I wasn’t going to include my solo getaway, but due to popular demand from my loyal readers, here it is – albeit brief.
I left my tiny companion at 3am in Galway, in the hands of her loving grandparents and favourite aunty. At times, i’ve fallen deep into many a habit hole whilst surfing the comments section of parenting facebook groups. These tend to be spaces filled with deep devotion, and perspectives on leaving children that are worlds away from my own. Many posts come from parents who couldn’t imagine being away from their child, even briefly. I remind myself how lucky I am to have such great support, and without guilt, jump on that bus to Dublin. I had a wedding to attend.
When it comes to solo travel, I remain firmly stuck in my twenties — still opting for the worst accommodation the world has to offer. And for that, I begrudge myself.
London: a city where hostels make money regardless of quality. Oh, I couldn’t have chosen a worse place. From the stench of cheap beer to the damp walls and curtain-less bunk beds with mattresses that could rival a prison cell — it was grim.
The complete lack of a proper drainage system made navigating pools of shower water in heels and a satin dress a challenge not for the faint-hearted. Word to the wise – don’t get ready for a wedding in a hostel.
Also London is humid – get a blooming air con.
The worst part was probably asking my fellow “bunkie” if she wanted to get a beer and being rejected. Whatever.
After escaping hostel hell, I attended a beautiful wedding with beautiful people. Rose was getting hitched. A friendship forged in the love/hate trenches of our nursing careers, travelling exploits and now strengthened by the chaos of parenting abroad and our shared therapist, Chat GTP. It would have be a sin for me not to fly across the pond to celebrate the newlyweds.
The crass charm of an Aussie accent, along with our uniquely cheeky banter felt at home – so very needed after a month where my only conversational partner was a 3.5 year old.
Following the wedding, I returned to my bottom bunk bombshell — a grim little reminder that my days of skimping on accommodation were drawing to a close.
After my quick stopover in London, I headed to North Wales to recharge my social battery and spend time with another Adelaide nurse.
Sue and her husband, Richard, welcomed me into their gorgeously renovated milk shed, where I spent five days exploring the North Wales countryside, relaxing, and eating well. I couldn’t even begin to tell you where we went — the Welsh language is a glorious beast unto its own — but there were rolling green hills, stone cottages, and enough fresh air to blow the last of London’s hostel stench from my lungs.
I even climbed Snowdon with two impressive Welshmen. The ascent was shrouded in mist, making it feel as if we were the only souls on the mountain — a rare and magical treat. Our descent, via a different path, told another story: swarms of tourists had the same idea, and one even decided to bring a boom box. Sadly, this meant Katy Perry also accompanied us along the cliffside of Snowdon. Eventually, the clouds parted, and we veered onto a quieter trail, rewarded with views that were nothing short of breathtaking.
My week “off-duty” was just what I needed. Loneliness, as I’ve mentioned, is without a doubt a byproduct of travelling with a toddler, but this short taste of home with friends was comforting — a reminder that time with Meabh is only worth having if I’m not running on empty.
