The Poul of Chicken

Voodoo. There, got your attention. Chickens are a culture-bridging fowl. Practically every tradition has space for it in some respect, and there has almost always been a spiritual element to it - whether in shamanic ritual, in symbolic atonement, in sacrifice. Or even in more everyday uses - waking us up, nourishing us, bringing us together around a table, making us feel part of a community or a family. It's a literal chicken and egg life cycle, a self contained allegory.

Puk-kah?

The relationship most cultures have with chicken as part of their gastronomic heritage is a firm one. Other than those following a herbivore conviction, of course. You cannot speak to anyone of their cultural cuisine without an almost religiously rooted chicken dish being mentioned: fried chicken - soul food; chicken soup - Jewish penicillin; chicken parmagiana - mama's cooking; Jerk chicken - the ultimate summer; coq au vin - wholesome rustic goodness; Tori katsu, teriyaki, yakitori - satisfying Japanese staples; Tandoori chicken - aromatic victory; chicken Paprikash - Balkan piquant delicacy. Numerous others, too many to mention! And of course - a chicken which has been roasted, in hundreds of variations.

For me, chicken has always been a stabilising food in times of crisis or just when life gets you down, in possession of almost mythical healing abilities. Whether psychosomatic, or truly medically beneficial, when I'm unwell I tend to crave it, then feel better almost immediately for having had it. But different dishes are called for different ailments: when it's any form of sniffles - chicken soup. How could anything feel more internally nurturing than that. When I've had a bowl of a clear, slightly fatty, rich broth, I immediately know I can sit back and let it work its wonders, relax and just be ill. And that in itself is half the way to recovery - after all, a neurotic like me isn't going to sit quietly and let illness take control. No! I will arm-wrestle it until, inevitably, I slump back, looking like a wrung rag, and with the horror of the realisation that I truly am sick, shuffle to the freezer and unleash a frozen tub of greenish-yellow ice, run it under the tap until it's loosened enough to plop into a pan and can be melted and brought to a gentle bubble on the stove.


A'mehaye (The Reviver)

To this end, there needs to be foresight and planning. If ever in a farmers market or a butchers, I tend to purchase a carcass, which is the perfect base for a fantastic broth. If a full roast bird has passed through my kitchen (more on that later on), the inedible bones, skin and other parts will not be wasted. Or, sometimes, feeling frivolously extravagant, I would use an actual piece or even a whole chicken to make the soup. But that really isn't necessary, as the meat itself, having cooked in the broth for a good couple of hours, becomes a little papery and crumbly. It loses the succulence which is preserved as a quicker slow-cooked dish; plus because of the long soak in the water, during which it renders all its flavour to the brew, it is left with none. Not that I wouldn't still pick any bits of meat left with zeal.

At any rate, once the chicken component is in a pot of water and has been brought to a rolling boiling point, turn the heat down, skim the top, and add all your veg - for me it's always aromatics - carrot, celery or celeriac, onion, a handful of parsley, a potato or two, courgette, and one tomato to give a lemony zing, plus bay leaves, whole peppercorns and plenty of salt. Leave on a low heat for a good hour and a half to two hours, skimming occasionally. Your poorly body will thank you.

There are some fascists out there, who, granted - make much nicer soup then me, demand that you throw away the vegetables you cooked the soup with, as they have served their purpose as flavouring, then add new ones for a fresher taste, cooked for a further 20 mins or so. Those people, brilliant chefs as they may be, are the enemies of everything that is basic frugal home economics, pushing luxury to an extent only employed by Michelin-aspiring restaurants, certainly not a whim my mum would ever have dreamed of indulging, and they should be stopped. Ok, they're not wrong, exactly... but personally, I really love the taste of my nutritionally devoid holy trinity et al. Unlike the chicken meat itself, of which any trace of flavour has been sucked dry, they function like fruit in a punch bowl - that secret kick at the bottom of your cup, when nobody seems to realise one half-strawberry has soaked more booze into it than the whole glass... a flavour explosion!


What am I, chopped liver?!...

Sometimes a general rundownness takes over - an overall exhaustion verging on ennui. At those times, chopped liver is the law. No, not Pâté, silly - only chopped liver will do. This is made with chicken livers which are sautéed, sometimes with a little red wine but traditionally with fat. They are "chopped", if you will, in a food processor, to a coarse consistency, or even roughly mashed with a fork, and mixed with caramelised onions, chopped hard boiled eggs, salt and lots and lots of pepper. The comforting savoury, chucky paste with its earthy umami and slight contrasting sweetness of the onions, on a slice of, well, anything really, doesn't need to come in large quantities. A small bowlful - which is invariably the amount produced per cooking batch - is more than enough to last a good two or three days.
 
When homesick, the big guns are required, the dish that speaks to the child in me, the essence of every kid who shares my culture - the chicken schnitzel. This, for whatever reason, is a dish that I will petulantly demand my mum make for me whenever I'm at home. It doesn't matter it's the easiest thing to cook in the WORLD, it doesn't matter that I'm an adult and she's possibly now older and wearier than the woman who tirelessly fried off mounds of golden escalopes of joy. The regression cannot be complete until I am 2 or 5 or 12 years old (who knows when I stopped behaving like a spoilt brat, if ever), stomp my foot and stubbornly proclaim 'I want schnitzel!'.
 


The correct serving portion of schnitzels per person

But really, it is so easy to make, almost embarrassingly so. Just take fine quality free-range - always free-range you fucking monsters! - chicken breasts, beat them slightly with some kind of butcher mallet or even a rolling pin, till they're flatter and wider, then dip them in flour, beaten egg seasoned with salt and pepper, and bread crumbs of any kind, then fry in semi-shallow very hot oil until golden on both sides. That's it. You can even zhouzh it all up with grated parmesan in the crumbs, herbs in the flour, chilli flakes, whatever! Or go Cordon Bleu stylee - only bastardised - by skipping the mallet part, instead slicing across the fat breast so you create a pocket, and stuffing it with cheese/ham/spinach/sautéed mushrooms/chorizo - again, your imagination is your limitation. Then flour-egg-crumbs it, fry as before, but finish it off in the oven as the plump parcel would take longer to cook all the way through. Never does a batch last longer than a day or two, at best. Trust me on this, they'll be hoovered up faster than a slingshot chicken.


And of course, the ultimate all-purpose remedy is the roast chicken. Now, there really are so many ways to cook this thing. The truth is that it's perfectly simple, regardless of what seasoning/brining/marinating/stuffing you decide to employ. For a 1.5k bird, heat the oven up to 220C, and put the room temperature anointed beast in, on a bed of vegetables if you so wish. Turn the heat down to 190C (170C fan) and leave in the oven undisturbed for an hour and twenty minutes. That's 1 hour 20 mins. Leave it! Then take it out and prick a metal spike into the fattest part of the thigh, and if the juices run clear - you're all good. Now, take the chicken out of the tray and leave to stand on a plate or board for about 20 minutes. Again, leave it! Don't pick at it or be tempted to eat the crispier bits. The juices that have run out while it stood, plus what's left in tray will make a beautiful gravy, various recipes for which can be found all over t'intermanet.
 

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's superman! No I was right the first time. It's a delicious bird.

 And now, all that's left to do is carve. That's a whole other messy affair... but when that's done, and the screams have died down, you've taken the sheeting off the floor and wiped the juices off the walls and ceiling, you're left with a few vaguely distinguishable chicken pieces, ready to eat with your vegetables, plus a perfectly beautiful carcass and the non-crispy skin at the back of the chicken which you can now use as... that's right, a base for chicken soup! And thus the circle of fowl is complete.

What's your must-have, soul-reviving chicken dish?

Letting Leo In

My dad was a man of contradictions. I know, you could say that about literally every person who's ever lived. But this seems to be an attribute of his, which reflects his existential internal rift. I could always rely on him for the darkest sense of humour, for slaying sacred cows whenever possible. At the same time, he remained throughout his life a very serious man - considered, fearful of rash decisions, often to a point of constipated inaction, which frustrated the rest of the family. He was a devout Socialist his whole life, yet followed conservative social norms in the most dogmatic fashion. 

Probably due to his strict upbringing, he was both respectfully fearful of the wrath of authority, yet a rebel at heart. He would never question doctors, lawyers, teachers, people who have reached the top echelons of social hierarchy, and this blind subservient compliancy ultimately contributed to his demise, failing to press for second opinions on diagnosis, or dispute lackadaisical courses of treatment. Yet he dedicated his later life, after years as a metal shop mechanic, to union work - naively, perhaps, ignoring any trace of corruption or skewed ideals, proceeding with a focused conviction of the value of integrity and culpability of humanity for each other's wellbeing - acting as legal advisor in work tribunals. Thereby he had found a way to question authority in the most fundamental way, but one which worked for him: finding where the rules were misappropriated or manipulated and ensuring justice is served, protecting the little man from the malevolent Capitalist.

Remembering my dad as I was growing up is in one of two modes - with an almost permanent slight grin, one side of the mouth curving upwards underneath his occasional moustache and hefty nose, a twinkle in his eyes as he's just dispensed some satirical or cutting - but never hurtful - observation. The other mode was as a stern, dictatorial, stubborn and arbitrary figure, unmoved by pleas or reasoning. If dad said no, it was pointless to try and argue. His word was Law. A fun, boundary-basher on one hand, a stone wall the other.

Later on, as an adult, his third mode was revealed - the depressive. Of a generation where introspective self-awareness was considered an indulgent waste of time and 'philosophising', his ultimate derisive term for anything deeper than the practical, he was ill-equipped to handle his crippling depression and nihilism, which also played a part in his deterioration.

But remembering him as a whole, complex person, divided within himself, is for me best encapsulated in a particular moment towards his final days. I was helping my dedicated mum and sister look after him, as he was deteriorating towards the unavoidable cul-de-sac in the most horrific fashion. My mum was out one morning, and I had managed to convince him to eat something so he could take his bundle of medications - food had been one of his absolute joys in life, now all but completely gone with the progress of the illness - and at his request brought him a thin slice of pumpernickel bread, smeared with cream cheese and sprinkled with chopped onion. My dad had a proclivity for the simple foods of his Germanic childhood. He ate up, with some effort. But did not manage to keep it down. As I was cleaning up, dismissing his unnecessary embarrassed apologies, he looked up at me with that little smile of his and said: 'well at least it tasted good coming up too'.

Ol' metal shop fingers and me

A transit van pulled up across the road from me, and an American man in his 50s disembarked. I knew he was an American, because he had that slick yet slightly outdated small-town look only American men in their 50s manage to achieve - a golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, a white moustache, round framed glasses and a straw hat. Like he stepped out of a Stephen King novel. But not evil.

Strahan - first impression

He walked over cautiously, having been tasked with collecting me, and politely enquired whether I was the right person, but I knew that was Leo, the man from the letter of introduction I read at Susan's house a few days earlier. As premonitioned, Leo and I hit it off straight away. He wasted no time unfolding his ideology to me - all about self-sufficiency and anti-consumerism, intending to spend the rest of his life as a handyman / Wwoofer, living off trading his many craft skills, rather than participating in our capitalist society of pointless accumulation.

Leo had been a handyman his entire life and was indeed very handy, for the moment with a pair of pliers, busily plastering the cracked walls of our hosts' house, and in the planning stages of building a chicken run, weather conditions permitting. The hosts, Kathy and Gary, greeted me with warmth, promptly introducing me to the cat, Tashi, the three chooks and the two goats (on loan) and I was fed home baked scones with jam and yoghurt. My work here was to be mainly hardcore weeding, transplanting and yet more transplanting. It was great actually, I learned a fair bit about vegetable growing just from the few days I spent listening to Gary (also an American) talk about his carrots.

Gary and Kathy were specialist trekking guides in Nepal, and when not tending to the house or garden, were busy organising the next expedition to the Himalayas. They were full of anecdotes from their adventures: from scrotum dwelling ticks, to men-hating lesbian trekkers challenging a fellow trekker - a policeman - to a fight, and to drunken monks on donkeys making "fuck" gestures at a puzzled and bemused Gary and Kathy. They never did find out what that was about.





Being travel guides also meant that Kathy and Gary were generously encouraging that Leo and I see the local sights. One night, Kathy drove us all to see Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds - the only source of food for the original settlers, still today scoffed with 

Nesting Mutton Birds

pleasure by old-timers, a practice not favoured by a wildlife champion such as Kathy. The bird were flying in from a few weeks spent over the ocean, so they can relieve their nesting partners from their shifts, the nests based in holes in the dunes. Here they would spend the night together, then allow the nesting partner to fly off for their turn of ocean feeding. We weren't allowed to shine any direct strong lights at them, so Kathy used green cellophane wrapped around a torch to dim it, and we stood on the shore, the smell of the ocean heavy, the stars high above us, watching low flying birds screeching all around like demented bats, causing sand to blow into our already squinty eyes. Then Gary got out the single malt and all was well. 

Flocking Short Tail Shearwaters, AKA mutton birds

I had a little walk into town the next day and discovered sadly that its entire population was employed in some form of the tourist industry, a reality which was true for most small towns in the Southern hemisphere, I was to discover. Local industries have all but shrivelled dead. One woman here even turned her back garden into a native-rainforest mini museum - with entry fee of course, irritating her neighbours with the overgrown trees obscuring the sun and blocking the gutters, making it worse by tackily naming it The Magic Cottage. However, the town's main tourist attractions were the Gordon-Franklin river cruise, taking you through the untouched vast rainforests, the steam train journey previously mentioned - going to Queenstown and back, and a couple of sea-plane or helicopter rides. There was also a daily showing of The Ship That Never Was, a humorous audience participation play, depicting the story of the last ship built at Sarah Island, which was about to sail for the new prison at Port Arthur, and of the convicts who mutinied and hijacked it, escaping to Chile. Down by the Tourist Info Centre, every day at 5.30. Tickets at the door.

 

Over the next few days, Leo and I became exploration companions, with a shared passion for making the most of our free time visiting as many beauty spots. We had his trusty van, which was fortunate, as most attractions in the area were definitely a driving distance away.





Macquarie Heads



On a day off we drove to Macquarie Heads, a part of the coast with a view of Hell's Gates and a decent picnic spot to boot. It also is the start of a beach with some of the largest sand dunes and therefor THE hotspot for quad biking - both legal and illicit, as well as a reluctant graveyard for crashed vehicles. Ocean Beach, as this is known, stretches north 30k, all to way to Trial Harbour . Leo and I braved the giant dune greeting us by the parking area, getting extremely out of breath up the steep wall of sand, but it was worth it - the vast beach was spectacular, and we even managed to avoid getting run over by any of the zooming quadders and bikers.



View of Hell's Gates

Henty Dunes - white and green meeting

We then drove further down, to Henty Dunes - immense forests on one side, the crashing waves of the ocean on the other, endless white sand dunes in between. We got caught up in the emotion of the moment, melodramatically contemplating deliberately getting lost, wobbling our way towards the ocean, our feet sinking in the soft sand as we go, but the prevailing presence of noisy quad bikes allowed us to follow their tracks back to the parking area.

We then headed back to Strahan, and braved the unmissable-only-play-in-town, The Ship That Never Was - surprisingly not entirely torturous and quite fun, especially as you're given a spray bottle to go mad with during a certain bit in the show, getting all the other tourists in the audience wet in their nylon shirts.


Tourist spraying - it's a sport

We ended the day having dinner at a lovely fish shop. Ironically, the local fish were all exported, so the ones we enjoyed were brought in from Hobart - and here we were, sitting by the harbour, fishing boats everywhere.

Leo was shaping up to be a real boost to my enthusiasm for experiencing every moment to the full and becoming a yea-sayer. Even to naff, cheesy, touristy theatre productions, shelling my armour of cynicism, at least for the duration. His fervour was contagious, and he wanted to share it all with me. We reasoned that as lone Wwoofers, who don't normally get a chance to partner up as joyfully as we clearly have, we should take advantage of this unexpected duality and take the lavish - at least for us destitute types - Gordon-Franklin river cruise. And with that, the very next morning we wolfed down our quinoa porridge and jetted down to the harbour again, to catch our boat.
 

Hitting the Ground Down Under

Landing in Sydney, I was, as expected, in a dreamlike state, the night-terrors kind. Thankfully, I sailed through immigration and customs, despite ominous forewarnings of having to turn right back should a grain of earth is found on the soles of my shoes, and I was launched into the hot and sticky arrivals lounge. I'd been vehemently advised to pre-reserve the first couple of nights' hostel stay, to avoid having to engage in any interaction on a level more complex than signing my name and collecting room keys on arrival. Smart.

A shuttle service was allegedly to be provided by the hostel, and fairly soon an overheated and irritable man could be spotted lurking in the foreground, making no attempt to identify himself to us waiting backpackers as the driver. Eventually, though, he deemed it convenient to absentmindedly ask us to follow him, then proceeded to drive around the city, losing his way frequently, negotiating U-turns in streets too narrow, and getting increasingly agitated. By the time I was dropped off, last of the group, steam was visibly emanating from his ears.

My hostel was an early 1800s colonial estate, converted into a labyrinth of dormitories. It was based centrally, albeit in an area far from desirable, one street down from a prostitution hub. Yet there were plenty of other hostels in the area, with convenient transport links to all parts of the city.
 

 I was shown to my room, shared with 5 others, 4 of whom were sound asleep in their cots, no doubt sleeping off a night of wild backpacker abandon, was my assumption. In spite of the midday sun, as well as the strong and distinctive sock-sweat odour, I immediately heaved myself onto my top bunk, fully clothed, and fell into a sound asleep for the next 7 hours.

I woke up with just time enough to make a few phone calls before dinner, confirming my Wwoofing farm stays. Farmers participating in the Wwoofing scheme can be peculiar characters, as my story will amply demonstrate later on, and negotiating your engagement can be a fickle and capricious process. One wrong word could often mean the arrangement is null and void, as sensitivity and volatility levels are on the higher end of the spectrum. A fair number expect housekeeping and/or babysitting duties, which, all things considered, may be a reasonable thing to contribute towards, but - let's face it - that's not why you're doing this. For me, it was about the opportunity to sink my hands in the mud, develop blisters, make friends with farmyard animals, just purge some of my supermarket urbanity by learning about the holistic natural process. I was therefore very vigilant in my choices of stays, knowing once I'm there I'd be totally at the mercy of the owners, in the middle of nowhere and alone. I'd heard stories, you see.

There was also a call to confirm the first week's stay with my Narrabri dwelling distant relative and his family, arranged to help cushion the acclimatisation blow. I haven't see him since we were kids, and was quite excited about meeting family at this remote corner of the world! Besides, I was still reeling from the recent discovery of my sister's illness, and although I tried to put it out of my mind for the moment, it was stubbornly hanging in there like a hulking shadow over everything I did. I needed sympathetic company.

Once all arrangements were confirmed, I joined a hostel organised Korean buffet dinner in the green and pleasant yard. BBQ meat skewers and salads. It was cheap, tasty, and plentiful – just was I needed to aid my recovery. Having eaten, It made sense to venture out into the Sydney evening, for a drink in a local pub with some of the hostel guests already heading that way. However, I was beginning to sense that whilst a traveller in their 20s is greeted with a revellers’ carefree tribal yelp of inclusivity, a traveller in their 30s borders on falling into the hobo-weirdo category, to be treated with wary caution. My jetlagged state perhaps didn't help, as any attempt at an easy-going demeanour fell flat. Talking to people felt a chore. I tried some light pub chit-chat with a NZ guy, but, other than being introduced to the concept of ‘Movember’ for the first time (and he did have a magnificent 'tach), I was politely rebuffed. It may have been the jetlag, or not yet being in ‘travel mode’. Whatever the reason, I clearly needed to adjust and knew it was going to take time. I was also keen to get out of Sydney – urban city-scape was not what I came here for - and commence true traveling. But first, I had two days to get a taste of this city.

To that end, the next day I decided to walk around the city, allowing the residue of my haze engulf me like a cloud, and I began to relax a little bit. I started around Chinatown, which always makes me feel in an familiarly urban environment, as it's found in most Western cities, including London. I then walked to the Sydney Opera House, on the bay. I'm a sucker for harbours, marinas and seascape, and the whole area was very beautiful, water glistening, boats lapping, all that. Conveniently, I was right on the edge of the botanical gardens, a great big park - free to visit - and which has a wonderful feel to it, full of different types of odd flora and fauna.
 

One of the things I immediately noticed about Sydney and Australia in general is the incredible collection of birds I had never encountered before, roaming freely, which truly overwhelmed me. I was simply not prepared! Various big birds, particularly parrots and cockatoos, flying around everywhere! It’s quite something.
 

 

I also noticed gangs of huge flying foxes at the botanical gardens, in fact furry bats (but actually called flying foxes, clearly I'm not the only one with limited imagination),  zooming around in the midday sun. They were residents of the gardens but were apparently considered a pest and the city was trying to disposed of them.
 

After tiring myself out at the gardens, I found a travel agency and excitedly booked my ferry trip to Tasmania, where I planned to Wwoof extensively, then went out looking for some dinner. Having already scouted Chinatown, I was in the mood for some Asian food, and deposited myself in a lovely little Malay place, where I had a gorgeous veggie Laksa - a spicy, rich noodle soup made with coconut milk, herbs and tofu, savouring the bountiful, rich, glistening broth. Here I realised with sadness I must keep a sharp eye on my expenses, as budget was tight and so dining out, even for relatively cheap street food, was going to be a rare luxury. Included in price hostel breakfast, slow release energy snacks, dried fruit and nuts were going to feature heavily over the next few months...

 The next morning I only had a few hours before catching the northbound coach to my cousin's town, a 14 hour journey... in Australian terms a mere jaunt, of course. The annual Glebe Street Fair seemed like a decent place to pass my free morning. A suburb of Sydney, Glebe is a fairly trendy area, with dinky little boho shops and beautiful colonial houses. While I mooched around, a band played what they insisted referring to as "jazz", although twee folky tunes, with lyrics such as "...i gotta get rid of my pussycat, he'll be the end of me... " brought out the critic in me, and very quickly I removed myself from listening radius. Various market stalls and even pony rides were available, and I managed to procure a couple of gifts for my hosts, and got back in time for the bus, feeling a little like Captain Oates, perhaps somewhat less apprehensive and doomed.

An Uneasy Embarkation

I woke up in a small town in Eastern Australia, crying. This was not the start of a trip-of-a-lifetime I’d expected. The past two days were spent moping around my second cousin and his wife’s house in Narrabri, halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. Here, in this charming farmland town, I did a whole lot of not much, other than sleeping, weeping, and trying hard not to bum out my tolerant hosts. It was a mere fortnight ago that my family’s tranquil existence has been irreversibly disrupted, destabilising the vibe around the trip I’d been planning for many months as result.

We were sitting in the kitchen – our familial congregating area, its cramped cosiness and proximity to the fridge much preferred to the larger living room, only ever used for watching TV or entertaining guests - my mum, my sister and me. I was on a long visit, sort of an elaborate pit stop prior to commencing my long-planned trip, but in reality an excuse to spend much needed time in the bosom of my family. I’d been living away for so long, this was a singularly precious opportunity to gain some quality time on the family loyalty-points card.

Sitting in the kitchen, as we were, not unlike any other day, my sister casually mentioned she thought, but wasn’t certain, she may have a something lump-like in her breast, but perhaps it’s nothing. ‘I’m not sure’, she added laconically. My mum and I exchanged glances. ‘How long has it been there?’ we asked. ‘A few months, really’, she tentatively offered, fully recognising the implication of what she was saying, and the overwrought histrionics she may be invoking, ‘but honestly, I couldn’t tell if it’s anything. Here, feel it’. I knew, as soon as my fingers touched that Ping-Pong ball sized solid protuberance, that it was cancer. I’d felt it before, oddly, on my dog, years ago. I knew what it was then, and I knew now. ‘Make an appointment to see a doctor’, I said pointedly, whilst trying to maintain my cool. She seemed taken aback at my unequivocal tone, rather than being placated with a dismissive ‘oh it’s nothing to worry about’. But we all knew there was now no time to lose.

I was due to leave for my trip the following week, but was no longer sure I wanted to, or even could bring myself to. We went to see the doctor together, confirming what we’d already suspected, and set the wheels in motion for the next inevitable steps. Ominous words like ‘chemotherapy’, ‘terminal’ and ‘death’ were constantly going through my mind. I agonised over the decision whether to pack it in and stay put. But mulling it over with the family, they repeatedly pointed out that a. we didn’t know how soon, if at all, any treatments were to start, b. there is nothing any of us can do for the moment and c. I’d spent much time and money organising this trip and ought to at least begin, then if necessary I could always return.

I had just recently completed a postgrad diploma, later in life than is conventional, a feat undoubtedly driven by the dissolution of my marriage. The divorce papers have also just come through, the coinciding events both milestones of some epic. Feeling this was as right a time as any for a Sabbatical, I quit my UK based job, having put some funds aside for my adventure, and became a lady of leisure – for the next year or so, anyway. The plan was to travel around the south east of Australia, using Wwoofing as a great way of seeing as many remote parts as possible. Wwoofing consists of volunteering on sustainable and environmentally aware, mainly smallholders’ farms, sometimes organic or biodynamic, being provided with food and accommodation in exchange for 4-6 labour hours per day. My trip was then to take me around the north and south islands of New Zealand; however, here some work permit restrictions meant Wwoofing was not an option, and so I begrudgingly booked a hop-on-hop-off tour bus, with the intention of stopping off for independent hikes in various places. The final leg was to be around the southern states of the US, mainly by Amtrak train. I felt the tingle of freedom and yearned to consummate it by roaming the world, unshackled by concerns and trivialities of routine life. But now, It seemed, reality has sniggered smack dab in my face. Best laid plans and so on… a new perspective heavily wrapped round my escapade like a thick duvet. Still, I resolved to push on with my plan and put a brave face on. The airport goodbyes were not easy.