The descent begins...

I have the most astonishing bruises on my thighs – crimson, green and purple swirls so decorative they rival my hubla’s many tattoos.

Yesterday I was in Italy, coming to the end of a four day trip to Brescia, Lombardy. The representative from the tourist office took me to see the castle of Brescia and we arrived just as an excited group of people turned up to take one of their special speleological tours beneath the edifice.

I asked to take photos of them as they prepared to descend down a narrow hole like a well, and as I snapped away I must have looked suitably envious, as the organisers soon had me strapped into a harness and being lowered into the castle’s underbelly!

Caving was once a favourite pastime of my sister’s but I’ve never tried it before. Roberta Possi, one of the key volunteer speologists who guide the groups, lead me through a few caves into a vast cavern where stalactites reached spindly fingers towards the floor and our head-lamps illuminated the pale gleaming rock walls.

“Grande,” I breathed.

“Grandissimo,” she agreed, beaming.

Then it was time for me to ascend, and that’s when the real challenge began. The last time I climbed a rope ladder was when I was a small child, and that one was around three metres long and led into the branches of our tree-house.

The rope ladder I had to climb out of the castle’s underbelly was a cold metal and mud-covered 13-metre endurance test. As I was wearing my smartest jeans and best leather boots (with no grips whatsoever – well, I thought I was going for a genteel stroll around Italy!), every rung was a struggle but I finally made it to the top, mud-splattered, with cuts on my hands, and a smile on my face.

In the face of an opportunity for an unexpected adventure, who would say no? My jeans will recover, and so, given time, will my thighs.

© J Darley

As the last traces of gold melted into the first morning blues, our hot air balloon rose to meet the dawn. In a large wicker basket we hung beneath a mass of rainbow-striped fabric inflated by a roaring flame. What better way could there be to see Colorado?

“See that mountain with a bump like a pair of feet at one end and a sort of profile at the other? That’s the sleeping Indian,” Ed, our pilot, told us, gesturing to the Rocky Mountains and gently rotating the balloon so we could all get a look. There were eight passengers in the basket, pressed neatly together with just enough room for each of us to have a view of the land spread out beneath us. Our balloon led the way, followed by two other Fair Winds balloons across a large lake and a road where excited school children waved to us from the windows of their yellow school bus.

The balloon flight was a highlight in a week full of astonishing experiences, from exploring beautiful down town Denver to meandering around the remarkable rock formations of the Garden of the Gods. But today my husband James and cousin Ian had something less cerebral in mind. As soon as the balloon touched down in a field of prairie dogs and we’d helped to fold the immense swathes of fabric away into the balloon envelope, Ian drove us to nearby Fort Mason and the Odell Brewing Company.

If you’ve always dismissed American beers as weak and watery, as I have, then you’ve clearly missed the recent beer revolution. Micro breweries have sprung up across the country, with many clustered around cities such as Seattle and Denver, and Odells is one of the best. We arrived in time to work our way through a sampler of their most popular lines, from the dark malty whatever to the crisp wheat beer. It was enough to whet our appetite for the tour past sweet smelling barrels of fermenting hops, through to the gleaming, noisy bottling room.

At the end of the tour, our guide, fresh from a trip to UK breweries courtesy of the company, mentioned a limited addition beer sold in champagne bottles in a few of the nearby liquor stores, and we set off on a mission to find and buy one. That evening at my cousin’s house in Parker we popped the cork and my husband poured us each a frothing glass of the legendary beer. I took my first sip and grimaced. It tasted of fizzy marmite. The boys, however, were gleefully knocking theirs back, and I realised, like marmite, you either love it or hate it.

Likewise, Colorado is a state of extremes, from the flat prairies to the reaching mountains, sophisticated cities to rawest nature, from the heat of the sun to the chill of snowfall. In one day we experienced every various of the weather, setting off with air conditioning turned up high as we drove to the Rocky Mountain’s national park.

Colorado is one of North America’s highest states, and Parker is set 6,000 feet above sea level, which is one of the reasons why you have to be wary of the sun here. Before long, we reached Este National Park, passing the iconic hotel where the Steven King film the Shining was filmed.

As we continued, buildings became sparser, and it was clear that with one heavy snowfall these homes would be isolated. As we wound our way up the narrow mountain roads, rain, then sleet, began to fall, making our route more treacherous.

By the time we stopped for lunch, snow was falling and I was glad to borrow an oversized fleece from my cousin. In Colorado, residents know to travel with clothing for all eventualities. Lightning flickered on the horizon and Pikas, furry critters like sprightly guinea pigs, leapt about the slopes calling to one another in anxious shrieks.

Our aim was to catch sight of the majestic elks that roamed these mountains, but the Pikas and a few hopefully begging chipmunks were the only beasties in sight. Then at the visitors centre standing at an altitude of 11,000 feet, I noticed a gaggle of tourists looking out of one of the windows at a herd of distant beige and brown blobs, which they assured me were elk. Satisfied with that glimpse, we headed back to the car and drove down to the town beyond the national park.

And it was here that we saw the elk in their full glory. Congregated on a patch of grass, undeterred by the camera-wielding humans gathered around them, a group of glossy, beautiful elk feasted on the grass while the splendidly horned stag sat in their midst, carefully watching over his harem. As we dove on we passed a stream where a single young male elk stood in the rushing waters and nibbled from the leaves of an overhanging tree, no doubt the reason for the older stag’s wariness.

“Well, who knew they were so intelligent,” my cousin exclaimed as he turned onto the freeway.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He laughed, “Hunting season just began. Those elk are, quite literally, fair game. Just about the only place they can’t be shot is within the town.”

For me this summed up the appeal of Colorado, where wilderness and civilisation lie side by side, often with only a stretch of tarmac to separate them, and sometimes not even that.

© J Darley

I’m a country girl at heart. I grew up in house overlooking fields and farmland, and as much as I love the buzz and entertainment and convenience of living in the city, I often find myself craving trees and nature. This summer’s occasional golden days are a great chance to head out into the countryside armed with fruit pastilles and head up a hill or three.

Last Saturday my friends and I went to Tal y Bont in Powys, Wales, and followed an 8.5-mile trail through some exquisite countryside - all rolling valleys and red-tinted peat bogs glimmering in the sunshine.

Most of the walk was as easy as can be, with a level ridge to stroll along and spongy peat underfoot, while sheep clung to the sheer valley sides, knowing no fear as they trundled onwards in search of the next luscious mouthful of grass.

In fact, the biggest challenge came right at the beginning of the trail when we had to climb a really steep hill - how cruel! The best approach seemed be to keep going until you felt your heart was really going to pound its way out of your chest, then halt to ‘enjoy the view’ and gulp in some air. By the time we reached the top even the collie dog seemed knackered, but after a short rest we were ready to tackle the rest of the route.

It’s a glorious site for anyone interested in photography, with a fabulous variety of terrains, wildlife such as kestrels and sparrowhawks, plus the occasional rust-red cairn glowing against the valley greens. No wonder Wales has inspired so many poets and authors!

Our goal was to reach the summit of Fan Y Big, one of the least outstanding hillocks in the Brecon Beacons National Park. In fact, it was so meagre that we ended up having to ask a nice Welsh man for directions, and then endure him smirking at our pronunciation! We didn’t dare then ask the way to Taf Fechen forest, ahem, but fortunately the mass of oak trees gave it away.

The trail from Fan Y Big to the forest was a steep path down the hillside, where erosion had left the raw slate exposed, jarring knees and ankles. A couple of times a burbling brook seeped across the path, revealing how so much of the topsoil had been carried away.

Our final challenge was a clamber down into a shallow stream, which is apparently ranging at wetter times of year, and then up the other side. From there on the paths were far easier, and eventually we were walking back along the road to the car park, ready for cups of tea and banana muffins. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday!

Glasgow © J Darley

People who think they know what they’re talking about tend to say you should write about what you know, but sometimes there’s a danger in doing that, of becoming too inward-looking in your work.

My writing is often prompted by a snippet of conversation, a glimpsed scene, two memories colliding and making something new. Generally I try not to draw too much on my own life, and if I do find myself transforming a slice of my life into fiction, the first part of the job is to separate it from reality.

My novels are not intended to be autobiographical, but I suppose its inevitable that bits of my own experiences should filter through.

The novel I’m currently writing has more of me in it than most, not least because the protagonist is a travel writer, as I am, and I’m actually setting many of the key moments in places I’ve visited for work. So far she’s on her fifth country, the current one being Scotland, so not very exotic, but very fitting as the backdrop for some of her darkest moments.

I travelled to Glasgow last year for a gastronomy tour hosted by the Scottish tourist board, and it was one of the best press trips I’ve taken.

My first impression of Glasgow was wave after wave of dense whiteness, then, as the plane broke through the cloud cover, rain pelted against the windows, something that the Glaswegians sitting around me seemed unsurprised by. Bristol, when I left, had been flooded with bright sunshine. Here, I was told by the Glaswegians standing with me at the luggage carousel, the only sunshine I was likely to see would be of the liquid variety.

Not that it seemed to matter as a black cab zipped me through the city streets to ABode, a vibrant hotel in the centre. Formerly a teacher training college and now one of the trendiest hotels in Glasgow, the interior decor couples solid white tiles with fantastic panels of art, a fascinating miscellany that I was to notice all through the city. An ancient lift rises in the centre of the building, while on the other side of the copper lift shaft, a wall of water falls continually, as if all that stuff falling outside wasn’t quite wet enough.

After a few moments to unpack (well, empty my case in the centre of the immense squashy bed), there was just time for a glass of kir royale, complete with a bobbing raspberry, before heading out to discover just how cosmopolitan Glasgow has become.

Scotland’s national cuisine is packed with fantastic flavours drawn from an abundance of fresh, tasty produce, but if you want something a bit lighter before a night on the town, the menu of award-winning Japanese restaurant Nanakusa might be more to your liking. The interior merges cultures and eras, with the high moulded ceilings offset by 21st century colour-changing illuminated panels.

The clientele is young and lively, with the buzzing atmosphere helped along by the friendly efficiency of Anna and her team, as well as the carafes of hot sake and plum wine making their way around the room. After sampling an array of sushi, tempura and other delicacies, we tucked into the green tea ice cream before heading out to discover pubs such as the wonderfully laid-back Pig and Butterfly.

The following morning I got hands-on with the local cuisine, courtesy of Peckhams Cookery School. The brain-child of Brian Hannan, courses range from corporate team building exercises to hen parties to classes for children aged 14 and up. The emphasis is on simplicity, making the kind of food you might easily recreate at home, once you know how.

One of the highlights is sitting down to eat the meal you’ve prepared. The red and yellow sweet pepper soup was a work of colourful art, and tasted as good as it looked. Hen parties tend to focus on chocolate dishes, though cranachan, a traditional scottish dish of whipped cream, honey and, of course, a generous splash of whisky, is equally popular.

After successfully cooking a three-course meal, which we then devoured, we hopped in a taxi to flit to the outskirts of town, where the Auchentoshan distillery stands. The sweet scent of malted barley rises in the air as they’re heated before being washed and decanted into immense barrels.

The manager showed us how to dislodge the bung by smacking the barrel with a mallet (‘think of your mother in laws face’), and then we had the chance to bottle out own dram, through which black specks of carbon floated, testifying to its youth. Tastings made lips tingle and my tongue actually went numb, but the cleaness of the flavour was unique, warming me through as rain continued to pelt down outside.

In the evening we headed to one of the city’s best loved eating establishments, the Ubiquitous Chip, which has been sating appetites since 1971. The restaurant has options for every pocket, from the fine dining room where recent visitors have included David Tennant and Kylie Minogue, to the cheaper brasserie favoured by locals to the bar where you can sup local whiskies and tuck into bar snacks.

We began Saturday with a leisurely stroll around the farmer’s market, sampling delicious fruit wines, fresh seafood from Arran and the west coast, and spicy naan breads.

Lunch unfolded at Delizique, where we tucked into dishes ranging from rabbit salad to clams, oysters and mussels, finishing with a simple but delicious mountain of seasonal berries and cream whipped thick enough to stand up a spoon in.

A whirlwind tour of the West End’s foodie hotspots followed. It was the busiest time of the week and we did little more than look in on the fragrant Kember & Jones while hungry Scots bustled past to buy crusty loaves or queue for a table in the compact cafe.

Heart Buchanan was a wonderful chance to meet one of the city’s liveliest entrepreneurs. Despite being eight months pregnant, Fiona Buchanan was animated and enthusiastic, inspiring us all as she talked us through how she accomplished her dream of being trained by trained with Nick Nairn and then establishing a one-stop foodi deli selling fully-prepared sumptuous meals such as Roast Lamb Cous Cous with Pomegranate, Mint, Apricot and Coriander Seeds.

With a couple of hours to spare, I headed into town and caught the City Sightseeing tour bus to get a different view of the city and soak up some of the uncommon sunshine. The bus carried us past iconic sights such as the ‘Squinty’ bridge, Rene Mackingtosh’s Willow Tea Rooms, the beautiful West Brewery and the gloriously imposing red brick Kelvinsgrove Gallery.

A wedding reception was erupting when I arrived back at the hotel, with much carousing in the bar. Tempting though it was to join in, we retreated to the hushed interior of Michael Caines at Abode, where we tucked into succulent steaks and divine strawberry puddings - a perfect end to the trip.

© Zsolt Zátrok

There are some holidays that you always remember – childhood defining trips of idyllic sun-strewn days. Mine took place when I was six years old and my parents took my older sister and me to France for the first time.

We were staying in an old stone gîte on a farm in the Dordogne, and oh my god, the living was good. It was so warm that we ate breakfast outside each day, and every morning Dad burnt the croissants that he was supposed to be toasting beneath the grill. We ate them anyway, layered with unsalted butter and thick, sticky apricot jam, while my parents drank gallons of coffee.

Lizards crept out of crevices in the wall beyond the picnic table, tempted out to lie in the dappled sunlight. I’d never seen such beautiful creatures before. I thought they might be tiny dragons, yet to grow their bat-like wings – perhaps they needed the heat to stoke their inner flames. One day I surprised myself by reaching out quickly enough to catch one by the tail, and was so shocked that I instantly let it go. It disappeared into a crack between the stones, but I could still feel the sensation of its tail between my finger and thumb, silky and cold.

As soon as we were released from the breakfast ritual, my sister and I escaped to play colourful games inspired by books and TV shows. We had so many adventures to re-enact. I vividly remember my imaginary friend falling down the well and having to be rescued. It was a time when fantasy and reality merged – more often than not I wasn’t really sure which was which.

We’d return each day to find tiny kittens roaming across our kitchen tiles, mewling for milk and pestering the ancient farm dogs for attention. There were ducks, goats and chickens too, beautiful ones with russet-coloured gleaming feathers.

One day the grizzled old farmer grimaced at me with what may have been intended as a kindly smile, and handed me an egg; a glorious curved thing still warm from the chicken’s bum, and so large I needed both hands to hold it. Feeling honoured, I began to carry it carefully back across the cobbled yard to the gîte, but as my shadow fell across the billy goat he decided to chase me. He was an immense creature with glowing eyes and flowing locks like the Vikings in one of my stories. No troll would have dared emerge from beneath a bridge to eat him.

As I fled for my life the egg fell from my hands and hit the ground in an explosion of starry shattered shell and bright yellow yoke. I cried bitterly – to me that egg had been as magical as the golden one laid by a goose in my book of fairy tales.

We visited a market where stalls sold decorative arrays of glossy fruit and doughnuts stuffed with every flavour of jam imaginable. I decided to stick to the traditional raspberry – this holiday was crammed with enough new experiences already. Alongside the stalls of fat, oozing cheeses and mottled sausages there were incongruous displays of exotic lingerie trailing lace and feathers. I was fascinated to find that even on a toy stall there was an array of tiny racy garments, and I used my pocket money to buy a pair of pink satin knickers for my Sindy doll – a purchase that made Mum raise her eyebrows.

After nightfall we drove to a chateau hidden deep down a rural lane, surrounded by a moat and illuminated with huge lamps that coloured everything golden. We laid out a rug on the grass beside the water, surrounded by French families awaiting the beginning of the performance. As the singing began, it echoed around us, and Mum whispered translations to me as the story unfolded. I watched with awe at the couple fleeing from the castle, rowing away across the moat in a tiny boat. It was a moment of magic. But on the way back to the farm, a bright green frog leapt in front of our headlamps, and when Mum asked what I’d liked best about the evening I said the frog, and she shook her head in exasperation

When the time came for us to leave, we set off for the ferry – another adventure. We had a cabin to sleep in and two narrow bunk beds. As the waves picked up outside, the huge boat began to buck and I slid up and down my bunk, grinning with glee.

I pored over my book of fairytales, whispering the words to myself and gazing at the images of princesses and trolls, dragons and fairies that had fuelled so many wonderful moments in the Dordogne. Then I went to sleep with the book’s hard rectangle under my pillow. The next day in the rush to leave, the book got left behind, lost at sea, never to be seen again.

Praça do Commercio, Lisbon

With so many people going on off holiday at the moment, I’ve been daydreaming about some of my favourite destinations. When I’m not working on EssentialWriters.com I spend much of my time writing travel features for magazines and websites, and I’ve decided it’s time I shared some of those pieces with you here.

The following feature was originally published by Folio Magazine, issue 165, in October 2008, an issue devoted to weddings and honeymoons, hence the romantic theme.

Often overshadowed by its larger neighbour Spain, Portugal is a country that’s perfectly designed for honeymooners, from its beaches and vineyards to the beauty of its few major cities. The loveliest of these is the capital, while the most beautiful and romantic area of Lisbon is the Belém district.

Located just west of the city centre, this riverside area is home to some wonderful monuments for you to explore together, as well as one of the city’s best boutique hotels, Jerónimos 8.

After checking into this deliciously zen-like hotel, we strolled over the road to the exquisite Jerónimos Monastery. Inside, corridors of limestone are ornately carved with Biblical scenes, flowers and animals, and even on the busiest days it’s possible to find a corner of solitude where you can drink in the sense of peace.

The monastery stands opposite the waterfront, with the Monument to the Discoveries standing at one end and the Torre de Belém at the other. This area is also dotted with restaurants and bars where you can sit and gaze into each others eyes, or admire views of Ponte 25 de Abril, a crimson bridge designed by the same engineer as the San Francisco’s iconic Golden Gate.

We opted for a restaurant called Queijadas de Belém. Set just back from the main tourist strip, it was bustling with local families, and prices were astonishingly low at €6 for a dish of succulent trout and €4.75 for a carafe of vinho verde, Portugal’s crisp young white wine. We turned down the basket of bread and cheeses that appeared as soon as we sat down, knowing that these can as much as double the price of the bill.

We finished our night in the hotel’s bar where illuminated black and white prints of Lisbon made up the area, offset with sleek dark red furnishings. The wine list is extensive, and the cocktails delicious, with the added bonus that we only had to make it as far as the lift afterwards.

The following morning we caught the tram for the twenty-minute journey to the centre, and found ourselves in Praça do Commercio. The square is surrounded by broad arcades that look onto the grand equestrian statue of King Dom José 1, and the Tagus river beyond.

From here we walked beneath the imposing neoclassical St Augusta Triumphal Arch into the major shopping area, the Baixa district, and up steep cobbled streets to St George’s Castle. This immense edifice is the perfect place to while away a few hours, meandering through dappled sunlight and gazing at the panoramic views of the city laid out below us like a painted tableau.

As Lisbon’s summer continues well into October, the breezes perpetually wafting through the castle ruins provide a welcome freshness. At the top of the castle ramparts we found the tower of Ulysses, who reputedly founded Lisbon.

Ulysses’ tower houses the Camera Obscura, a device invented by Leonardo da Vinci that projects scenes of the city onto a large disc, giving you the chance to spy on the locals as they go about their everyday lives.

Below the castle lies the Alfama district, one of the most atmospheric areas. While much of the city had to be rebuilt following the catastrophic earthquake of 1755, this part of Lisbon has barely changed since the 12th century. We took our time meandering through the steep streets, watching people carrying immense, colourful baskets of washing to the communal bathrooms or socialising on rickety-looking balconies that hung from the elegant, ancient houses.

Returning to Praça do Commercio, we dipped into Viniportugal, an association dedicated to promoting Portuguese wines. The organisation promotes three regions at a time, giving you the opportunity to sample typical wines from Portuguese vineyards, many of whom are little known outside the country.

There’s no charge for the tastings, and no pressure to buy the wines, only the invitation to enjoy them, give our opinions and spread the word. As we sipped deliciously meaty reds and fruity whites we completed forms describing the aroma; appearance and taste of each wine, giving us the opportunity to feel like proper aficionados until we wobbled back out into the sunshine.

Before arriving in Lisbon, I had no idea that the city was renowned for its pastry-makers. As it turned out, Belém is home to the most legendary of these, so the following day, we headed for Antiga Confeitaria de Belém.

As much a museum as a café, the confectioners is worth visiting just to admire the tiles covering every surface of the rooms and corridors. However, we were keen to taste the original Patéis de Belém for ourselves.

The custard tarts have been attracting foodies to Lisbon since 1837, and though you’ll find imitations of them throughout Portugal, these are the best. A bit of mystique adds to their appeal: only a handful of master confectioners is entrusted with the secret recipe at any one time.

Having eaten our fill, we had just enough time to visit the Torre de Belém, which turned out to be free on Sunday mornings. Decorated with sculptures of fantastical beasts, including a rather comical rhino, this is the point from which adventuring mariners such as Vasco de Gama set sail after praying for safe voyage at the monastery.

Climbing the endless winding steps to the top of the tower, we admired views of the river and surrounding area and wondered how soon we would be able to find an excuse to return.

For more information on Lisbon, please visit www.visitlisboa.com

© Zsuzsanna Kilián

My sister, as you might recall, is due to give birth soon. Like me, she is diabetic, one of the affects of which is that the baby is prone to growing really big during the final trimester - no one knows why, but it’s really not helpful! Recently the babe, who I’ve nicknamed Badger Bulldog, achieved seven weeks worth of growth in just three weeks, which was pretty impressive, not to mention terrifying.

Thankfully he’s since slowed down, and a few days ago he reached what the docs refer to as full-term. In other words, though it was still three weeks before his due date, he’d developed enough to handle life outside the womb. Well, physically, anyway. I know a few adults who might still be better off in there emotionally, space permitting.

This all means that diabetic mums-to-be usually end up having their babies medically induced, and this is the case with my sister. So, Badger Bulldog is scheduled to make his debut in less than a week’s time.

My sis is making the most of her last few days of freedom. As far as I can tell, that has less to do with putting her swollen feet up ad resting than buzzing around town seeing as many f her friends as possible.

I can understand why. It must be like standing at the border to a country you’ve never visited before, and not knowing when, or if, the border guards are going to let you come back home again. She’s about to start a brand new adventure that will change her life more than I, or she, can comprehend.

It made sense to take the opportunity to spend some time together before BB arrives, so I suggested meeting for a coffee. In turn, she suggested an afternoon of indulgence at Hotel Chocolat. How could I disagree?

The first time I heard about Hotel Chocolat, I imagined a calorie-laden version of the ice hotel in the James Bond movie Day Another Day - just as likely to melt in the sunshine, but with far messier, stickier consequences.

Actually, it’s more like an upmarket Thorntons crossed with a teashop, which may not seem like the most obvious choice for a pair of diabetics, but contrary to popular myth diabetics can eat whatever they like, providing they take the insulin to counteract it.

We did our blood tests, decided how many units to inject, and got stuck in. The walk into town had made my levels drop right down anyway, so the chocolate was almost a medical necessity - well, that’s my excuse!

The choc shop oozes a sense of decadence. The glorious aroma of the wares fills the air, while shelves display goodies as exquisite as jewels. Chairs and tables dot the room at discreet intervals, but we opted for the sofas for full-on comfort, and nestled there supping do thick, intensely rich chocolate milkshakes.

By the time we’d made our way through the moorish gloop, Badger Bulldog was having a thorough squirm, sending ripples across my sister’s taut belly. The next time I see him, he’ll be a small person rather than a bump, and I can’t wait to meet him.

© www.sxc.hu

I recently visited a friend’s house for the first time and it completely matched up to my expectations, especially the garden with its layers of lawn, flowerbeds studded with seashells, pond full of duckweed and vegetable plot heaving with potatoes, cabbages and tomatoes. Poppies glowed and figwort hummed with bees. It was like a corner of heaven on earth.

I love seeing inside people’s homes and gardens. In a way it’s like being introduced to a facet of their personality. The books on their shelves, pictures on their walls, odd knick knacks balanced on window sills are all clues to their hidden selves.

My home is a two-storey flat, a maisonette that the estate agent described as have two bedrooms, though one is little more than a large cupboard, with just enough space for a narrow single bed, providing you don’t want to be able to walk around it. My husband has claimed that room for his Blu-rays and DVDs, band posters and tattoo artwork, figurines of aliens, dragons and other gruesome beings. Everyone needs somewhere to remember themselves - somewhere to unfurl.

Fortunately for me, I get the rest of the flat - the saffron-tiled bathroom with its tiny square window gazing out over Bristol is where I lie and think and dream.

The kitchen, with its blue-painted walls, excessive cupboard space and window taking in miles of city views which we both love, is where I wash and slice and chop vegetables, stir bubbling pans, play with spices and herbs, and do some more dreaming.

The living room, with its view of rooftops and sky, bookshelves, paintings and struggling magazine racks, is where I work most days, perched in the corner with my lap top, covering the floor with scraps of paper - note, inspiration, ideas and more dreams. When I glance up from the screen I can watch clouds shift across the sky, birds swooping and, occasionally, hot air balloons drifting by.

But this room is also home to my husband’s towering speakers, his DVD player and Blu-ray machine, his immense flat-screen TV. This is where he unwinds, and I unwind with him, making this our space.

The maisonette is oddly upside down. When we first moved in I would get lost, coming out of the living room and expecting to go upstairs to the bathroom, when the kitchen, bathroom and living room are on the top floor, hence the amazing views, while the bedroom, the husband-room, and the shower room are on the floor below.

But the bedroom level is still a storey above street level, which I enjoy. I like being above the world, above the people passing by. Our bedroom has French doors that open onto a small balcony above a shop sign, and sometimes we sit out there watching the traffic and pedestrians, and no one knows we’re there.

The balcony offers some of the best views of all. On clear days we can see two of my favourite feats of engineering - Cabot Tower, a tall, red-brick homage to John Cabot, and the Clifton Suspension Bridge, spun across the Avon Gorge like the work of some extraordinary spider. In the sunshine it gleams white against the city’s buildings and I feel like I could walk there in a matter of moments, which is, of course, an illusion.

Inside, the bedroom is my favourite place in the house, the other room my husband and I truly share. It exudes peace and a delicious sense of sleepiness. Lilac and white walls, deep green furnishings, pieces from my childhood home and my husband’s… The bed is vast and comfortable, the bedside table is laden with books, and sometimes I think that’s all that I need - somewhere to dream.

© www.sxc.hu

Oh no, we seem to have reached midge season. The little blighters can’t get enough of my blood, leaving me with itchy bumps.

I have to remind myself how little it compares to the mozzie bites I suffered during my gap-year, beginning with a lengthy stint on a kibbutz near Haifa.

My first glimpse of Israel was of Tel Aviv’s lights as we swung in towards the airport. After several hours of queuing to get through customs, I was collected by a girl not much older than me who took me to the hostel where I would try to sleep through my excitement, despite the prickling heat and the extraordinary night time sounds of the city. The streets roared with noise as cars, buses and bikes hurtled past, and people called out to one another, shrieking and laughing.

In the morning, relieved to be giving up on the pretence of sleep, I caught the bus to Haifa, and from there to Sha’ar Ha’amakim, the kibbutz where I would live for the next three months. My heart sank when the volunteer coordinator, Yossi, told me I was to work in the factory, but this was one of most coveted jobs, doing everything from cleaning to checking the solar panels for leaks. I was the only volunteer there - and the only woman. Most of the men were Russian and hardly any spoke English, so they just smiled at me a lot.

I left the volunteer house each day before 6am, relishing the silent walk to the factory in the early dawn shimmer that flooded down from the mountains to make the factory roof blush pink.

Within a few days, though, I discovered that as I fell into bed exhausted each night the mosquitoes woke up for breakfast, feasting on me until my limbs were a mass of irritated bites. As I raked my fingernails over my legs, Yossi tutted and shook his head at me.

“You know they’ll bite you more if you scratch because you’re drawing all the blood to the surface of the skin.”

“Really? In that case I’m doomed,” I said, glowering at the swollen red lumps covering my shins.

“No you’re not. Winter’s nearly here and the mosquitoes will die then,” he told me, “You just have to hang on until it gets cold.”

But as September turned into October, the weather continued balmy and warm, though the kibbutzniks declared it winter. The plus side of their attitude was that it meant that we volunteers had the pool to ourselves, accumulating around the dubiously green-tinted water as soon as the majority of us finished our work at 2pm.

Each day, I ran straight from the factory to the cool water, seeking a respite from the itching mosquito bites. The surface closed over my head and I plummeted until my heels struck the tiles at the bottom. A stream of bubbles escaped from my nose, and I crouched low, wrapping my arms around my knees.

It was shadowy and quiet down there, with just the occasional limb dipping through as people swam past overhead, the hollow sound of their voices seeping down from above. My chest tightened and I let myself rise back up into the air, sucking breath after breath into my lungs.

Chores were divided up neatly and we each took time out of swimming and lounging by the pool to clean the volunteer house once a week. When it was my turn I slopped water across the grimy floor, mopping vigorously to try to get the task over with as soon as possible.

Lost in my own thoughts, I was startled out of my daydreams when a tiny pink lizard ran out of the shower I was sluicing, and I managed to scoop it up before it took refuge in one of the cracks in the wall. It lay in my hand, quivering gently and blinking crimson glistening eyes like pomegranate seeds.

“Look at this,” I called to the boys who were in their usual prone position in the TV room.

One of them grabbed for it, and the poor startled creature’s tail fell off, twitching in his palm as though still receiving electrical impulses from the lizard’s brain.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.

I looked at the stunted lizard still nestled in my hand and smiled.

“Lizards eat mosquitoes, don’t they? This little chap could be just the room-mate I need.”

I released my new friend into the bedroom and watched it pad speedily up the wall to the corner of the ceiling, where it paused, gazing down at me, and flicked its tongue across scaly lips. I hugged myself with glee, imagining the surprise that lay in wait for my nightly visitors.

Mmm, Cyprus

I’ve just got back from a week in south Cyprus, and it’s been a bit of a culture shock. My life in Cyprus consisted of lazy mornings by the pool, meanderings along country lanes, long mezze lunches, visits to historic villages, and lots of other lovely things.

Despite being with six members of my husband’s family, including two under the age of six, I managed to read and write to my heart’s content, starting three features and writing a complete short story.

I didn’t have a laptop with me or my mobile, and I didn’t miss either. It made me realise that sometimes a notebook and pen (and a decent pair of sunglasses) are all that you need.