Regular readers of this newsletter are acutely aware of my tendency to whinge about finding content for new issues. It is a theme I keep returning to - I can sense some of you rolling your eyes already - and my continuous scrounging for material is a running joke amongst my friends. Every time something atypical happens - like a football hitting me flush in the face - they laugh and ask me if I will write about it the following week. I laugh along but my concussed brain would indeed be exploring ways in which I could spin that assault into an essay.
So, when my wife and I were heading off to the United Kingdom four weeks ago, I was confident I would return with a pocketful of stories. Our itinerary had us making our way up - and then down - the spine of the UK, while eating unholy amounts of meat and taking lots of pictures of sheep (which, in retrospect, does appear a little dissonant). I had counted on having enough experiences and encounters along the way, which could fuel this newsletter for weeks. And I wasn’t wrong. Well, not entirely, at least.
In Onich, a tiny village on the banks of Loch Linnhe in Scotland, we met a group of Sri Lankans running a 200-year-old hotel. The hotel, it appears, was bought by a Sri Lankan a few years ago and now his compatriots offer warm South Asian hospitality - and ‘popadums’ - to tourists and locals, in a remote corner of northern Europe.
While driving to Fort William, we spotted a bakery named Landour Bakehouse; that too, with the distinctive green signage and a stonework facade. Did it have any connection to Ruskin Bond’s famous haunt in Mussoorie? Did the proprietors wish to imbue a hint of the Himalayas into the Scottish Highlands? Unfortunately, we could not stop to investigate its antecedents because to switch lanes on the highway in the UK is an unimaginable, heinous crime, second only to honking1. (This is as good a time as any to admit I got honked at on three separate occasions while trying to negotiate roundabouts.)
On the Isle of Skye, we exchanged polite smiles with a lady tending to her garden on a small patch of land outside her quaint, white cottage on a knoll, with clear views of the sea sparkling blue in the sunlight on one side and lush green, rolling hills dotted with sheep, on the other. It was hard to imagine life being anything less than perfect, in such an obscenely idyllic setting.
While in York, our plans to visit the York Minster were scuppered on account of it being closed to the public. Apparently, the Crown - a popular Netflix show on the British monarchy - was being filmed in the Minster at the time; specifically, the William and Kate wedding sequence2. The only way to access the Minster was to attend the evening service so naturally, my wife and I strolled in and spent a good half hour signing hymns in praise of Jesus Christ and admiring the stained glass windows.
Each of these incidents offered rabbit holes to explore and trains of thought to pursue, but now, when I sit at my desk and try to distil them into prose, I flounder. A 4-week-long break from writing seems to have left me bereft of words.
All I am able to present to you are these inchoate reflections; these haphazard snapshots, which are tinged with regret. Should I have spent more time talking to the Sri Lankans in Onich and hearing the tales their migration must have birthed? Should I have stopped at the Landour Bakehouse of Scotland, traffic rules and overpriced Flat Whites notwithstanding? Should I have asked the lady gardening in Skye what contentment means to her? By digging deeper would I have procured stories that felt more complete, more rounded, instead of being left with these jagged memories?
Probably not. Besides, there is a certain charm in not knowing all the answers.
Note to reader: This issue is arriving in your inbox on a Sunday because I missed my Saturday morning publication deadline. In fact, I considered not publishing this issue at all as I struggled to give it some semblance of shape and meaning. It takes a lifetime to learn the craft of writing but apparently only 28 days to forget how to string two sentences together. It’s a tough gig.
Eventually, when I did manage to finish writing this issue it felt appropriate to publish it, warts and all, if only to serve as proof of perseverance. (This is the part which is supposed to discount you from contemplating unsubscribing to this newsletter.)
I hope to send you the next issue on time and with considerably less drama. Goodbye.
Subsequent research revealed that it is a branch of the legendary Indian bakery and that some patrons have found its £4 pricing for a Flat White a tad steep.
The wedding had actually occurred in Westminster Abbey but for the past few weeks, the Abbey has, of course, been out of bounds to everyone, except Sonam Kapoor.
Welcome back! Looks like this was a lovely trip. As someone who has kept travel journals and stay abroad journals, I can guarantee you that very rarely do those fragments expand into a larger, fuller story. But there is a certain charm and beauty, I personally find, to those fragments when looked at as a whole. I'd recommend How to Travel Without Seeing by Andres Neuman. It was the book that inspired me to chronicle travel in a way that finally felt sufficient, in the moment and later, while also providing just enough if I wanted to explore the fragment in a deeper way. This helped birth my travel micro-collection, Pomegranate Summer, in fact :)
Indeed there is a certain charm in not having all the answers. I can totally relate with your sentiment about feeling like you'll come back with a lot of stories to write about but find yourself floundering for words and enough material for a full post. That's me every week! 😂 This was a lovely post, nevertheless, and took me back to my own visit to the Isle of Wight long long ago.