to check prices before purchasing. It’s a captive process and on a plane, I can only imagine it’s even more pressured when you have two rows of people beside you watching you buy some Armani Code. In a ferry shop, however, there isn’t that social pressure. It's just that the prices are not that cheap. My favourite scent on the ferry shelf was £49.99, currently £33.99 on Amazon. I knew that already but without Wi-Fi I had no way of checking any prices for other perfumes, so I didn’t trust them. So, whether it’s scents or Bensons that you’re looking for, make a list of what you want before you travel and write down the prices in your phone beforehand. I know it’s a bit of a boring thing to do when in holiday mode but doing so can save a fair few pennies for things and experiences beyond smelling like an overpriced rose.  Wi-Fi access  Having no Wi-Fi was actually one of the things that I really enjoyed. I know that this is not exclusive to ferry travel, but when combined with all of the additional comforts I’ve already mentioned, it really did become an opportunity to relax. There was no temptation to check Twitter or Apple News, no urge to send snippets of information or ‘guess what just happened’ moments to the family WhatsApp group. Without Wi-Fi, we were able to fully relax into the experience and find some time to read which was needed. We were so busy doing various things throughout the days we were in France, there had not been any time to stop like this. By the time we came to travel home, we were both looking forward to just having a few hours to ourselves with no outer world distractions or things to do. This is partly why I’ve written so much about the ferry, in many ways it was the holiday. With Commodore cabins, you are allocated an hour of free Wifi access, but once you sign into it you have to use it up within that hour. Outside of that, you can pay for it if you need or want to but I didn’t check the prices. We both found that the time passed really quickly on both ferry crossings. Whether that was the novelty of something new, the space of having time for ourselves, or just simply being at sea with so many different sensations and sights that you don’t get to experience every day, there was never really a moment when I felt that I needed to connect. Even during the lock-in, there was something quite voyage-ish about cosying up in the cabin with a little window, a hot chocolate and my current read (Ken Follett - The Evening and the Morning ), while the ship swayed side to side. It felt like being in an old tale that was once lived but never read. Switching off only added to this story.  The birds  My final note to add about the ferry (although there will probably be more because it’s all I’ve bloody spoken about), is really just to talk about the birds (not the bees, but there is a story about that and it's not rude). As we were leaving the UK there were so many gulls circling overhead. They followed us right out of port and stayed with us for a while. I’m not one of those posh nature writers so you’re not going to get a swallows gracing our presence through the gentle sway of the wind type of note here. I just thought that they were beautiful and watched them for a while. They seemed to be with us for the duration of the crossing. Out on deck, they would just hover above, looking for food and to be honest, I don’t blame them as this ferry had some remarkable food on offer. As we were arriving in France, I looked out of the cabin window and there was an entire flock of gulls alongside us. It felt so calming to see this in the moment when we were about to venture out into a new place, an entirely different country and an adventure that was many miles from home. Whenever I am anxious, I always notice the birds. I remember being at an event with J some years ago where I wasn't coping well, but we were under a tree of ravens. People kept asking us whether we minded the noise, whether they were bothering us, and the like. But on that day the birds were another element of escape and calm. Birds don’t expect a conversation or social norms to be followed. Birds are everywhere and anywhere living out their lives and coexisting with us. They are relaxing to watch, and they fly alongside us whether that’s on the coastal paths of home, or the middle of the sea. The ferry birds were another way that I was able to centre my mind away from all of the things that I was apprehensive about about, the worry of the unknown. Knowing that I’d soon need to leave the privacy and safety of this cabin and go out there to this big new place. This was only the beginning of our journey, homage to the birds for being there with us.  (Music credit. 'Gone for Awhile' by Tommy McCormick) https://www.tiktok.com/@tommy.mccormickk https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC52SSG4zlYrieIQcTtm4Ngw Life is wild enough before we even venture out of the door. That's why me and J seek quiet places and share our stories about them. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, subscribe to our mailing list  and whenever there is a new story to be told, we'll share it with you.

I’ve been meaning to write something new about what we’ve been doing for so long but so long got in the way of doing so. I’ve been writing about other things that will probably never be shared, that or jumping online briefly to write something fleeting, only to then jump back off and lose myself in the days. The problem with living like this, lost in days with halfway points, uncertainties, things being set at half mast, discarded blog entries and stories only half told is that it creates too many boxes. I tried telling myself that it’s summer and while the weather is kind, other things can wait. I read articles from my favourite SubStacks, saw news updates about everything that’s been going on, watched videos of people telling their everyday lives and took many road trips with J while juggling our everyday with the out of the ordinary. The one thing I neglected throughout all of this was how I was feeling. It was only after we drove out yesterday, came home, did everything else and then went out to ride that we began to talk. It turned out that we both felt the same. That life had been too frantic with too many things happening at once. That we’d both lost our creative focus and fallen into a cycle of work, workout, sleep and repeat.  In the summer, it becomes more difficult to write or for J to work on his art. As I started to write this from a note on my phone today, a Tesla alarm began belting out somewhere behind me and someone just left their tractor running beside me. At home, it’s an agricultural show of who can shout the loudest. The garden wars of mowing, strimming, banging, barking. The garden fires that burn, cackle and glow long into the night. J went to speak with a neighbour who had been penning their dogs with separation anxiety in a chicken coop every day for two months straight. Thankfully, she was reasonable.  Then, there's the crowds. J said this morning that we both have sea-longing like Tolkien elves. We’ve not been to the beach in weeks, just a glimpse of the sea sets an instant calm. The beaches are home but in the summer they are distant. Transformed into crowd-pleasing sites for towels and sandcastles, the beaches of summer are very different to the melancholic emptiness of winter. The grey mist, hail, and ice-cold wind whiplashing across one cheek. Those are the coastlines that we call home that right now feel very distant. It's not only lost coastlines. I had begun to feel distant from myself, only the nights told my truth. Fraught wakenings, laced with anxiety and although not so much sadness right now, an unexplained urge to find something that was missing. I've been waking like this for a little while. Fantasising about the idea of returning to the structure of uni; early morning tea drinking while reading papers and writing notes, quickly replaced with the reality of that deadline-orientated lifestyle we had once lived. Now things are calmer and more free. Neither of us want the commitment of long weekends at the table. But still, despite a much clearer lifestyle, fewer deadlines (much welcomed) and so many hobbies to fill our time, something still felt to be missing. This is why I wanted to write a little to see if I could access myself again in this way. But as I sat down to do so I became angry. A few old ghouls had thrown themselves along for the ride in the form of overwhelmed family members becoming fraught and putting me back into the old school box as being the problem. My inbox sitting with questions from old friends and family members that I was unable to reply to as they were not my questions to answer. There had been some niggling and arguments with some of my closest loved ones, not over any one thing specifically but over everything happening at once and not having enough time to sit and listen to each other. Life had been very busy and in this, I'd become the mediator, the emotional support for others, at times the gatekeeper and on occasion the placater. Summer had become overwhelm not only for me and J, but going by the rage we have seen elsewhere it would seem that the sun sets the darkest souls alight. It would seem that summer has become Halloween without the costume. Hidden beneath bright blue skies and warm rays, were a collection of enraged souls burning up and losing themselves to wants, to identities, to social conformity and to wider pressures. If I'm honest, my own pressure is perhaps living with my own and others' anxieties while trying to keep my mind clear in this overcrowded summer. Often the great pretender until the words come out a little wrong or a little too angry, yet if I miss the meaning of a message then it’s here that I find myself a little more real. Emotions are really powerful, aren't they? I didn’t want to write this post with anger. It was supposed to be beautiful, talking about life. But life is anger too. It’s ok to be overwhelmed by running on too much smoke from the neighbour's garden. Losing your voice though, I find that problematic.  As I lost my creativity... There’s a lot to be said for privacy and boundaries, but when it reaches the point where you stop talking to yourself that’s when you become hollow and existent. Each and every one of us can fall into the trap of running like this. It’s not all to do with the world. When we went out on that ride the other day, it was probably the first time we had spoken about our yearning for creativity and how we both felt we had lost it. J felt like his art had become pointless as he had been trapped in a cycle of painting puffins because that's what sells in Pembrokeshire. I hadn’t shared a blog in a long time because I felt that everything I wrote was boring and pointless, even when it spoke loudly to me. Even as I began writing this blog, I began to think who is really going to want to read this , that it's pointless, nobody is interested in someone else's rut. We all know that there is truth in that statement . As writers, we are taught to write for audiences and not ourselves. This is where the problem lies. We don't speak to ourselves enough. There’s this bench that does its thing out on a rural roadside not far from home. It's in the middle of nowhere and there are no paths to it. It just exists. That state of existence felt like the place we had both reached together. With too many things started and then put on hold, we had been unable to enjoy life fully. In recent weeks the roads had become heavy and the rides repetitive, same lanes different day. The local A-roads are currently heaving with tourists rushing and racing to get to the coast. At least our rural haunts were quiet and free from that. As the sun sat heavily on our shoulders, we sat heavily in discussion out on that quiet bench with our bikes, realising that there were three things going on here. The first being our state of existence, the second, losing our voices through a lack of creativity in our lives, and the third, not being able to find escape. Escape... Finding escape isn't just a problem associated with crowds - while that is a large part of it, it is also about where we are at without our creativity. Heading off on the road can only bring escape for so long before the road runs out and we return home with little other than an empty water bottle and a couple of empty photos. Our rut had carried us into this place. I was taking the photos but showing them, writing the words but not sharing them. And in life, people tell us that’s brilliant, well done you, just keep everything to yourself. So we do. Right now it would seem that the internet of a few years ago is dying its death. The disengagement is real for us all. But sometimes that feeling of sharing something can bring a sense of calm even when it has no audience. Often, it doesn’t need one. I don’t have a counsellor to talk to these days. Long gone are the fortnightly sessions where I would be able to get things off my mind. I would not find another counsellor like the one I once had, and it would be difficult to share on such a level of intimacy these days. You might agree when I say this, sharing is often easier when we don’t know who we are talking to. I think that this is a part of the problem, creativity is where our deepest selves exist and if we begin to tell ourselves that there is no point in sharing what we’ve created, then this is where we begin to close ourselves off. If you find yourself here, I would say, don’t stop writing or doing whatever brings you that release in your life. You can have a life filled with friends and events and things, but your creativity is you at your rawest. You don’t have to be proud about putting that away. Sometimes it’s the only way out of this place, the only way to think.  As we moved on from the bench to head home, J told me that he was going to attempt some new drawings. We’ve recently been going through a Tolkien phase which is one of his deepest inspirations. He has Smaug tattooed across his arm. It’s beautiful. I don’t know whether you’ve seen any of J’s art but honestly, he is one of many artists out there who are gravely underrated. He doesn’t see himself in that way - as an artist. After I gifted him some Derwent Inktense for Christmas last year he had some incredible plans, but akin to my writing, this aspect of him had become lost in the days and the box still sits on a shelf waiting to be opened. As we rode home we both made a promise to ourselves that we would not continue to lose ourselves in this way. That life may be frantic and busy and filled with emotions, both good and bad. But wellbeing comes from within as much as it exists for us out on the road. As I once wrote, escape is our greatest protection . Two days later we got up to run the day on a sleepless night. Neither of us had been sleeping well of late. Usually, the weeks play out with the promise of escape at the end of them, be it a long ride, a hike or some other adventure as far away from busy places as possible. But as summer has arrived all of those places have become occupied. We still walk the old lane but even that creeps into the tedium box after you’ve walked it 63.5 times. We had tried to get outside of the box but this summer that outer world has felt different. It probably isn’t but it feels more full, more crowded and definitely more noisy. So with that comes the frustration and at times boredom like the dogs in the chicken coop next door. We can’t do anything about overcrowded summer spaces, we live on a densely populated island. This happened this summer, and it will happen next summer, year after year. But the problem with the frustration is that without the escape of a wilderness which is currently full, and a void in creativity which has been lost, where is the outlet for this? We can ride and walk the lanes of home, these things help (a lot), but sometimes we all need something new. Whether it’s seeing a new place or reading new words that we’ve just written and thinking - where the fuck did that come from? (You’ve had this moment too, haven't you). We all need variety, and at times we all need something different. I’d hazard a guess that this is one of the things that contributed to the mental health challenges faced by many throughout the pandemic. Sameness, familiarity, routine, are all things that contribute to our ontological security, but when you’ve walked the same road time after time with nothing new it becomes a chore. Chores are repetitive and without joy, creativity can be repetitive but at least it’s filled with your own agency. As I’m writing this, I’m not following a brief or a buyer persona or an assignment guide. It might be messy and unkempt and contain the occasional swear word or two, but you know what, that is what comes when we write from our minds.  And isn’t that the best thing about blog writing? It’s a way that we can escape, jump into the minds of others, find connections with our own turmoils and passions and realise that this world is filled with creativity. Our minds are so damn beautiful and powerful, not in a conquer and divide sense but more the capacity of what we can do when we just have the space to do so.  Privilege. When we talk about privilege just the reference to it feels awkward, as a precursor to activism or a reaction to want. It can be neither or both of these things. Talking about being lost in the days while losing our creativity would feel weird or wrong to not mention privilege. Privilege is mostly spoken about in terms of economic means, after all, Western neoliberal societies are obsessed with the material and the props that they believe make them feel fulfilled. But privilege isn’t just that. For me, it’s having the space and time to be able to express yourself. Allowing yourself the belief that you can write or draw or create, and that nobody or nothing can take that from you. The campsite... After some weeks of out-of-the-ordinary routines, social gatherings and general busyness, yesterday we regrouped at the campsite. Me, J and my dad... The campsite is quite a significant place for us. My dad has an old touring van that he keeps there all year round, and it's the one place where we can go to just sit, talk and switch off. It’s our space and while there, it’s our time. Dad recently told me that not too long ago he’d had a sort of panic attack while in work. It had been a busy day and he’d had a lot thrown at him while expecting to wear all of the hats; problem solver - mediator - service with a smile. He’d told me that on that day he almost hit his limit, and he had an urge to jump in his car, switch his phone off and go to the campsite. He didn’t know why that came to him, but it was his fight or flight response and in that moment it was all he could think of. We all have our sanctuaries, the campsite is our version of that. After these recent weeks of endless driving, trips around the country, holding family and friends gatherings, we’d lost ourselves as well as our connection to each other, until yesterday, when we came back together at the campsite. I'll be honest about the campsite. It’s not like the stories and images. We don't sit there having fires and telling old tales deep into the night - often it’s cleaning the van and emptying the Judge’s toilet (our van). But even when we’re hosing out a portaloo or clearing cobwebs from the roof window, it’s still an escape. We spoke about it yesterday. Circled in our camp chairs eating Morrison’s sausage rolls as the dog picked up pastry crumbs around our feet, we spoke about the way we live our lives. It’s a running joke that our van plot is speaker's corner as when we’re there my dad likes to talk politics and he often forgets his hearing aid so it ends up being a bit loud at times. 'Must be Trump’s hot air coming over’ - he’d boomed as we'd looked up at the haze in the sky, seemingly ashen from the wildfires in America making their way over here. The jokes were then followed by a conversation about life. In this space, we had room to talk, not just about chores or work or things that needed to be done. I got into thinking about this and said to Dad something about living from the heart. Live from the heart... What I mean by this is that when life is busy and we don’t have the privilege to be ourselves, to focus on our creativity, and work out what we're really feeling, our happiness can often become replaced by a pseudo-joy that comes from buying things and having things. I'll touch light on the online attention economy but this too becomes pseudo-joy where we begin to live through what others think about us. So whether it's living through things or attention, what we're not doing when in a state of pseudo-joy is living from the heart, or any depth of who we are. I think this is why we can become empty and existent. What life is this when happiness is buying rather than being? How having things and the fleeting dopamine rush that comes from them is what begins to constitute life. When I said to my old man about living from the heart, I meant that things that come from you, from within. Some months back in the night I’d wake with a smile about the thing I was working on as that thing truly was an anchor in the ocean of night. Right now, I'd felt I’d lost it. But those things are ours to find again and that's why I’m here writing this thing right now. Not because I believe it will be read or have any weight in the world. At more than twelve minutes long any copy or blog writing guru would tell me I need to be more 'succinct'. But as I said before, this write-up is written and shared to reclaim some creativity for myself. If it's a long one then it's because it needed to be. I calved out the space to write it because I needed to talk to myself. So, privilege. It's not just about money. It’s about the space and place we have to be who we really are, beyond our pseudo joys and distractions. Our afternoon at the campsite had given all three of us some of that.   Reclaiming creativity.... In this world, where everyone is talking and few are listening it can be difficult to find our creative voices. We are told ’that’s a hobby’ or that we shouldn’t have the drive nor aspiration to try to earn from it. Those who have tell us that ‘It won’t make you a living’, emails go unanswered and certain industries become ringfenced by the Wizards of Elite. Some of us are laughed at for trying to be creative, and some of us are told we are not good enough, that we used the wrong materials for our art, or that our rhyming poetry is crass. All of these things, the negativity, the hoarding, the ring-fencing, come from a society that tells people like us to stop being creative. To focus on the things that matter, that creativity is not one of them. You and I both know that this is one of a few reasons why we can become lost in the days, throwing ourselves into existing while losing our creative inner world. Creativity is really important for all of us. I meet a lot of people through my work and I can honestly say that almost everyone I meet is deeply creative in some way. It is a part of each and every one of us and when we are allowed the space to be creative I see the happiness that comes from it, the wellbeing, and the health it brings for us all. Is it any wonder why certain greedy groups want to keep that for themselves? Our creative rut probably came from this as well as the lack of escape in our lives over recent weeks. And so, as I finish this write-up with J and my son sat at the table behind me, in their final combat of a Warhammer battle ( You got a six, the luck's not on me any more! ), I am relieved to begin to write again and actually finish this blog post. Because believe me, there were many others that never made it past the third paragraph. This is our first step to reclaiming our voices. It might sound really cringe, or one of those overly emotive internet statements, but having that voice, being able to write, or draw, or paint or create an amazing new gadget or recipe is who we really are in this world. It's tribal, it’s real and it's our rawest selves coming to the surface.

(Update: Since publishing this blog post I have been diagnosed with asthma.) I was around five miles from home but I didn’t know whether I would make it back. I was at the roadside on a grass verge, hunched down low beside my bike peddles and struggling to breathe. Every breath was accompanied by pain, my chest was tight and I was trying to stop myself from making this stupid wheezing sound before someone else came by and I made a show of myself. J had ridden on, not because he wanted to leave me but because I’d asked him to. I didn’t want to spoil his ride. I knew he’d be waiting somewhere down the road but for this moment I needed to be alone. This ride had been not more than ten miles, one of those ‘quick blasts’ that cyclists often refer to when riding short distances. This ride was yesterday, and tomorrow we’re supposed to be doing an endurance ride of a much longer distance. That’s going to be a barrel of laughs isn’t it.. This was not the blog post I’d planned to share today, but sometimes, I think that when we’re struggling it helps to press pause, stop and reflect, even if that means other things need to wait. A few months ago I wrote about how cycling has been an absolute game changer for my mental health and J’s too. How it had been my choice over returning to the therapy room. But I’ll be honest, in recent weeks I’ve been struggling. Almost every ride we’ve done has been accompanied by moments like yesterday. Pacing up climbs, flying on straights and hitting PRs shaking, at times, in tears of adrenaline. I don’t know why it’s become like this. Cycling has always been a sanctuary. Seeing the world on two wheels, covering so much ground and finding new places that are not readily accessible by car or foot, it’s like no other. It’s beautiful. Not to mention the health benefits that it brings. Before sitting down to write this morning, I spent some time reading other people’s blogs, stories and experiences about cycling with anxiety. A lot resonated. Yet what seemed to be a common theme were anxiety responses to traumatic events, near misses with cars, crashes when descending at high speeds or in adverse weather. Those things are understandable, there is a direct cause for the anxiety. Yet none of these things have happened to me (touch wood). This fire has ignited from nowhere. I started to write about this yesterday, I drafted a thread on Twitter which was later discarded. Not many of us want to openly share that we’re struggling and those who do are perhaps insulated by the online communities they are a part of where sharing such struggles are normal. The essence of the thread was sharing my thoughts about Strava and what it does to me when out on the road. Many of us use Strava, this is not going to launch into an anti-Strava narrative, but what I will say is that like social media and other ‘social’ orientated digital spaces, the same problems can occur. I don’t have a very social Strava, just a handful of followers and the odd kudos here and there. Both me and J use it mainly to track our fitness activities and for the most part it’s brilliant. If you were to look at my rides on Strava over recent weeks you wouldn’t see the panic attacks that framed them. According to Strava my average speed is increasing, I’m hitting PRs, getting closer to a QOM on some segments. Smashing it mate, yeah. Except, the shaking stops by the roadside, getting home in a haze of adrenaline, the red mist and that internal roar when you know that you just need to shave a few seconds off that segment and the wind is in your favour. What really happens isn't on Strava. (The thread I drafted yesterday) Perhaps this is why cycling has become this unhinged experience of late. I’ll be honest, aside from riding, I seem to be so stressed all of the time. I’m continuously on edge worrying about all the things that have happened, could happen, might happen, etc. Whatever I’m carrying inside is evidently coming out on the bike. That part makes sense. I’ve always found that whatever you’re feeling, good or bad, it’s going to come out eventually when you’re doing something that gives you a release. For both me and J, that’s fitness. We’ve been on many hikes and rides, coming home in a daze from the conversations that we’ve ended up having while out there. There’s just something about physical exertion that frees you in this way. When it comes to Strava, the obvious solution would be to stop using it, but let’s be honest, Strava is fun. Taking a QOM and hitting PRs are only a part of that. The other thing that some people have suggested is that perhaps these panic attacks aren’t anxiety and are actually caused by EIB or more commonly known as exercise-induced asthma. I’m on that, booked in with the GP next month to rule it out, but what doesn’t fit is that when I jog, power walk or do any other form of cardio I don’t struggle to breathe. It’s just the bike. Whatever this wave of panic is, it may have started on the bike but I’ll be sure that it ends there too. I’m not losing my head to this, nor am I going to stop getting out for rides. This world is wild enough, the panic attacks I can handle, but I’m not losing this. Cycling has been our world since the days of lockdowns, it doesn’t end here. So tomorrow, it’s going to be a long one if all goes to plan. I’m not going to lie, a part of me is dreading it because I know that there will be lots of us out with the weather being so good, and I really don’t want to have a panic attack, at least not a public one, ‘Oh she’s a bit puffed out’ kind of thing. No thanks. Realistically, I know we’ll be fine, the great thing about cycling is that there’s always another road that can be taken if the original route doesn’t work out. That and longer rides are actually far more chilled. You have more time to settle into them and there’s just something about riding longer distances that allows you the space to mellow. As your muscles warm up and begin to tire, I find that’s when you start to give less of a shit about all of the head stuff. The emphasis is less on PRs and more on the overall aim of getting from one place to another powered by your legs and pure will. It’s been a while since we last did this, in fact, not since our loch ride in Scotland last month. Everything since has been quick flits and zone four delights. So perhaps tomorrow’s ride is exactly what we both need to reset. Something different with a gentler pace, less of a race and space to mellow out on some longer miles. Whether you're a cyclist or not, I think the same principle applies to other things too. We all need space in this wild world. Anxiety hits hard and so many of us live with it as well as hiding it from the wider world. But I will say this, whether you're puffed out like me on a roadside in Wales or sitting out late somewhere else in the world, your worries may be different to mine but you're not alone. There's no shame in admitting the times when we're struggling. Better rides will come. Life is wild enough before we even venture out of the door. That's why me and J seek quiet places and share our stories about them. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, subscribe to our mailing list and whenever there is a new story to be told, we'll share it with you.

There's this old road that we've recently been walking. It's the kind of road that is no longer used, overgrown and unkempt, it is just a stone’s throw away from being reclaimed by nature and turned back into a field. It’s a place of peace, solitude and space away from the overcrowded beaches and other vantage points that are out of bounds for us now that the first hints of summer are underway. People understand that summer is a busy time in beautiful places, they know that crowds are not fun. Even the media draws on this solitude discourse by pitching out headings such as ‘Beat the crowds this summer’, or ‘Ten beautiful lesser know places’. Yet, what appears to be missing from this is any deeper understanding about the difference between seeking solitude for personal preference, and those of us who do so because we have social anxiety. For many, busy places are perhaps a mild to moderate discomfort or something we have to get through. There are also people who immediately click with you when you mention you have social anxiety - it’s not uncommon. Yet outside of this, in the wider world and its norms, understandings of social anxiety fall flat, written off as clinical, boring or just ‘something that autistic people have’. It’s been a while since I wrote about social anxiety in any depth. If I’m honest I’ve tried to step away from it to convince myself that it’s not a big thing in my life. It becomes easier to do that when your escapes from this world are things that take you to quiet places - be it in your mind or out there in the wild. Yet this last week was intense. We needed to travel for things that needed to be done - my car was due its MOT and service, the van needed a new part fitting, and we wanted to see my brother and sister-in-law who is expecting a baby this summer. There were things that involved going out into the mire of madness, away from the comfort and familiarity of home and our regular north Pembrokeshire haunts. The south of the county is completely different. Its roads run rampant with traffic and its beauty becomes congealed with crowds. I swear, last week we saw a queue forming to join a simple walkway around a lake. And I felt it. The racing heart, the embarrassment, setting my hood over my face and trying to find a space to hold my eyes away from the curious fleeting glances that come from being different, awkward - the polar opposite to Instagram-style confidence. Personally, I don’t believe that social anxiety ever completely goes away. Contrary to the belief that it is an illness, a disorder or whatever other clinical definition is pinned upon it, I don’t believe it can be cured. Having lived with social anxiety for more than twenty-five years and knowing many others who also live with it, I’ve seen the way that people have been treated by this rampant world that we live in. I’ve done the therapies, I’ve tried the medication, I’ve been an inpatient in both my childhood and adult life. In more recent years, I’ve read self-help books, done digital detoxes and tranced myself out doing affirmations in a mirror. It’s not just my own experiences. I’ve witnessed the distress that people feel when they have to pretend and mask through things that make them uncomfortable - and when it goes well it’s three cheers from the society that made them that way. Despite all of this, social anxiety hasn’t gone away for me and I’ve now accepted that it will always be a part of my life. I know the mainstream discourse around it is neoliberal, about self-management and improvement, overcoming our problems independently, being better versions of ourselves and then coming home in a haze to post that photo that tells the world we’re living our best lives. Yet what I really want to say, is that I’ve honestly found that my own social anxiety is less of an illness, and more a mixture of my mind and its boundaries calling out in response to sensory, situational and social overwhelm. I’ve explained more about these three things here . Last week, all three of these things were on high alert. The sensory experience of the noise, the traffic and its fumes, the glances from people, the continuously being on edge feeling the buzz and energy of so many people at once that made me shiver. The social rules and norms that were so familiar yet also so alien to me and J, when needing to be polite and speak to people about the weather or the area or answer ‘Are you enjoying your holiday?’, with ‘Yes thanks, hope you are too’ because it was easier to pretend and move on than elaborate. The situational aspect, knowing that all of our usual escape places were out of bounds and too busy in the here and now, but also knowing that this would not last at this intensity and it was just for that week (at least we hope!). For me, social anxiety is all of these things and not always at peak intensity - it’s taken me a while to understand it from this perspective rather than trying to mask and muddle through. But honestly, taking this approach has really helped me to reframe my own social anxiety - seeing it as a sliding scale of these three things in response to this wild world. I also know that social anxiety is deeply personal and want to add that if any of the more clinical or traditional things work for someone then that’s great. Admittedly, I probably took a lot from both DBT and MBT therapy that stays with me to this day. But all of this over the last week was what brought us to the old road. As the sun has begun to take its place in performing the lure of summer, drawing in the crowds and drawing out the rest of us, finding this old road has been a sanctuary. The road itself is not a conventional beauty spot - in fact, quite the opposite. Decayed and crumpled, it was at one point a farm track but today it’s rarely used. It’s so quiet down there. Last weekend, the road gave us the privacy to talk through our anxieties. A conversation about awkwardness after I'd briefly ended up at a mate's house minus the mate, instead with someone I didn't know and who didn't know me. As we turned another corner in the road, it brought the conversation onto social class and who we are. As the sun beat down upon our shoulders with the hedgerows tall and our shadows behind us, we wandered through the wildflowers sharing our experiences of growing up in mixed social groups, a confusion of norms and expectations. Taking the pizza from one household's table was ok, but in another, the head of the house needed to eat first. My own experience of going on a single date with an upper-middle-class boy as a teen, starting in the local Liquid nightclub, ending in a manor house sat around a banquet table with silver dome plates and the entire family laughing at the scruffy tiger who had come to tea. Despite growing up in completely different parts of the UK, the stories came out the same. The geography may have been different but we were both wandering the same trails back then. The masking and pretending to be posh and well-behaved in one house, to sharing fags and cider with the dad in another. Then came our interests. How not being wealthy pins us down into one category, while our hobbies belong elsewhere. J said to me, 'It's just societal stereotyping' - I agreed. The conversation continued at this pace as the old road continued to wind its way down to the junction. Having this space to walk and talk without feeling on edge, or needing to manage a conversation with a stranger was cathartic and liberating. A place where we could be our weird unconventional selves talking about weird things and memories of youth. A road of sanctuary, solitude and at times, deeper understandings about who we are and the places where we’ve been. And so, as summer arrives and many more places become unavailable, it is this road that we’ll return to. The best places are those where we can be our true selves, and often it is the places that are discarded, decayed and unwanted that bring those of us in need of solitude the greatest freedom. More often than not, these places are not featured in travel guides or news articles. They are often closer to home than we would think.

What a week this one has been, honestly. A general election, a letter darting through the door with far better news than ever expected, the end of an era and one less thing to worry about. And the weather. Here in Pembrokeshire, it’s been feeling warm. Cycling and walking are no longer things that happen through the thick of gloves, hats and steamy vision (shush, I meant mist). We’ve been getting out most days and nights, it’s been much needed. Another quick update to add is that following the earlier post about anxiety and cycling, I’m currently in the process of being assessed for asthma or 'exercise-induced bronchoconstriction' (EIB). Since the weather has warmed up I’ve not had any issues on the bike, but it’s good to cover all bases just to be sure. The nurse has given me an inhaler to use when needed which is a peace of mind. On Thursday we took a drive down to Marloes Sands for a mooch before the bank holiday crowds descended. It’s already beginning to get much busier here in Pembs but it was ok. A few people here and there, but nothing to write home about in terms of social anxiety. Low tide meant that we could walk the entire beach and head up the furthest corner with these tiny caves that you can crawl into. It’s amazing what you hear when you’re sat in here. And the beach itself, it’s beautiful. Marloes is one of those beaches where you really feel that you are stepping back in time. Fossils can be found right along the beach, encrusted in the fallen rocks that line it. Some of these rocks are so big that they form vast stone corridors you can explore along the pebble banks. Marloes is a place of fallen giants, old stories and the path of many wanderers. Those who came before us and those yet to arrive. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, feel free to subscribe to our mailing list and when there is something new to be told, I'll share it with you.

It was a slow start to the day. The aching of dawn and soft indie music brought words of resonance both vocally and visually. I’d written a few lines as an outlet for things that I didn’t understand fully, knowing that today would need to be a day of escape. I’d woken with a lot of feeling that I couldn’t unpack in the time that I had. For that reason, a lot of those early morning write-ups tended to be abstract haunts, laced with anger, forced humour, at times sarcasm and almost always a melancholy tone. I’d write them as a release, in a journal document that now stands at 47, 296 words as I finish this sentence. As those ten minutes of freedom passed by and the demands of day called out, I'd pack away those thoughts, push away from my desk and, get on with the morning that stood waiting for me. Early mornings such as these, are microcosms of escape. Ten minutes here or there, a moment in a waiting room, a passenger in a silent vehicle, out on the road with nothing but a window of landscapes as a companion. Yet there are the larger and grander forms of escape too. The leaving home types, the travelling and getting away from it all. These are the types of escape that are vastly written about in memoirs of life. Seeing new places and new people, having different conversations, sleeping in a strange bed beneath the same old skies, and coming back a different person at the end of it all. As I sat to write this article today, I read about escapism. Psychology calls it avoidance, addiction, or at times fantasy. Sociology would draw a ring around the horrors of the world and its punitive structures, leaning more towards the collective understandings of why we yearn to escape. You or I might just see it as a break from life. Escape is one of those things that is both personal and protective in this world and its ills. It's not always inherently good or bad, but it is the first thing that tends to fall into our mindset when we are sad, or overwhelmed. For that reason, I think that escapism is perhaps one of our great protectors in this world of broken dreams and knife-edge realities. Escape happened to us just a few weeks back, when we took a road trip up north. On this day we were not only escaping the endless and relentless rainfall and gales that have dominated spring, but we were also looking for a complete change of scene. A new place away from the everyday. We do this whenever we can because for us, being out of the house and away from familiarity is what allows us to reset, recharge and at times, find each other again. That morning, we’d driven a few hours to ride our bikes in brighter weather. We didn’t know where we were going, nor did we know what we would find. We’d parked up in a busy lay-by just out of town and rode straight from the van. That trip took us through a warren of industrial parks, rural lanes, and woodlands until it eventually brought us out into a silent landscape. We’d reached a point where it was so quiet that we decided to stop. A small gate with a broken clasp and rusted sign indicated for us to enter at our own risk. So we did. Entering this place was completely unknown. Another tired-looking sign brought us to a choice, pointing either left or right. We chose left. This route took us down a narrow, winding path that was difficult to navigate with bikes in tow, but we found our way through its overgrowth. A path that had evidently not been followed for some time. Eventually, we came to a clearing and heard the distinctive sound of running water. As we followed the path around a corner, the trail opened out onto a pebble river beach with a vast waterfall surrounded by trees. Miles from home, we were completely alone here, in an entirely different place. This was escape. When we live in such an inflamed society, that instructs us to be strong, and resilient, to self-manage our illnesses and disabilities, and to put our anxieties into a box, escape becomes even more important yet also more difficult. As we have become more embedded into political culture wars; right versus left, fingers pointing and waving at the ‘wrong’ demographics, being attacked for being the wrong age or having a mental illness, it becomes all too easy to engage and enrage. Such attacks are manifested to exploit power for these individuals and their spin doctors that construct them. Escapism begins to fade out when people are placed into cages, behind tall walls of worry and anxiety. Irrespective of individual circumstances, there’s a lot hidden in these spaces and a lot that cannot be discussed openly for fear of reprimand or a damaged reputation. This is why escape from the world is not only about switching off and taking a break, but also about self-protection and validation. Sometimes, we have to run away, be it through words on a page or out in the wilds. Doing so allows us to speak to ourselves and be able to release the vast levels of stress that this world has imposed upon us. It’s when I am writing, cycling or hiking, that I’m able to escape. At times, it’s music that helps me to cry after I’ve left it too long. A world of escapism is not always about the blocking out of negative thoughts, but often has more to do with being able to access the deeper version of yourself. Beyond the masked existence, the pent-up anxieties that come out as frustration, the panic attacks with no cause and the pointless arguments we end up having with each other at times. Escapism is our freedom to come away from those things. In a world of pain, we may find that it is our greatest protection. Thanks for reading, L x

The day was young and the sun was bright. The breeze flowed through the trees where birds were singing their choral delight. And then there was me and J. Like two spare parts in a world of perfection we were flustering through yet another problem. “It won’t move”, he said. It was his wheel again. We’d spent the last few hours psyching ourselves up for this day. And we were prepared. We’d packed up everything we needed and unpacked everything we didn’t. We’d brought plenty of energy supplies, a lightweight change of clothes in case anything got hairy while out there, and we were dressed according to the weather. Thermal bottoms (which we’d later regret), a base layer (me) and a bright fluorescent set-up for J. We were going out on a ride, but unlike other rides, we were in this for the long haul. Our golden rule was that we were not to return home until sunset. But before we begin to stray our minds into this romantic idea of riding off into the sunset, this is me and J, and probably like you too, that is not our story. After all of this packing and pruning, we hadn’t made it a mile or in fact, even out of the garden. J’s wheel had well and truly seized and so no riding for us, that was the end of that. Last week, I wrote about anxiety and how I was beginning to fear being out on the bike. This week, that story and those feelings couldn’t feel more distant. That isn’t to say that I no longer have anxiety, because I do and it will likely always be a problem in my life, but it’s strange how quickly other things can happen and take you elsewhere. How other anxieties can replace the initial thing that you were worrying about. How news events can stall you like a rabbit in headlights, bringing back memories of things you had long forgotten. How travelling to a different place on a very different day can bring a new wilderness of emotion. What I am saying here, is that a lot can change quite quickly, for good or bad. As I came to the end of that last blog post, wondering whether the next ride would cancel out what I experienced that day, I’ve since realised that sometimes we need to experience these negative things to be able to reframe and truly move forward. Towards the end of that post, I mentioned that we were about to go out on an endurance ride the following day. This is the story of what happened. Leaving home. After J’s bike wheel had seized (not for the first time), we both thought that was it, ride over. But after a bit of wiggling and shifting around, J managed to sort the culprit - it was just a brake cable gone rogue and thankfully did not need a diversion to a bike shop (unlike my bike yesterday but that’s a story for another day). We headed out straight from home and it was a beautiful morning. After months of Wind Collection 25-45mph, today was different in both mood and weather. I’d promised myself that this ride was about the long haul and not going to be framed around segments and speed. With that, we’d set a few promises amongst ourselves. J was to tell me if I started to ride too fast or go into sprints. I often don’t realise when I’m doing it as I don’t have a device on my bike, only my watch which is hidden under my layers. I get cold very quickly and it tends to lose my heart rate if I keep my arms out. The joys of Raynauds. So within a few minutes of leaving home, and a big wave to my mate as she drove past us, we then came to our first descent. ‘You need to calm down!’, came a booming voice drafting me down the hill. This descent is tiny but the road is wide and it’s just fun to drop down it. But I needed to reassure J. He was worried that this was the start of things to come. As we climbed out of the hamlet I explained. ‘I’m ok, I’m not pacing’. A lot of our anxieties are shared like this, one of us calms the other down. As we took our first climbs of the local lanes and began to warm up, the ride already felt different. Knowing that there was no pressure on time, or pace gave a deep sense of calm. The day before this ride, I’d shared the recent blog post about the panic attacks I’d been having. A Twitter friend had suggested me a book called ‘Breath’ by James Nestor, which I’d picked up and already begun reading. Each of these climbs gave me time to focus on regulating my breathing, something I’d previously been struggling with which was resulting in panic attacks. As I reached each hill I told myself to go gently, breath deeply and chill the hell out - in through the nose to warm the air into my lungs, and accept that you’re going to be out of breath. It’s a hill. Honestly, this stuff sounds horrendously cringe, I know. But it worked for me that day and it has done since. Even as I broke a sweat and my heart rate was climbing, rather than that translating into red alert 'You’re having a panic attack', it was now, 'You’re climbing a hill'. It’s as though I needed to retrain my brain to not respond in its fight-or-flight mode. And it really did work. As we reached the top of a particularly large climb my heart rate had got to around 160bpm peak, whereas usually at this point I’d be at my max. Breathing well really works to calm everything down, both in mind and body. The first village. After a quick strip behind a hedge as I now needed to ditch my base layer, we rolled into the first village of the day. A tiny little place on top of a huge hill. The sort of place that is the setting of books and fictional places. The early morning glow was still with us at this point. An old couple sat out on their porch in chairs enjoying this first calm day of spring. An even older dog wandered slowly across the green sniffing the grass and inspecting scents. It was all very quaint. And so we visited the public toilet of this place and then headed off down a wide open road that sits beside the coast. This is the only footage we got of this ride as unfortunately we’d not charged the camera properly before heading out. We've not watched it yet but if it's any good we’ll share it on YouTube soon. The sea. Within a few minutes of leaving the village on top of a hill, we rolled into another at the bottom of two very large hills. This one is at sea level in a cove. It’s a really pretty place and, that morning, no one else was here. It was low tide so the sea was right out but the sky was deep blue something, the gulls were out in force, there was no wind, nor fog. It was just stunning. A new and very cool addition for Pembrokeshire toilets is that water fountains have been set up outside of them. I promise, we don’t just visit public toilets, but these things are so key and can really make or break a ride. Riding on a bursting bladder and running out of water is not fun, a lot of rural communities don’t have shops you can just call into. These fountains are free to use and so far we’ve seen them in two different coast locations over the last week. So keep an eye out, as there may be one at a toilet near you. We were now ready to roll once again, with around 15 miles covered so far and many miles and climbs ahead of us. The first climb out of the cove was a leg burner, steep and lengthy although there are more intensive climbs in the area such as Newgale (we didn’t include this on this route). The good thing about climbs on coastal and rural lanes is that you don’t tend to get a lot of traffic at this time of year, so there’s no pressure to ride faster. The first time we did this climb there had been a group of walkers coming down cheering us on. All nice and everything, but sometimes you don’t want an audience, especially not when puffed out with a red face. What I will say though, is that we have no qualms with stopping on a long climb and in fact, that’s how I took this one today, a few pauses and then onwards. Once you’re up this one you are literally riding along the top with the sea beside you for these few miles. When the sun is beating down and warming your shoulders, the coastline beside you, it’s these days that you wait all winter for, just you and the road ahead. We rode straight through the next village as we needed to make some progress before finding a place to refuel ahead of the lunch rush. Living with social anxiety, this is something that we have to plan whether we’re riding, walking or hanging out in hedgerows. We never take for granted that quiet place eating is going to be available, often it's packed lunches or eating outside of the usual hours. If we do find somewhere those moments are huge wins. As we came out of the small village its descent is wild and beautiful. You glide down it to the beach and it's wide enough to bank around and straight up the other side. As we did this, a couple were coming up the footpath from the beach watching us. J tells me that the lady was like ‘Wow’, which I automatically assumed must be because she thought we looked ridiculous. ‘No, she was amazed’, he said. I didn’t see it but I’ll take his word for that. The last time we were riding here I was almost taken out by a flying carpet (someone beating out their mat, say no more), but honestly, anything can happen when out on the road and this shows that we probably shouldn't assume the worst. The lunch. After a few more miles and climbs along the coast, we found a great place albeit with a rude name, which was surprisingly quiet outside. We were both so relieved. In fact, the theme of this ride was that a lot took us by surprise that day. By now it was late morning and we’d seen not more than one or two other cyclists, zero walkers and hardly any cars. Not what we had been expecting at all. We were only a couple of hours into our ride at this point but we were more than ready to eat. Since we did this ride one of our cycling mates (who knows a lot more than we do) has told us that fuelling on endurance rides is best done with food at this early stage followed by energy gels in those later miles. I’d later learn that choosing food over gel resulted in sluggish riding - he’d explained to us that this is because after riding for some hours your blood goes to your legs slowing down digestion, so basically you need gels for a rapid energy boost as that biscuit you just ate isn’t going hit the mark. We live and we learn, cheers S. While at this place we realised that our watches were also in need of a refuel. We’d planned to call into a caravan site where my dad keeps his van in a bit, but we then realised that we didn’t have the key. A quick text to the site manager who is brilliant, and had a spare key, sorted this. She said she was going to open it up for us ready for when we rolled in. She’s an absolute star, thank you J. Back on the road. We were now ready to leave the nice place with the rude name that had now attracted many more lunchgoers, including a couple of very pro-looking cyclists who were also kitting up ready to ride. This was a bit awkward as if we left before them they would almost certainly draft and then paste us, but they seemed nice enough and we’d exchanged a few brief pleasantries so we headed off and took the gamble. A few miles down the road we pitched up at one of our favourite stopping spots to wait for them to pass by, huge tractor tyres in a dusty field. Great spot to sit. Sure as anything, within moments of sitting down, they came flying by. We were definitely going to see that on Strava later. They gave us a smile and wave, most likely thinking we’d overindulged and needed a rest already when really we just wanted to be the fat lads at the back of this peloton. Now alone again, we rode across the peninsula to a notable Pembrokeshire landmark. I bet you’ve seen this one before… This place was busier than most stops on this ride. We also had our first official Strava fly-by at this point. A guy who was extremely fast on an extremely nice bike. Again, we were still averaging a gentle place despite these encounters. We had no place to be and no deadline to hit. The only pressing need was the watch batteries needing their charge. We’ve since resolved this issue by getting hold of a power pack for future rides, another lesson of both this ride and an endurance ride we did in Scotland last month. After heading into the city to grab the pointless biscuits, we rode straight to the caravan site. As we arrived, we struck pauses and stuck the watches on charge and then my dad turned up, ‘Do you want a doughnut?’. He always does this, goes back to his Highlands camper days, comes armed with supplies and often sweet treats in abundance. Honestly, the best test of my willpower is my dad. While we were in Scotland last month it was like 8am in the morning when we were sat having a cuppa and he said, ‘Fancy a scone?’. He’s like me, sweet tooth, but I don’t eat too much sugar these days. I didn’t even have a mince pie at Christmas, but once my dad turns up, that’s also when the cakes make an appearance, every time. Honestly, if you ever see my dad he always has a cake up his sleeve. We stayed here for a little while until the watches had what they needed and we were ready for the next round of miles. This wasn’t going to be flat riding, but by this point we were around 40 miles in. It became easier from this point on. Some would disagree when I say that the later parts of an endurance ride are easier, but personally, I find that it to be this way because my mind isn’t hitting out. The worries and woes of the earlier miles have faded away and all that’s left is just that focus on making it to the next place. It’s the same with hiking, the early miles carry worries that become more distant as you leave them behind you. I suppose in this sense, this is how being outdoors can really clear your head. You have to travel through those early woeful miles to reach the calmer points. Today was also about taking a gentle pace, not only in the literal sense, but also in mind. Since this day I’ve realised that this is why short rides are a complete headf-ck for me, as there isn’t the space or time to reach this place. Heading home. As we rode the roads back home, the sun had warmed everything. Thermal tights were a hinderance at this point but hot legs can easily be cooled by unzipping and pulling them up. We saw a few other cyclists at this point in summer jerseys and shorts, another take home for endurance rides, layers, removable garments, get it all out and off if you have to. Do whatever it takes to get you home. After some A-road riding, we were finally back on the rural lanes, the quiet ones where you see few and feel everything. Coastal spots are great but personally, these places are what makes a ride. When you stop on these lanes, there is nothing but you and nature. It's great. The final miles of the day were tiring as to be expected, but they were also the best. There was a stillness with the gales of Wales absent and the sky stayed blue like it had promised. We were around three miles from home on a descent when a bang errupted from behind me. ‘I don’t think it’s going to make it back’, J called. We’d come this far and J’s back wheel had almost packed in. ‘What was that bang?’, I shouldn’t have laughed but he was cracked up too. This is what I mean, by this point you really don’t give a sh*t. ‘I don’t know’, he said, ‘but it ain’t rolling right’. It wasn’t a puncture. J’s back wheel has always had problems that we’ve since found is caused by a defective bearing. This was the last ride we did with it. We’re used to riding with mechanical issues. If you’ve not yet seen what happened in Glencoe last month, that one was perfect. 30 PSI all the way back in a headwind. Today we didn’t lose pressure, the final few miles just took a bit of care. I said to J, ‘Don’t end your ride. Just jog with it, 4mph or whatever’ - if it’s not on Strava it didn’t happen and all that, but he was alright. So with J now riding like a drunk and me trying not to laugh we finally made it past my mate's house and came back into the village looking as though we’d just come back off a pilgrimage. Flies stuck to our faces, a broken bike, a camera that had long stopped filming still attached to my bars by its long stick, tights halfway up our legs and hair all over the place. ‘You’ve had a good one’ came a voice from across the way. A neighbour had seen us wobbling back into the village in this state. In my last blog post, I’d written with hope that today’s would be a good one, and it was. The first calm day of many, without all that had come before; the anxiety, the panic attacks, the stress over segments and speed. Yet, if I’d not experienced these things and learnt about them, then maybe today wouldn't have been the day that it was. Perhaps I wouldn’t have learnt things about breathing and keeping a cool head, maybe I’d have just carried on racing without stopping for a moment and burnt out. Perhaps we wouldn’t have made this ride without those things happening. So, all in all, I guess anxiety can be helpful in that sense. Learning the worries of yesterday was what reframed this ride. And so, as we came to a halt on the driveway, with the sun now setting, we had made it home and kept all our promises. The neighbour called, ’Nice day for it eh?’. ‘Beautiful’, I said, ‘A gentle one today’. And it had been just that. The first calm day of many to come. Life is wild enough before we even venture out of the door. That's why me and J seek quiet places and share our stories about them. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, subscribe to our mailing list and whenever there is a new story to be told, we'll share it with you.

Last month we went on a long-awaited trip to the Scottish Highlands. For the first time ever we took the bikes and saw Scotland in a way that we’d never seen it before. What follows is what happened as we rode in one of Scotland’s most sought-after places, the mystical Glencoe. What we found there was beautiful but far beyond what we had expected. This was one ride, and one part of an entire story. A story that began as a road trip with strangers, took us through chapters of unexpected encounters, incidents, emotions, at times fear and outright shock, and in the end, an entirely different place from where we’d started out. You’ll find many videos and stories about Glencoe online, but there’s only one that tells something unique. A story that goes beyond the photographs and the films. A tale that tells the raw truth of our personal experiences; the good, the bad, the things that scared us and the things that pissed us off. Glencoe is a dreamworld, but like all places of this world, there is more than meets the eye of its dream. At least that’s what we found. So, without further ado, sit back and enjoy the ride. This is our story of Glencoe. Life is wild enough before we even venture out of the door. That's why me and J seek quiet places and share our stories about them. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, subscribe to our mailing list and whenever there is a new story to be told, we'll share it with you.

I’d been walking until I was up to my ankles in mud before I heard J shouting me to come back. We’d been looking for some old ruins that we used to hike to back in the day, and this place felt familiar. I’d been here before. As I looked over to where J was, he signalled me to turn around, ‘We’re in the wrong field’. Shrugging and pulling my boots out of this waterlogged swamp, I retraced my steps whilst recalling that this field was not the place of the ruins. It had been a place of former friendships and days gone by. Not what we were looking for today. As Storm Kathleen puts a halt on everything outdoors this weekend, and the Easter holidays are still upon us, finding quiet places to unwind remains a challenge for those of us with social anxiety, but one me and J are always up for. That’s why following a medical appointment yesterday afternoon, we decided we may as well stay out whilst the weather was doing ok. 'Let’s go to those ruins', I said, 'The ones we used to go to'. In a world of what feels like endless gloom and chaos, who doesn’t love a trip down memory lane for a momentary escape? So, as we left the wrong field and walked across the road to find the right one, we headed down a gravel track which eventually led us to the ruins of Haroldston House. I’m not a historian or a huge believer in the supernatural but this place has got something about it. What is left of it sits in a rural location, yet close to Haverfordwest town centre. ‘Clay Lanes’ the route you have to take to get to it are widely reported as being haunted, with all sorts of sightings and experiences reported by walkers and people who have travelled along it at night (we might do, one day). The ruins themselves are said to have been the house and grounds of the Perrot family, and were built by a Harold back in the 13th century. As you walk into the grounds, although the ruins are very faded now, you can still feel a strong sense of what was once there. To be honest, it felt quite strange. When we’d visited years ago we felt the same then. When you’re here, the place itself may be deserted and desolate, yet you can hear the rush of traffic from the bypass nearby. As though two different worlds are colliding. What does remain in this place is a tower. A tower that J immediately decided we were going to go inside. There are like five steps up to the top of the tower that are almost worn away now but getting up them was ok. Once you reach the top of the staircase, there are the remnants of an old room that gives a view of the grounds. Now mostly trees and nature, it was quite peaceful and in that moment, just us. As we left the tower, J leaping down the steps and me sliding down them, we took a wander around the rest of the grounds. We didn’t stay too long as the sky was dark and as I mentioned a little earlier, there was a feeling of something that told us it was time to move on. It’s like this sometimes when in nature, not supernatural as such, but more a sense that comes from being in a place. Similar to what we experience when in the hills, but this place was very different. The entire time we were there I didn't feel as though I could stay still with ease, it was like we had to keep moving. We walked back down Clay Lanes and drove back into town. The afternoon was drawing out but neither of us felt we were done yet. This was J’s turn to make a suggestion, ‘Little Milford Woods?’. Another place we’d not seen for years. By now it was starting to rain heavily but we’d already done wet feet from the wrong field, and we both just needed to stay out a little longer. As we arrived at the car park for the woods, there were already a large number of cars parked up. We both looked at each other, when this happens it can often deter us from a place but what we have learnt particularly in woodlands, is that we can still find solitude in these places. It’s very easy to space out and go off track when you’re in this kind of place as there are so many different trails and paths. Little Milford is a good one for that. As we slid down the mud trails that were once paths, we saw nobody and found a lot. With the end of the day nigh, time wasn’t on our side but true to form, we ventured off track and it was a great place to end the day. Little Milford might have been muddy and wet, but there was a sense of calm here. We didn't mind being lost in these woods for a while. With the rest of the weekend looking as though outdoor wandering is out of the window, I’m glad we made the most of yesterday. Although it wasn’t a huge adventure or vast trip out in the wilderness, it left a story to be told all the same and gave us the break we needed in that moment. It's these everyday places that we find are so important for solitude. Whether they're woodlands, ruins or somewhere else, these are the places that we can easily reach when we need to, and we know that they will be waiting for us to return to. Life is wild enough before we even venture out of the door. That's why me and J seek quiet places and share our stories about them. We all need an escape from this world. If you like what you're seeing and reading here, subscribe to our mailing list and whenever there is a new story to be told, we'll share it with you.

It’s Easter already. I don’t about you but me and J are still a bit dishevelled and wintered here in the wilds of Wales. It’s been feeling like minus 2 degrees and we seem to get one clear day a week on average right now. But alas, we know that spring will arrive at some point and unlike many of us, this bank holiday weekend isn’t waiting on the weather. Up against it, we may be, but we’ll still end it with a story to tell. When we think of bank holiday weekends, they’re often associated with the crowds, the media stories of traffic jams, airport queues and general queues for things we don’t even see. Basically, all of this queuing and disarray means that many of us think, no thanks, I’m staying in. That’s fine, of course, but after a few wild bank holiday weekends of our own (that didn’t involve queuing), we wanted to share three simple things that we do to get the most out of them. 1. A very different place. I’ve already written about social anxiety and bank holidays, so I’ll keep this one short. Be it Easter, Whitsun or any other bank holiday weekend, it goes without saying that some places do become extremely crowded. After all, for those of us who have these extra days off it’s understandable that we would want to escape the confines of home and the everyday. We’re all looking for a different place to give that sense of escape. That’s why me and J often find that we need to venture a bit further both geographically and creatively. It was during a bank holiday weekend a couple of years back that we came across an empty woodland. There was a car park, it wasn't the sort of location where you would need to hike off-track to find it but it was also during a heatwave, and inland rather than anywhere close to the coast. That place was special because it wasn't somewhere we had visited before, and we came across it when trying to find somewhere else. It was a very different place from what we had been looking for but it was beautiful. We sat in this spot for a good hour or so, completely undisturbed. What I would say about this is to have a rough plan in mind of an area, and then go explore it. It’s amazing what you find when you go beyond Google and get out there, and most of the time these places are deserted even on bank holiday weekends. Our own very different place that we’ve decided on for this weekend is definitely not a bank holiday attraction (we’ll share more if it works out)… 2. Don’t let the rain keep you indoors. Ok, we all know that for most of us it’s still pouring down and the wind is roaring. Me and J are both developing an unhealthy obsession with our weather apps right now, searching for our window to get out and ride. The thing we’ve found is that when we become so focused on the weather, we end up becoming consumed by it. I kid you not, we recently spent an entire morning triangulating a specific clear weather area on J’s app, only to arrive to torrential rain. So what I am saying is, that staying safe in weather warnings is one thing, but don’t let the rain keep you closeted. Obviously, quiet places become more available during bad weather, but we've always found that once we're drenched (and this happens to me every time), there is a sense of f*** it style relief. And for me and J at least, this is when we find that the real adventure begins. This was during summer '21 in Scotland. We'd been to visit Loch Laggan, one of our favourite lochs, but we'd parked up in a lay-by some way away and hiked down the A86 to the entrance to the estate. As I was waiting for J to get back with the car, the skies opened and it was just a matter of getting drenched. Did it remove the enjoyment? Not one bit, that's why the memory remains so clear. 3. Someone else’s neighbourhood… If you are spending your weekend away from home, be it with family or elsewhere, there is a lot to be found in the unknown. Someone else’s neighbourhood means that you have an entire landscape of new routes, ruins, fields, parks and woodlands right there waiting. A few weeks back, we had a family thing that we needed to go to one Sunday, but it was one of those days when the weather was settled and we needed to ride. So, we took our bikes to their house and rode out from there. Obviously, it depends upon who you are visiting in terms of how this will go down, but even if you need to borrow the family dog and feign a favour, there’s often a way to escape for a while when visiting people. Another thing about being in an unfamiliar neighbourhood is not only what you will find, but also what you will be while out there. There is a lot of calm that comes from being a stranger and knowing nobody. It really allows you to see a place. So, that’s it. No big challenges, or voyages to the other side of the world. Just three simple things that we do to get a bank holiday weekend that doesn’t involve being stuck in a queue or cooped up indoors. Those things are only one story around bank holiday weekends, but you know as well as we do that others exist out there. So, without further ado, Easter weekend, let’s go. It’s time to get out there, explore and find our own stories in this wild wilderness. Whatever your plans for the weekend ahead, we hope it's a good one. To see what we get upto on our road trips and rides, hikes, and urbexes, head over to our YouTube channel and subscribe for updates (including what happened earlier this month in Scotland, coming very soon).

It was a Sunday afternoon at the end of an unpredictable weekend in both weather and mood. After returning home from away around a week ago, we’ve both been settling back into our regular routines and familiarity, and we’ve not yet told the stories of Scotland. Sometimes, it’s knowing where to start. A lot of people have asked how the holiday went, my polite answer is ‘lovely, it was beautiful thank you’, for those I’m on less formal terms with, ‘you couldn’t write it’. That’s the truth. But we’re making a start and I promise, it’s not bad, just a bit weird in places. So, on this Sunday, at the end of a long week of neighbouring wind chime battles (best not to ask, now resolved thankfully) and adjusting back into the every day, we, like many of us were feeling cooped up and frustrated after a week of rain, mud and blowing in the wind. Earlier in the weekend, we’d attempted a walk in our local hills, our wondrous Preselis. A place where both me and J spend a lot of time both hiking and on two wheels. Yet, when we’d attempted our hike on the Saturday morning, within not more than a minute of arriving the rain came down heavy and the mist descended. As you’ll see shortly, getting lost in the hills is something that can very easily happen, even on a beaut of a day in Pembrokeshire, so these conditions were not favourable. Fast forward to the next day and Sunday brought some promise. In place of the hazy grey, was a bright blue sky and sunshine. Today was the one. Living with social anxiety, Sundays are often the most challenging day of the week. The reason being, is simply that when a large proportion of the community is at leisure it can be so difficult to find quiet places. Especially so when the weather has been trash and the Sunday ends up being ‘The One’ fair weather day. So, it’s understandable that in such conditions we humans will end up clustering in the wild, we all need a little outdoor time after all. It’s no one's fault. It just means that you have to be even more creative to find places that are a little less busy (Tip - here in Wales the rugby helps to plan, a lot!). So, as we arrived at the same point as we’d planned to head off from the day before, this time we could see everything that lay in front of us. A large steep climb awaited. We walked up mostly in silence. I needed to get some cardio burn on the go so I took a bit of a pace to get my heart rate up and work into a sweat. Around halfway up I heard a distinctive man’s voice calling out, ‘Urgh’. Thinking that my sweaty puffed-out state had disgusted someone I quickly looked around to see where he was. Moments like this can be quite stressful when you come across someone suddenly once you’ve been in the zone. As I turned around I saw movement and a flash of white. Instant relief came over me. FFs it was just a herd of sheep wandering off around the other side of the hill. Honestly, when you meet sheep in the wild they don’t always ‘Baaa’ like in nursery rhymes, they can often sound like people. As we reached the top of the climb, we emerged among the Preseli standing stones. Then came the calm. I wrote about this in our recent cycling story, being amongst these stones is otherworldly. There is just nothing but silence and nothing but nature for miles around you. It’s truly immersive and brings a deep sense of calm. This is one of a few places in this wild world where me and J feel that we truly belong. We walked a little further along the track until we reached a stream. It was around this point that I asked J about the Arthur place. Bedd Arthur (Arthur’s Grave) is a standing stone circle that has a lot of mystery about it. Local legend links this to King Arthur but like many of the ancient stones that grace the Preselis, not a lot is known about it and for that reason it’s truly beautiful. We’ve only found it once before, back in 2021 and as we were on this walk my bearings felt like we were in its vicinity once again. J checked his ordnance survey app and according to that, we were right on track. It was at this point that we realised we’d well and truly left the track and were now wandering through the wilderness of moorland. At this point, there was little option but to continue on and find our way to the stone circle somehow. Walking off the beaten track is often romanticised on social media and the like, but I will be honest about this. It can be a pain in the arse. I’m sure any fellow hikers know what I mean when I say that walking wild requires a lot of focus, decent hiking boots or similar, and often sheer hope for the best. Without a flattened path to follow, it means you have to stomp one step, see how deep your foot goes and then take your next step. Moorland like this is often overgrown so it’s potluck whether you end your footing on a nice soft bed of moss or ankle-deep in a bog. With the continuous wet weather we’ve had of late, bog is increasingly likely in these parts. So, all in all, this section of our walk was us lost, and moving very slowly toward what we thought was a path. The maps aren’t always right. According to J’s app, we should have been right on track. I can only assume that it had now overgrown and been reclaimed by Mother Nature. After falling over several times and managing to not break our ankles, we were both relieved to eventually find the beaten track again. Still lost, but at this point it was just great to be in a firmer part of the wilderness. It was then that we saw what we had been searching for, Bedd Arthur lay just a few hundred feet away. As we reached the stone circle, we looked around and realised that we were completely alone up here. Bedd Arthur sits on a hill that overlooks the vastness of the Preselis. You can see for miles. We found a place to sit and look out at the landscape close to the stones. There was nothing but us in this wilderness and its traces of the past. For miles around there were the familiar hills that we had hiked before, the standing stones we had seen and taken photos of and many places that are still to be visited. You can spend hours in this place and only see one or two people. It’s beautiful, it’s quiet and spending a few hours getting lost here is a perfect antidote to everyday life. The very essence of wilderness. As we navigate this wild world away from the crowds, we will be posting more adventures on our YouTube channel. You can watch our latest stories here.

Social anxiety. Whether we wear the cloak for ourselves or not, it's a term that many of us are familiar with. At times it feels like it's everywhere, yet there are other moments where it feels that it is scarcely acknowledged. For those who have read our blog posts about experiencing social anxiety on Twitter, unexpected visitors, finding space away from the crowds on bank holiday weekends, or even coping with the stress of Christmas - I think we can agree that social anxiety covers a lot of life. Too much, in fact. So, in addition to our wild and weird stories (such as, cough, Wales Comic Con), me and J have decided to put together a series of podcasts about social anxiety. Social Anxiety Chat is a podcast series that addresses the complexities of social anxiety, going beyond the usual narratives of it being a 'phobia', a fear or plain and simply feeling awkward around people. In each episode, we will be chatting about a different aspect of social anxiety, diving deeper than the memes, stereotypes and misconceptions we face in our day-to-day lives. We'll be covering topics including social anxiety from everyday encounters, such as seeing your neighbour, in the workplace, or even spending time with family. We also want to explore the big stuff. The things in society that tell us that we shouldn’t be this way or that we’re weird for being who and how we are. Every episode of Social Anxiety Chat will feature a new topic or question. So, if you have something that you would like to see featured, please feel free to get in touch either here on our site or via our new YouTube channel. This week's question is going to start from the very basics of understanding what social anxiety is. Because honestly, I don't know whether it's really, truly understood. Do you? Social Anxiety Chat: Episode 1 What does social anxiety really mean?