The Great Escape: Chile - Santiago

The LATAM flight from Auckland to Santiago is an introduction to Latin America. All around me, from the flight stewards to the other passengers, I hear volleys of Spanish. Hoping the last two years of Duolingo will stand me in good stead, I attempt to ask for a glass of water and receive a cup of orange juice. "Hmm," I think, "This isn't as easy as I thought it would be."

That feeling is compounded after we arrive at the airport. Dodging taxi touts, we google how to get into the city. We need cash to get a bus, and then need a bip! card to get the metro (for which we also need cash), and we also think it would be sensible to get SIM cards for our phones. Jacob manages to get cash out at an extortionate rate while I queue up for the bus. We get on (standing room only) and I try to practice my Spanish by reading the Whatsapp exchange of a woman sitting near me until I realise (from the gifs they are sending each other, rather than any comprehension of the words, unfortunately) that it is a pretty steamy exchange between her and (presumably) her boyfriend. We manage to get a bip! card after some bewildered wandering in the metro station, and manage to get a SIM card in a tiny corner shop after some more bewildered wandering along Avenida Antonio Manuel, only to find that you need Wifi to activate it. After getting to the apartment, we find a nearby supermarket with bewilderingly expensive items, scrounge together a meal of black beans, rice, and avocado, and go to bed. 

The next day, I wake up and look outside the window. The city is huge, covered with a slight haze, behind which loom the Andes mountains. When I imagined our travels in South America I thought the unfamiliar would feel exciting and expansive. Instead, it feels all a little overwhelming; the daily things that I used to to give a second thought to at home, like buying groceries, or navigating a public transport system, are suddenly enigmatic puzzles requiring far more brain work. The good thing is, we have time to learn.

The first thing we learn is that nobody shops in the supermarkets if they can help it. People in Santiago shop in ferias, local markets that sell fresh produce, dried goods, clothes, meals, and more. We go to a small one near our apartment, and then La Vega Central, a sprawling warren that feels abundant with a slight frisson of danger. Although the food truck selling vegan completos (a quintessentially Chilean twist on hotdogs) that was so well reviewed on Google is disappointingly absent – on holiday, we realise too late from their Instagram – we are directed to a neighbouring market that has stalls of cooked food including one with the label "vegano" which dishes up hefty bowls of bean stew. I ask a couple what they are eating: "Porotos y granjados," they say -- a corn and bean stew -- and order that. Jacob gets a bowl of lentils, and we slurp them up, mopping up the soup with pieces of bread we later learn is called Marraqueta. 

We spend so much time finding lunch that we miss the free walking tour we booked. Thankfully, there is another one an hour later and we join that. We start the tour by hearing the crazy story of Lautaro and Pedro De Valdivia. Valdivia was the Spanish conquistador who founded Santiago in 1541, and Lautaro was an indigenous Mapuche boy captured by the Spanish, who served as a stable boy to Valdivia. Lautaro later ran away, and then led an uprising that resulted in the capture and death of Valdivia. Learning about a city and is history is one way to learn to love it. Hearing about what this building means or that fountain symbolises as we walk past them is like hearing the childhood stories of a new friend. 

Another way I learn to love the city is by living in it, not as a tourist, but just as me. One day we go on a long run, through the narrow parks that run through the city and up the Cerro San Cristobel. The hill is a tourist attraction, but including it within our usual routine of a run means it feels like there is no pressure to enjoy it -- and so the joy and amazement we feel seeing the city spread out from the hill's height is an added bonus. We also go to the local cinema to watch Hamnet. The cinema is like a cinema in any other big city, and I cry just as much (which is to say, a lot) as I would have if I'd have watched it in Singapore. When, puffy-eyed and solemn, we emerge from the dark theatre to the bright central square, we see men sitting at tables under trees, playing chess with deft moves. It's nice to stand and watch a game or two - Jacob has an amused smile on his face, and on the metro tells me about how he played chess competitively for a short time as a child (I never knew)!

When Sunday comes around, we find an English-speaking church to go to. It's called the Santiago Community Church and we arrive slightly late, but other people enter after us including a father and son carrying their bicycle seats in. The vicar speaks slowly and clearly on God's provision in Deuteronomy 9 and John 6, through manna and loaves and fishes. God provides, and we trust in him. This is a simple principle, but so hard to live out day to day. The day before, Jacob and I started putting together a meal plan for a seven day hike we're about to embark on, and it feels like we need to get it all right and under control. More broadly, the entire six months we have ahead of us feels like such an untamed beast, and my heart wants to know how it will all pan out -- but God says, one step at a time, and trust. After church, we meet a whole host of lovely people: Ryan, from Canada, who recognised us from one of the museums we'd been to; Audrey, a woman from Kidlington, who encouraged us to "wait in eager hope" when it comes to our travels; and Hector, a man with a cane who said, "You will make me cry!" when Jacob said he was from the UK. Apparently Hector loves England, and English people, except for Norwich (when asked why, he said, "Because there I caused a scandal!" and nothing more). The night before, we'd prayed that we'd find community in the church -- a sense of family amidst the unfamiliar -- and it feels like God has provided all of that and more.

Travel Top 3: January

With one month down and five months of travel ahead of us, I've been surprised by some of the things that have been supremely useful, supremely joyful, and supremely tasty. These little moments don't, in themselves, add up to very much but I'd like to keep a record of them. And so, the awards go to...

Supremely Useful

I almost hate to say this, but the strava heat maps function has been something we've used in every place we went to in January. We love running, we love walking, and the heat map function tells you where other walkers and runners have been. This means that, unlike google maps which might give you the most straightforward or efficient route, you usually get the most scenic route. Using the heat map function we found the Korokoro creek trail in Petone, which is currently our favourite trail run to date, the Tongariro river run, a way to the Coburg park run via Edgar's creek, and more!

Runners up:

1. IKEA bags (we stow our rucksacks in them for flights and they've held up well to three international flights so far, with minimal duct tape repair)

Repacking at the airport with IKEA bags on hand

2. Beyond the Vines dumpling bag (stores everything from debit cards to a whole camera, safer than a pocket for protection against pick pockets!)

The little dumpling bag in action!

Supremely Joyful

Whilst in New Zealand I spent some time pondering "What really brings me joy?"

Joy, it turns out, is easily engineered for me by plunging into water.

On one of those travel days where we were largely at home (after a morning of running and grocery shopping) in Petone, I asked Jacob: "Do you want to go for a swim?" It had been a sunny day, but of course when we stepped out that late afternoon the sun hid behind a cloud and the wind blew cold all the way to the beach. When I stripped down to my swimming costume on the shingle, I really wasn't sure about this crazy idea. 

I took my time stepping slowly into the water, whilst Jacob was up to his neck within seconds. When I did finally get submerged, it took some gasping and rapid arm and leg movements, and then I felt exuberant. Yes, it was cold, but it was possible and it was exhilarating to be in there, knowing you could stay only for a while on the verge of cold and too cold. It felt like the water had stripped my skin away and I was pure muscle. It was a feeling (and I associate this closely with joy) of having nothing to hide and not being able to anyway.

Runners up:

1. Seeing people we love (Nat, Mia, Jem, Zen, Finn, Kerry, Will, Uncle Rog and Auntie Michelle and Eva - and a special mention to Nat's baby niece who stole our hearts with her sweet smile).

2. Eating strawberries and drawing in a park in Australia. This was on our first day in Australia, fresh off the aeroplane, and was accompanied by that slightly surreal feel of having simply stepped through a door into a different place and reality.

Supremely Tasty

These weeks in Australia and New Zealand have been characterised by incredible ice cream. The Aussies and Kiwis know how to do their ice cream and to be generous with each scoop (side-eye to Singapore and UK ice cream shops). Top prize for ice cream quality has to go to the Chocolate Hazelnut in Zelati's in Wellington, with second place going to Melbourne's Pida Pipo's Chocolate, whilst top prize for flavour goes to Duck Island's Chocolate and Boysenberry, and Coconut Caramel with Chocolate, Peanut and Sesame, narrowly topping Melbourne's Luthur's Tahini, Walnut and Brownie. So the Kiwis take the prize for ice cream (and, controversially, coffee - but I'm really not the best judge of coffee, having had probably fewer cups than years of my life.)

This was ice cream at the base of Mt Manganui, Tauranga - not the best, but we still enjoyed it very much on a hot sunny day!

Runners up:

1. Forty Thieves superfood butter. Who knew herbs and pepper in peanut butter would make it taste so darn good?

2. The Peri Peri sandwich at Smith and Deli. Last time I had their banh mi, which I considered taking a $50 uber from the airport to have again (I did not). No banh mi this time, but the Peri Peri sandwich was just divine.

The Great Escape: New Zealand

Petone is a gorgeous laid back town next to Wellington, gusty and clean-smelling from the sea breeze. We took our time getting here: Kiwis are notoriously strict about bio-security and so in declaring the roughly 20 granola bars, vegan soy jerky, textured vegetable protein, powdered soya milk, and chocolate that we had in our bag we were asked to go through additional checks. I asked the bio-security officer what the weirdest thing he'd seen on his job was, and his replied that in the two months he'd been working at the airport he'd seen "a whole zebra, skin, ears, everything."

Welcome to New Zealand.

Uncle Roger and Auntie Michelle were struck down with COVID, but had left detailed instructions for taking the bus from the airport to Huia Street. All went well until we realised, on our second bus, that Jacob left his bag, containing his passport, on the first bus. In the moment I felt fine, perhaps still enjoying the effects of Australian laid-backness. "These things happen when travelling," my mind yawned at me. 

The house at Huia Street was - apparently - the same one my family visited almost twenty years ago. I remember little of the house except a long table where we made gingerbread, a magical garden, and that the kitchen, living room, and hallway were connected in the most perfect way for children to run round and round and round in. The place we landed in this time felt peaceful and welcoming, and in Jacob's words, like a 1980s holiday cottage with a red waffle duvet on a cosy bed, big towels with a brown checked pattern, a comfortingly creaky floor and a kitchen stocked with the most delectable comestibles: bananas, corn, mushrooms, ginger biscuits, soya milk, pepper, pasta, salt, herbs, muesli and a fantastic seed and nut filled peanut butter, all courtesy of Uncle Rog and Auntie Michelle. We put our things down, and then went for a safe-distanced walk along the seashore with Uncle Rog. 

My Uncle Rog, in my memory, is a man with a beard. This beard was an important game in my childhood - we used to hunt for spiders in it. Uncle Rog reminds me a lot of grandma in his love of knowing the names of birds and plants, his acceptance of people in all shapes and places, his love of music and his gentleness. He showed us the church he and Auntie Michelle got married in which remains his church today, the restaurant they had their reception in, and the magical water fountain that people collect spring water from (he'd left some in the house for us too).

That evening, after the Australian effect on my brain had worn off and the Singaporean had taking back over, and I'd conjured multiple scenarios of missing our trek, not going to South America at all, and being flung into a Kiwi jail for outstaying our visa, I felt on edge. I slept well, and woke up and enjoyed a stunning trail run, and then slowly felt anxious again. But Uncle Rog came to the rescue, calling up the bus depot which had the bag, and letting us use his car to drive to the depot to pick it up.

With that sorted, our days most involved soaking in the sun, sea, and learning more about the whenua (land) we were in. That included a visit to the Te Papa museum, learning about its flightless birds, and volcanic activity, and the Waitangi Treaty, and long chats with Auntie Michelle and Uncle Rog about their lives there. I wonder how Uncle Rog feels, after so many years in that land. I've always thought of him as "My Uncle from New Zealand", but of course almost half of his life was in the UK. He seems comfortably at home in this place, as my mother does in Singapore, but - perhaps like the woman in Dod Proctor's portrait in the NGV - is there always an element of strangeness to contend with? 

But then, New Zealand, as I learned in the museum, was not a place with an 'original people' that we know of. It was a land, by itself, with large flightless birds and plants and mammals. Then the Maori came in the 1200s, bringing with them sweet potatos and pacific rats and dogs which killed many of the flightless birds. Then the Europeans came in the 1600s, bringing with them other mammals like stoats and possums, and clearing the land for activities like sheep farming. So it is a land, I suppose, that has generously welcomed people past and continues to do so now, even at its own expense. 

My hand on the fossilised remains of a Moa bird footprint - Te Papa Museum

Being by the sea also meant going into it, in three different instances. The first was born of impulse, on one of those muggy days where we'd spent most of the time indoors and I was itching to get out. "How about going for a dip in the sea?" I mentioned to Jacob, "It'll be fun." It was cold, and grey, and exhilarating. I hated it and then loved it so much I wanted to go back in. The second time was on a sunny day, after we'd been into a little art gallery and shop to buy cards for Jacob's family and my Dad. The cashier took our payment and told us where to buy stamps, and then asked "Do you want to meet the artist [who painted those cards]?" Feeling extremely fortunate, we said "Yes, please!" and he disappeared into a storeroom behind him and came out with...himself! He was the artist! I was so tickled. We sat on the beach to write the cards, allowing ourselves to get hotter and hotter until it was unbearable and we had to run into the sea again. The final moment in the sea was at Island Bay, a marine reserve where we rented the thickest wetsuits (complete with hood), fins, masks, and snorkels to explore what was below the surface of the sea. Putting my head below the water was a shock - the cold, first and foremost, which numbed everything and slid nastily into my wetsuit, and then (when my eyes adjusted) the thick fields of swaying seaweed. I heard Jacob groan into his snorkel with excitement, and finned over to see a large blue cod. There were red and purple sea anemone, and snails, and iridescent paua shell littering the sea floor. 

All too soon, we left Petone to head north. We found a car that needed driving from Wellington to Auckland and so aside from the price of petrol and one extra driver, we had a free ride up the island. Driving in New Zealand felt like being in a music video, and brought me back to our family holiday in New Zealand years ago, when Dad drove us around the South Island. I felt strangely emotional, realising that I was the adult driving now, seeing Dad in my joy in the open road, and knowing how proud he'd feel of me. 

We stopped for two nights in the Riverstone Lodge in Turangi, above the Tongariro National Park. We'd hoped to do the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, one of New Zealand's 'Great Walks', but I hesitated and wanted to wait till the night before to book the necessary shuttle to the trailhead so that we could check the weather forecast. Unfortunately, by the time we'd checked (strong winds forecast, but no rain), we weren't able to book the shuttle and I felt like I'd let the team down. Instead, though, we walked the Tama Lakes and Taranaki Falls trail. The skies were brumous and it begun to drizzle as we walked. The dark coppers and greens of the bush reminded me of Scotland. We walked in silence, occasionally chatting, and I realised how much I rely on verbal communication to 'sense' things; when we were silent I worried that Jacob was disappointed that we weren't on the Alpine Crossing. When I broached this, Jacob thankfully assured me he was very happy on this walk. We crossed a stream, and hiked up a hill, and were rewarded by the view of a brilliant turquoise lake and soon after that, the sun came out from behind the clouds. Walking back felt like being in a different land - the sunshine made the greens stand out and the browns mellow. Birds sang, which made me realise how quiet the place had been before. When we returned to the hostel, we heard that the Alpine Crossing had been cancelled that day because of poor weather, and I felt entirely vindicated.

After getting up to Auckland, we rented a self-contained campervan for the next few days. This gave us the flexibility of camping in the free sites around the island. All our campsites ended up being beside water - by the sea on our first night, and lakes on the other two. The inside of the van was cramped and small, though perfectly sufficient, but it encouraged us to spend as much time as possible outside. When it was cold and wet out, it was a cosy place to shelter.  

On our first day we drove down to Mt Manganui. The Maori legend has it that this mountain was a servant mountain who was in love with Pūwhenua, another mountain, but she loved Otanewainuku, the king mountain. Lovesick and sad, the servant mountain asked the patupaiarehe (the magic people of the forest) to pull him into the sea to drown. One night, the patupaiarehe pulled the mountain closer and closer to the sea, but when the sun rose, they fled back to the shade of the forest, leaving the mountain on the edge of the sea. There he stayed, and was named Mauao which means "caught by the morning sun", and he became greater event than Otanewainuku.

The next day we drove to Lake Rotorua, where we mountain biked in and around the Whakarewarewa forest. The forest begun with tall, straight, redwood trees and a strong scent of pine, but as we went on the forest would change, sometimes emerald green with moist air, other times dry and dusty. There were sections dotted with foxgloves, and other areas that opened out to give us a view of the lakes in the distance. Sometimes the forest was silent and other times it echoed with a chorus of cicadas, and occasionally the sound of traffic would surprise us. The downhills were hypnotic, laser-focus and the world whipping past you. The uphills were first pleasant opportunities to slow down, but begun to feel very difficult. I really struggled here, and to my confusion at around 18 kilometres in I found myself sobbing. It was as if my exhausted body, breathing so hard, had breathed its way into a panic attack. I didn't know if I'd be able to finish it, and felt slow and weak. When we stopped, and Jacob noticed my tears, he comforted me and firmly said we could cut through the forest to go back, or rest for a while, or go on at whatever pace was comfortable. I knew I wanted to keep going, and I did after taking that moment to convince my body that i wasn't trying to kill it with exertion. The uphills after that still felt hard, but I slowed down, and relished the downhills. The sandwiches we had after we finished were just incredible.

The Great Escape: Australia

We are sitting in the Queen Victoria Gardens in Melbourne. It is a hot day, but there is shade, and sprinklers, and a pleasant coolness on this bench. Our flight landed at 11.15am, after leaving Singapore at 1.25am, and I have the strange feeling of not having travelled across land and sea, but having stepped through a door into another world. 

This world is equipped with a good supermarket, which is our first stop after getting off the airport transfer bus. We pick up strawberries that smell sweet through their plastic tub, bread, hummus, and salad, which we eat without utensils from our bench. We drew, I fell asleep, and then we walked to meet Nat after her work shift; she emerged from her car in brightly patterned scrubs and a big grin on her face.

While bulk of our travel is in Latin America, we lingered in Australia and New Zealand en route, to see family and friends there who will be very far away when we move to the UK. It turned out to be a gentle introduction to life on the road, providing the comfort and sanctuary of people we know well, and letting us wander and explore and rest. 

In Melbourne we spent time with Nat and explored the city while she was at work. We went back to the National Gallery of Victoria's Ian Potter Centre and their gallery of Australian art. Organised chronologically, with contemporary interpolations to bring in art from the First Nations communities, the art on display often dealt with themes of looking (visualising or representing a new land, sometimes inaccurately), longing and migration, and land and its spiritual and and physical significance. I found this portrait of an Indian-Scottish woman who migrated from North India to Cornwall particularly haunting, but I remind myself not to tax myself with 'forethought of grief', as the poet Wendell Berry says. My curator brain had many thoughts on the interpretation in the NGV, but I might save that for a separate blog post with Jacob. 

Something unexpectedly joyful about the city this time, was that Jacob and I discovered and enjoyed the network of creeks that run through it, forming walkways or places to run and cycle. We ran from Nat's place in North Melbourne down south to St Kilda beach, and walked up Merri Creek from the city centre to Mia and Jem's place in Reservoir. Perhaps most beautiful was the run from Reservoir to Coburg along St Edgar's Creek - so beautiful that I was distracted enough to run my longest run post-injury. The result of all these green pathways, combined with our own hunger to explore, was that we spent most of each day walking or otherwise on our feet. This felt so different, and so good, compared to sitting down at a desk day after day. I remembered a colleague who worked in the library, who took time off work to walk the part of the Camino de Santiago. When she came back, she was shocked not by the pace of Singapore but by its sedentary living. 

On Sunday, we spent the day with Mia and Jem. Like the first time I was there, we went to the fantastic Preston Market, looking for fresh produce and Asian specialities for the hotpot they were making that evening. The market was a riot of colours and smells. Men shouted "mangos" and "cherries", the former selling for a $25 per tray. The resulting hotpot was a long, leisurely, delicious meal. I love the process of selecting, dipping, waiting and fishing out various ingredients. These actions remind me of the chaotic steamboat meals around Ama's table on Chinese New Year's eve. As I see my family spread across the world - England, Indonesia, Australia, New Zealand, possibly America...these memories held captive in meals are precious ways to say "I belong" and "I love and miss you all" from another world.

Looking back on 2024

On Monday I turned 29, in a week of brilliant sunshine. It is more than halfway through 2025, but my birthday is a good time to look back on what's past and some of the bigger themes that have formed the melody of a bright year.

(I started writing this in August 2025//warning - it is rather stream of consciousness. But as they say, don't get it right, get it written.)

It's been a year where things have felt like they slotted into place at work. I discovered Museum Interpretation, a framework - or philosophy - about communicating the big ideas and information and artefacts to your audience in way that makes sense to them. It's challenged the way I think about museums, and they way I write. When I first joined the museum I had lunch with a colleague who asked me what I think museums are about. "Beauty, order, and truth," I said, with all confidence. That colleague then challenged me on the 'truth' part - how can a museum know everything? What we can offer is just our interpretation of a matter. Today my answer would be very different. I think museums, particularly at this point in history, are to connect, transform (through revelation), and provoke conversation and action.

But I get ahead of myself. That's this year and I'm meant to be reflecting on last year.

Last year was the year of knees and knitting, mountains and moving, surfing and the sea.

Knees and knitting

I completed the knitting project I'd started in - I think - 2022? The one where me, a complete knitting novice, decided that I was going to knit a jumper for my first project. Not any jumper, but a full merino wool with intarsia colourwork. No scarves or squares for me! Inevitably there was much unravelling and the process was slow and Sisyphean. By September 2024, however, I had a fully functional and delightfully yellow and white jumper that is the warmest I have owned. Did I learn to tamper my ambition and perhaps in future choose something a little more beginner-friendly? No, but I learned to knit, and that's what I set out to do. I have since knitted a tank top and a cornflower blue cardigan that is as soft as a cloud.

The knee. Oh, the knee. This is a larger story about running and ambition (herein lies the commonality between the knee and knitting). Jacob and I had signed up for a trail half-marathon in July and we had a training plan consisting of running, more running, and long running. It was the long running that really got to me. I'd been consistently running around 5kms, perhaps pushing to 7km, but now we were going 14kms, 16kms and I just wasn't loving it. It was partly because Jacob, tall one that he is, was naturally faster and stronger than me, adapting to the running load better despite not having run so consistently. I was trying to keep up, and feeling like I was burning out. After one Macritchie run my knee just had enough. It turns out my hips were weak (because the running, running, and long running training plan included no strength training whatsoever) and my knees were overloaded. Jacob and I split our training, and I started on strength training and the enigmatic approach to running that is jeffing (running and walking in intervals) and I managed to get that half marathon done. I learned that not running makes me sad, but yoga makes it feel better. I also learned that Jacob and I need to do some things alone, and this year we have had some runs together (slowly, at my pace) and some apart, as with all things in a good marriage where you are both yourselves, separately, and also one.

Mountains and moving

In June we climbed Mount Rinjani. The knee hurt quite badly coming down it, but this was such a beautiful point of the year. Walking for hours in the day, and nothing to think about except moving forward. We slept in the clouds (not very much on the first night, with an early ascent wake up call) and bathed in a hot spring, and had out meals cooked by two incredible porters who were confused as to why we didn't eat meat but very happily ate it for us and left us with the tofu and tempeh! It was the hardest mountain I've ever climbed, but left me wanting to do more.

More mountains were encountered toward the end of the year when my family moved out of Portsdown, where they'd been for over thirty years, to an HDB flat. The first metaphorical mountain was all the stuff. So much that had to be thrown away, given, donated, and packed. Jacob did lots of the packing and moving, while my job was to take my Dad out and away from the chaos while that was happening - we went for chicken rice and had a nice chat (meaning he ate chicken rice and I chatted about my life and he sagely nodded and asked some questions). The second metaphorical mountain was the sadness of my parents leaving a place they'd been rooted for over thirty years; all my life and more. I remember walking past Block 7, the first home before they moved to Block 9 and then Block 10. I closed my eyes and it was like I was there but in many times. That house changed over time as we all do but I could see the red plastic swing in the door to the green concrete floored balcony, and the red sofa, then the green sofa. The tiny rainbow mosaic tiles of the kitchen, the hallway once covered with family photos. The bunk beds and pull out mattress. I am uselessly attached to material memories and I stood there, eyes closed, grieving. I don't know what I was hoping - I never wanted to stay there forever but I suppose I wanted it to stay forever? And to always be a place to go back to? What else is home? 

Now Jacob and I are moving out of Jalan Hang Jebat. I'm sitting on the sofa and the rain is pouring outside and it's the same achey grief I already feel for this place although we only had it for four years. But those four years - Jacob carrying me through the door on our wedding night, the many book clubs and birthday parties, looking out of the window to green, green, green. I will miss it - I'll say that and leave this for now.

Surfing and the sea

In September we took ourselves to England, and went down to Cornwall to be with Jacob's Dad and his family for a while. We surfed, ate Cornish pasties, walked coastal paths (Jacob ran, but the knee meant it was just walking for me!) I wore my merino jumper. I loved getting to know Jacob's aunties, two strong women with an abundance of love and adventure. I laughed and laughed at his Grandma's stories, and saw how Jacob is like his Grandpa, quiet and passionate and steady. There were countless games of Boggle (Izzy won all of them I think?) and Ben and I did physio exercises together, and did I mention the surfing? It was truly wonderful. I told someone I want to live in Cornwall and she laughed and said "Everybody in England wants to live in Cornwall but no one can afford it." So there's that. When we went back to Oxford to see Jacob's Mum the sunflowers were blooming in the fields. There were more walks in less blustery conditions, and Lucy, Dom and Rachel came to stay. Then we went to the Lake District where the inevitable travel lurgy got Jacob for a day, but only a day before we saw Naomi! What I remember of those days was a lot of walking, hot bolognese, Catherine's mind-bogglingly good chocolate bread and butter pudding, and wild ponies. 

There were warmer seas awaiting back home in December, when Jacob, Simren, Hannah and I went to Koh Lipe. I'd decided to do my advanced diving course, which means I can now go deeper (and indeed did go deeper in Sabah this year!) When Christian, my instructor, first brought me down he told me to look at the red patches on his wetsuit as we descended. I watch as they faded to grey - it was the strangest thing. A plastic bottle he'd filled with air on the surface was crushed and crumpled at 30 metres - is that what my lungs looked like? If it was, I couldn't feel it. I felt entirely at home, and still feel alive and at home in a very vivid way whenever I am diving. 

(This post languished away in my draft folder and, without knowing how to end it but considering it is now 2026 and high time I stopped reflecting on 2024, here it is).

The Great Escape: an introduction of sorts

I'm writing this sitting on a sofa in Santiago, while Jacob quietly washes up our dinner plates with Bach on in the background. Santiago is 11 hours behind Singapore, which means my father is probably either eating his breakfast of toast and marmalade or drinking his coffee after waiting for it to brew as strong as he can stand it. It is past midnight in the UK. Jacob and I are about as far away from the two places we call home as we can be and we won't be back any time soon.

We left Singapore on the 29th of December, and ahead of is a roughly six month travel stint. We hope to get from Chile to Mexico, which is 8,318 kilemetres as the crow flies, but will be longer with the detours and adventures that will inevitably happen along the way.

Why this, now? Last year the bond I had with the museum expired, and Jacob's teaching contract expired at a similar time. That was always going to be a moment when we had to make a decision - do we stay in Singapore, or do we return to the UK? Both of us loved our jobs, but after five years of teaching Jacob had experienced bouts of bad burnout last year. I'd had up and down periods with my job, and ironically was enjoying the most I ever had last year, but also saw that if we were to move to the UK a period of rest before that was necessary. We also both thought - when might we ever have a chance to do this again? This period - between the end of our jobs in Singapore and the start of the new school term in the UK in September - felt like a rare gift of time and we wanted to use that to adventure together. 

The two and a half weeks between my last day at work and my last day in Singapore passed in a whirl. There were so many people to meet, to hug, and realising that many of these moments were the 'last' for a while was hard to comprehend. I tried to savour the special things we did, like going on an intertidal walk with friends from work, or a kayaking adventure kindly gifted by our small group, as well as the every day moments: saying 'good morning' to Dad (we are still the morning people of the Yeo household), running the trails in Rifle Range Park, eating Holland Village's bee hoon. Things felt emotional in a blurred way and I'm not sure I truly 'kept up' with my feelings. I wanted to somehow stop time, and live on in the familiar, loving world I knew and yet also set out on this great adventure.

One of my bright moments (and it's always a bright moment with this lot) was a poetry gathering with our book club. I chose to share a poem called 'Blackberry-picking' with the group. This time in Singapore has been a time of ripening: of friendships, of learning how to operate in a workplace, of learning more about marriage, of grief. Trying to pick out and contain all this simply can't be done. It is past, and it is precious, but it is not to be held on to. Also, I don't want to paint the past six years with falsely rosy tints because I also chose this poem for a strange ambivalence I've felt in those last two weeks. In that time I noticed a sparkle come back into Jacob's eye that hadn't lived there for large parts of the year, and I noticed myself feeling like I had more space for people than I'd had in a while. I have questions in my mind: have these years shaped me into a better person? What is the state of my soul? Are the things I think are good and normal really so? Do I hold on too tightly to things that, perhaps, aren't serving me? Already I think this time will be good for teasing out, if not the answers to those questions, then a direction for where I want to go.

Blackberry-Picking

By Seamus Heaney
for Philip Hobsbaum

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.