When the Chips Are Down: A Tale of Frustration, Sailboats, and Sharing

“Po-ta-toes,” said Sam. “The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty belly. But you won’t find any, so you needn’t look.”

— J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Two Towers” (The Lord of the Rings)

Thursday April 17, 2025 was a big day for me. I took myself on an adventure. It wasn’t a big adventure. Just a day out at the coast. But it was the first time I’d taken myself out for the day in almost a year. Last time it was a trip into the city to see an exhibition of paintings by the renowned English landscape painter J. M. W. Turner. There was no aim or goal this time beyond a sense of curiosity. How would it feel to be out of my usual environment after so long? I’d chosen a day when the weather promised to be dry and bright, but beyond that I had only the loosest of plans. I’d catch the Metro train to Tynemouth, walk to the sea front, then head north. Maybe I’d walk on the beach. Maybe I’d paddle. There were any number of cafes, coffee shops, and pubs I might stop at for something to eat or drink.

The one thing I did want to do was buy chips and sit eating them by the sea. There were a couple of options. The fish and chip van that often parked just along from Tynemouth Aquarium. The fish and chip shop at Cullercoats. Either of those would be perfect. There was a fish and chip shop in Tynemouth too, but that wasn’t as close to the sea front. Whatever else happened, whatever I saw or did, a tray of chips — even better, a chip stottie — would make the perfect memory of my day out.

Tynemouth Metro station was deserted when I arrived. I took a few moments to photograph the stunning architecture. The broad central steps leading to the footbridge to the opposite platform. The sweeping ironwork of the roof, renovated in recent years. I made my way from the station towards the sea front. The main street of Tynemouth was as pretty as I remembered it, lined with pubs, bars, and gift shops. A display of rubber ducks in one shop window. I took photos as I went along and shared a few in chat with Fran for when she woke. It was a little after nine thirty. Too early to stop for food yet. I’d had breakfast before I set out and had a flask of coffee with me. The thought of chips later spurred me on. A walk first, to give me an appetite.

I stood for a while before the looming mass of Tynemouth castle. Beyond the railings the moat fell twenty or thirty feet, then rose again in a steep grassy slope to the gatehouse beyond. I thought of my unpublished novella Playing at Darkness which is set within the walls of the castle over the course of one day and night. A key scene plays out in and around the moat. If I half closed my eyes I could almost — almost — see the drama unfold in front of me. There’s a lot of me invested in that place, emotionally and creatively.

I turned away and began my walk north along the promenade. King Edward’s Bay opened below me to my right. Memories of time spent on that little beach over the years, alone and with friends. I shook my head to centre myself in the present. Pausing on one of the many benches I opened my diary and began to write, holding the pages flat against the breeze.

10:05 am. Tynemouth. A bench overlooking the sea.

Well, I finally committed to my little adventure! It’s a quiet day, not many folk about at all. I guess the question I’m posing by doing something different is “what difference does it make?” Why did I come here instead of spending another morning writing at Costa? Is this better? The same? Or is the question itself meaningless? There’s no scale against which to measure any of it. Do this. Do that. The universe doesn’t care — or even notice — what I choose to do or how I choose to spend my time.

I closed my diary and put it away. I continued my stroll north, stopping to take such photographs as caught my eye. The castle and priory. The sweep of the shore. Shelters silhouetted against the skyline. A small wooden rowboat, anonymous save for the number 12 painted on her stern, converted into a quirky planter for tulips. It was another echo of my novella, which recounted a different rowboat marrooned high above the tide. The overlap of reality and fiction. Then and now. Real and imagined.

The old rowing boat is nothing special. For sixty years she worked the mouth of the great river, plying the dangerous waters around Black Middens until the old trade waned. Now she is the last of her kind. Five winters weathered her boards on the steeply banked pebbles of Prior’s Haven. Then men took her, painted her gaudy in blue and white and named her anew. Now the “Northumbrian Water” rests high above the water line, berthed forever in the turfed earth beside the Gibraltar Rock.

Ahead of me in the distance I could see the wide white bulk of the Tynemouth Castle Inn. It would be pleasant to sit outside there with a pint. I’d done that once or twice before. It was still early, though, and I wanted to eat before I thought of beer. Maybe on the way back after I’d had my chips. Beyond the hotel, the aquarium. More memories, old and less old, general and specific. The most recent was some six years ago. January 2019. Sheltering in the doorway from the rain as I waited for a friend. A few hundred yards beyond the aquarium carpark was where the chip van plied its trade. I could see a large van pulled up there, but as I got closer I saw it was selling ice creams and drinks only. A minor disappointment, but I consoled myself with the thought that the chip shop still lay ahead. That would be better anyway.

It’s no more than half a mile between the aquarium and Cullercoats bay but I took my time. I sat for a moment on another of the benches that line the promenade. How am I feeling?I asked myself. Right now. What am I feeling? It’s only a year or so since I learned about alexithymia. It’s a term for the difficulty many people — me included — have in identifying and communicating their emotions. I’ve written elsewhere about alexithymia and how it affects me. In a very real sense, it was impossible for me to describe how I felt as I sat on that bench in the sunshine. I was feeling something but I couldn’t label it. Even distinguishing my feelings as “good” or “bad” was a challenge. There was a sense of satisfaction, that I’d taken myself out for the day. But uneasiness too, because I wasn’t sure that it was meaningful to have done so. I had no real aim, beyond that tray of chips.

As I continued my walk, the broad sweep of Cullercoats bay came into view. I could pick out the lifeboat station, the slipway, and the steep slope that led down to the beach from the road. Across the road, the row of buildings that included a cafe, a couple of bars, the community centre I visited last year with my friend Aimee to attend a mental health event, and the chip shop. Maybe I’d take my tray of chips down to the beach. Or just sit looking out across the sea as I’d done many times in the past.

The chip shop was closed.

It was a few minutes before eleven o’clock so I wandered a little further to photograph the bay from the opposite direction. Eleven ten came and passed. Eleven fifteeen. There was no sign of light or movement from inside the shop and no indication of its opening hours that I could see. It might open at midday but that felt too long to wait around. I wasn’t sure what to do. The cafe was open but looked busy. There was another cafe around the corner and a coffee shop a few minutes walk away. I didn’t want a sit-down meal, though, and I still had coffee in my flask. Nothing I could think of was what I wanted.

I had a flashback to 2020 when hospitality began reopening after months of lockdown. I took myself into Newcastle city centre with the sole intention of revisiting my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero at St Mary’s Place opposite the Civic Centre. I arrived to find a note in the window explaining they couldn’t muster enough staff to open. There were other coffee shops in Newcastle. There were at least two more Caffè Nero stores, any of which might well have been open. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I caught the next train home. I recalled how other people had reacted to my story. “If you’d held yourself open to opportunities instead of getting all huffy you might have had a great time, just a different time.” That was true, of course. But I hadn’t been huffy. Not really. Disappointed, yes. But by heading home I wasn’t giving up on my day. I was honouring my folorn hopes and aspirations.

It didn’t look like I was going to get any chips. It was a disappointment, for sure. More than I’d have imagined. Maybe I’d tied my hopes too tightly to the idea that at some point I’d be sitting on a bench with a tray of chips. Maybe a chip butty. With salt and vinegar and a dash of brown sauce. I could practically taste it. I took a few more photos of the bay and began walking back the way I’d come. I couldn’t think of anything else — or better — to do. What did “better” mean, anyway?

Passing the park my attention was caught by a flash of movement. White sails on the boating lake. There’d been none earlier. I recalled there was a model boat club that met at the park. I hesitated, wondering if there was any point in crossing the road to take a look. Without consciously deciding to, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park as maybe a dozen radio-controlled yachts raced back and forth across the water. For the first time in my day I felt fully engaged with what was happening around me. I watched the yachts for a while, recording a short video to share with Fran later. It was getting close to the time for our call. It was pleasant sitting there, but a bit breezy for a video conversation.

I found a shelter a few hundred yards along the promenade and settled in out of the breeze. While I waited, I recalled other times I’d been disappointed by events that failed to meet my hopes and expectations. One evening walk during covid came to mind, when a succession of small grievances left me feeling cold, wet, and grumpy. I smiled at myself, remembering it only too well. Other potato-related disappointments came to mind. The takeout meal that arrived without the chips that had been ordered. Another takeout, at my friend Aimee’s this time, when the chips had been so disgusting I couldn’t eat them at all. I smiled again. Potato-related disappointments indeed!

Fran messaged to say she was free for a call and in a moment I was no longer on my own with my thoughts. She told me she was proud of me for taking myself out on my little adventure. Rather than ask how I felt, she invited me to share what I’d been doing, knowing that’s much easier for me to describe. I recounted my day in brief, from my arrival in Tynemouth. I did share one emotion. The one I had no difficulty labeling. My disappointment at the lack of chips!

I told Fran about the boats on the lake and sent her the video I’d recorded. We discovered we each had childhood stories of owning a model yacht. As I described mine to her I could see it clearly. The solid wooden hull, the metal keel, the buff coloured sails, the rigging with its nylon fittings. The small flag I’d added, cut from a scrap of red fabric. Memories swirled around us as we shared our respective stories, like the sailboats on the lake.

After talking a while, we moved on. As we walked, I shared with her the sights and sounds of the coast. It reminded me of other times I’ve walked with friends beside the sea. We watched a huge container vessel as it made its way towards the mouth of the river. I showed her King Edward’s Bay and we stopped for a few minutes by the castle and moat. Fran recalled that I’ve taken her there on calls in the past. Prior’s Haven, and along the pier to the little lighthouse. It warmed me that she remembered.

Marshalls Fish Shop was open, but by now I’d settled into the idea of not having that particular expectation met, and we kept walking. We stopped by the stern bronze statue of Queen Victoria to say hello, but she declined to smile. We got back to the station and crossed the foot bridge to the opposite platform. Our train arrived within minutes. Fran stayed with me on the call most of my way home. We parted easily, both grateful for having shared my adventure.

Once home, I went through the many photos and videos I’d taken, posting the best to social media to share with my friends and followers. I may not have had my chips, but I’d had a good time and I was glad I’d taken myself out. Later in the day, I checked online. The chip shop in Cullercoats opens at 11:30 am. If I’d thought to check while I was there, or stayed another twenty minutes or so, I could have had my chips after all! It was fine, though. There was no more — and no less — meaning in my chip-free day than there would have been if my hopes had been realised.

When the chips are down what matters, what makes things meaningful, is less the things themselves — what you do or where you go or what you eat looking out over the sea — and more the opportunity to share them with a friend.

 

Photo by Martin Baker, Grand Parade, Tynemouth, September 2018.

 

Looking Out: An Open Letter to My Best Friend

Dear Fran.

This photograph, Looking Out, is by Norwegian photographer Vidar Nordli-Mathisen. The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to share it with you and explore its relevance to our lives and friendship.

You’ve always been a traveller at heart. A gypsy, as you expressed it once, contrasting your wanderlust with my nature as a stay-at-home, rocking chair loving, “comfort creature traveling vicariously.” I’ve loved being your virtual travel buddy. We’ve seen some places together, haven’t we! From that perspective, you’re the woman standing on the lake shore, pack on your back, about to head off on your latest adventure. I’m watching from inside the house, experiencing the world though your eyes and your words.

The scene is Hovden in Norway. We’ve never been there, but you stopped briefly in Stavanger and Bergen on your way home from travelling around Europe in the summer of 2013. The lake and mountains remind me of that trip, especially Germany and Austria. Those three months proved a massive challenge to you on all levels; emotional, physical, and mental. They also challenged our friendship and my ability to support you from afar. With decent Internet, it’s true what we say: no one is too far away to be cared for or to care. Without reliable connection, it was very hard. Sitting in my room here in England without the daily calls we’d become used to — I think we had only two or three in all the time you were away — I truly felt in the dark. We came through it, though. (Let’s not do it again!)

It’s not just the outer world I explore with you. Travel’s always been an analogy for your inner journeying. As you once said, “Just being willing to go into yourself is brave. Actually making the steps is a hero’s journey.” We used that quotation to introduce the chapter of our book where we described those months in Europe. As well as Norway, you stopped briefly in Reykjavík on your return journey. We drew a parallel between what you described as the “bleak harsh landscape” of Iceland and your depression. “Let’s use this part of the journey,” I suggested. “This Darktime. Feel the sadness, and then leave it behind on these shores.”

There’s another way of reading the photograph. The person inside the house is you, sitting in the dark looking out at the bright potential of the world outside. The woman on the lake shore is also you, but the person you might have been if life had been otherwise. Healthy. Fit. Free from pain and fatigue. Capable of anything she dares to dream. For all your achievements and adventures I know there’ve been times when your life has felt small, less than, more constrained than it might have been had illness not visited you. It’s hard to mourn a life you never had the chance to live.

I remember when you lived in your little house on Peaks Island. You’d take walks around the island or on Centennial Beach, then return to share with me what you’d seen and thought and felt, often expressed in haiku-style poems. At that time you were endeavouring to find a way out of the deepest depression you’d ever known. As you wrote at the time, “I was trying to save my life, to get out of the house onto Centennial and wait for the haikus to come. That was all I had.”

Looking at the photograph in that way brings tears to my eyes. You could only stand the brightness of outside in small doses before having to return to the darkness. Step by step, haiku by haiku, you found your way back into the world, but it wasn’t easy and success was never certain. I might have lost you then.

Another shift in perspective. The woman standing by the lake is still, contemplative. Perhaps she’s not setting out on new adventures but returning home from meeting friends or from the store, her backpack filled not with travel supplies but with wholesome ingredients for the meals she’ll prepare in her cosy home. She ponders her life, everything she’s seen and achieved, and questions whether one more adventure would add anything to her appreciation of life or her sense of self-worth. Perhaps, she thinks, it’s enough to stand in awe and take it all in. With a final glance at the mountains, she walks the narrow winding path to her little house. Opening the door, she calls out to say she’s home. I’ve already got the kettle on.

 

Photograph Looking Out by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen at Unsplash.

 

Never Stop Exploring: The T-Shirt and the Challenge

Just being willing to go into yourself is brave. Actually making the steps is a hero’s journey.

— Fran Houston

This post was inspired by a t-shirt I received as a Christmas gift. It’s a white “Redbox” design shirt by American outdoor products company The North Face. I recognised the brand but I’ve never owned anything by TNF before. Neither can I recall owning a white shirt of any kind since the days wearing a collar and tie was de rigueur for anyone working in the civil service. These days, I wear t-shirts pretty much every day of the year no matter the weather and regardless of sartorial convention.

I have a burgeoning collection. Until a couple of years ago, most were mental health related in one way or another. As I’ve written previously, wearing t-shirts is not enough, but it can be great conversation starter and I’m proud to support the work of mental health organisations and initiatives including Time to Change, Mind, Bipolar UK, and Stigma Fighters.

In 2023 I made a conscious decision to widen my clothing repertoire to express some of my other interests. I bought shirts supporting two bands I’d recently come across: RØRY and AnnenMayKantereit (AMK). I also added a couple proclaiming my love of writing. (“LIFE IS SHORT. BLOG MORE.” and “Fountain Pen Fanatic.”) Another t-shirt bears a quotation by philosopher Albert Camus that I’ve taken very much to heart in recent years. (“The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”) I recently chose another RØRY shirt to celebrate their debut album RESTORATION, and one that proudly affirms “I Just REALLY Like Writing, OK?”

Almost all these shirts are black or dark in colour. White is a definite departure for me. Colour aside, my new “Redbox” t-shirt caught me off guard with its “Never Stop Exploring” tagline. The TNF website confirms the company’s adventuring credentials.

Named for the most challenging side of the mountain, The North Face has equipped explorers since 1966 to reach their dreams. Driven by the mantra of Never Stop Exploring(TM), our expeditions inspire us to test the outer limits of performance and possibility.

I’ve always been fascinated by adventure and exploration, especially polar exploration and mountain climbing. I spend a good deal of time watching YouTube videos devoted to mountaineering and polar exploration. The 2008 PBS documentary Storm over Everest is my favourite account of the 1996 Mount Everest disaster in which eight climbers lost their lives after being caught in a blizzard attempting to descend from the summit. For International Men’s Day last year I wrote about twelve men who exemplify qualities I admire. Three were explorers or adventurers: Robert Falcon Scott and Sir Ernest Shackleton (Leadership and Endurance), and Soviet and Kazakh climber Anatoli Boukreev who survived the 1996 Everest disaster (Devotion and Sacrifice).

In real life (whatever that means) I’m the least adventurous person I know. I’ve twice zipwired across the River Tyne for charity, but I knew I was safe and didn’t feel at all nervous or scared. In truth, I was more nervous riding the Ultimate roller coaster at Lightwater Valley Family Adventure Park, which was the longest roller coaster in the world when it opened in 1991. My one claim to adventure is that I once climbed the 1,085 metre peak of Snowdon (Welsh: Yr Wyddfa) via the perilous Crib Gogh arête. I say adventure but stupidity would be a better label. I had no business being on so perilous a ridge at all.

So much for adventure. What about exploration? Unlike most people I’ve ever met, I’ve never been interested in travel or seeing the world. I’ve left the mainland of Great Britain twice: a week-long childhood holiday on the Isle of Man, and a day trip to the Isle of Wight in 1983. I once declined the opportunity to travel to Cairo for a research conference, much to my professors annoyance and my colleagues’ disbelief. I didn’t have a passport at the time and it would have been difficult to arrange one in time, but my refusal was instinctive and absolute. I registered for a passport in 2013 just in case it ever came in useful, but it expired without ever being used. I’ve no plans to renew it.

These days, I scarcely leave my local area except to travel into the office two days a week. I went into Newcastle once last year, to see a J. M. W. Turner exhibition at the Laing Art Gallery. It was my first trip into the city in more than two years, apart from my covid jab late in 2022 and two opticians appointments during 2023. I visited my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson several times through the year and accompanied her to an engagement party (big shoutout to Jack and Spencer!) and a mental health event at the coast. I spent a week in the Lake District and took a few day trips. Other than that my time was spent very close to home. As the saying goes, “I don’t get out much.” But this is very much by choice. As I described in Not Doing Things Is a Thing I Do Now, exploration for me takes other forms.

[Exploring] is what I’m doing, internally, when I’m not out there doing stuff. Doing stuff can be fun, exciting, and healthy. It can also be a distraction from what’s really going on. Slowing down, withdrawing from doing and going, offers me the opportunity to examine what’s important to me and what isn’t.

This is, arguably, a form of asceticism.

Ascetic
Adjective: characterised by severe self-discipline and abstention from all forms of indulgence, typically for religious reasons.
Noun: a person who follows an ascetic life.

In my case, it’s not religious in nature. I’ve declared my atheism previously in such posts as IMHO: A Guide for Opinionated Bloggers and Reasons to Celebrate? A Brit’s Thoughts on Thanksgiving. It’s rather more philosophical in nature, aligning with my — admittedly partial — understanding of Camus’ doctrine of absurdism. For now at least, it suits me to spend my free time exploring my thoughts, opinions, and values in conversation with close friends and family, in the pages of my diary which I’ve kept for the past fifty years, and in my weekly blog posts. In doing so, I believe I’m being true to Fran’s observation which I quoted at the start of this article.

Just being willing to go into yourself is brave. Actually making the steps is a hero’s journey.

She wrote those words for herself as much as for me. They open chapter 9 of our book High Tide Low Tide which covers Fran’s three month road trip around Europe with her parents in the summer of 2013. It was a desperate time for Fran. It brought her to the very edge of despair and illness, with only occasional interludes of clarity and joy. I accompanied and supported her every day from here in the UK. I provided a point of stability and relative calm amidst the chaos of her adventure. It tested and proved our commitment as friends, and taught me a great deal about inner and outer adventuring and exploration.

On another occasion, Fran captured our respective perspectives on adventure perfectly. “I’m a gypsy,” she said. “No matter how hard the traveling is I still go, again and again. You are a comfort creature traveling vicariously.” Never were truer words spoken. In the years we’ve been friends, I’ve been Fran’s virtual travel companion on trips all over the world, including Mexico, Hawaii, The Bahamas, Panama, Spain, Germany, Austria, The Netherlands, Norway, Iceland, Greenland, and Canada. The final four were brief stops on her return cruise to the US from Amsterdam in 2013. I’ve learned a great deal about myself and the world with Fran and other friends; not just by seeing the world through their eyes but also in terms of relationships, health and illness, and caring support. I explored the benefits — and perils — of vicarious living in Second-hand Experience: If a Life’s Worth Living, It’s Worth Living Vicariously.

I love my new TNF t-shirt. I will wear it without any sense of irony as I go about my little life on my little adventures. I’m wearing it now, writing this at my favourite table in my local coffee shop. This is what Never Stop Exploring means to me. I’m good with that.

 

A Note on the Photograph

The photograph I chose to illustrate this article is by Samura Silva on Unsplash. Taken in Athens, Greece, its labels include Walking, Never Stop Exploring, Walk, People, Travel, Explore, Human, Person, City, Road, and Street. It captures the mood of my article perfectly. For one thing, the person in the photo is wearing the exact t-shirt I was gifted. It also appears that they’re standing in the street as people walk by, stationary in the midst of all that’s happening around them. Whatever exploration they’re engaged in is, for the moment, internal.

 

How Would You Be Feeling? Exploring Social Anxiety and Adventure

This post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. It happened a few days before she set off on a weekend trip with folk from MOAC (Maine Outdoor Adventure Club). Fran had attended several of their events in the past but this was to be her first trip away with the group. She was feeling a little anxious. I reminded her it's natural to have some anxiety when you're about to do something different. How the anxiety is a strategy your mind and body employ to protect you, perhaps as a result of past dissapointments. If you worry about something in advance and what you are worried about happens, you're prepared. You get to say, "See — I knew it." If what you were worried about doesn't happen, you get to feel relieved and pleasantly surprised. It's not a particularly healthy way of approaching things and it burns a lot of emotional energy, but it's understandable and far more common than we imagine. I reassured her that it was okay to feel what she was feeling, but she didn't have to dwell there. She could acknowledge it and then let it go. It was the kind of conversation we have all the time. Not only about Fran's situation, thoughts, and feelings. Mine too. I think we both felt on familiar ground. Then, Fran asked something that turned things on their head for me.

"How would you be feeling if it was you going away for the weekend with forty people, most of whom you don't know?"

On one level, the question was straightforward. How would I feel if I was a few days away from a long weekend in the woods with a group of people I scarcely knew? The fact that I can't imagine doing something like that says a lot. I can challenge myself to do things I've never done before, like a zipwire from the Tyne Bridge for charity (twice), a live radio interview, being a podcast guest, or reading from our book in front of an audience. Those were scary, but manageable. Social events of any kind are different. I'm much more comfortable one-on-one or in very small groups. I'd be well-prepared for the weekend on a practical level. I'd have everything laid out ready to go, the route mapped, and timings confirmed. Inside, I'd be a wreck, seriously looking for ways to back out. As Fran put it, I'd be shaking like a leaf. (I was literally shaking the first time we met in person after two years as transatlantic best friends, at the QEII Cruise Terminal in Southampton back in 2013.)

But there's more to Fran's question than that. By asking me to consider how I'd feel, she invited me to appreciate the reality of her situation. It helped me connect with her more deeply than just responding to her uncertainties and fears. It connected me with how it's been for me in the past when I'd felt scared or daunted by what I was about to do. Situations and scenarios I can imagine myself handling, and those which would unnerve me to the point where I would freeze up inside.

The question also reminded me of the differences and similarities between us. Fran's social anxiety is real but she'll find ways to work with it in the name of adventure. She's told me in the past she's better at getting along with "new people" than folk she's known a long time. I think she's a little unfair to herself regarding established friendships, but she's certainly better around people she doesn't know than I am. It's part of the reason she loves traveling so much. As I write this, she's away on her MOAC weekend. I'm confident she'll return with a few new friends and some great stories. I'd come back having spent most of the time by myself at the edge of things, observing what was going on, more or less content but failing to engage meaningfully with anyone. Neither approach is necessarily right or wrong, but despite similar anxieties we handle social situations very differently.

There's one more dimension to what Fran did. By asking me how I would be feeling, she reversed our roles. She gave herself the opportunity to have someone share their anxieties and uncertainties with her. Regarding her trip my feelings were hypothetical, but she nevertheless got to see things from someone else's perspective. It might seem a small thing, but for me that was the most significant aspect of our exchange. We've come up with various tools and approaches over the years. They help us explore how we're feeling and navigate through uncertain times to firmer ground. This was a new one. It's valuable in itself, and a great reminder that there's always something new to learn from and with each other. The photo I chose for this post is particularly appropriate because I bought Fran a mug just like the one depicted for her weekend away. The simple message — The Adventure Begins — reminds me that there's adventure to be found in our lives whatever we choose to do with our time, be that hiking the woods of Maine with people we don't know or sitting in a coffee shop in Kingston Park writing about it.

 

The Maine Outdoor Adventure Club (MOAC) is an all-volunteer member organization in the state of Maine, USA. Outdoor activities range from peaceful and relaxing to challenging and full of excitement. For details, check their website.

Photo by Freddy Kearney at Unsplash.