Tuesday 29th June, 10.40pm:
Dear You,
I’m going away tomorrow for a few days. I’ve got a nice little place booked on a farm somewhere in Shropshire, it looks absolutely gorgeous. You are never going to believe me but I’m going on my own. I’m struggling to believe it myself! It wasn’t too long ago that I didn’t even like being left in my bedroom on my own, yet now I’m off to spend two days in the English countryside completely absent from company. I like to think it shows how far I’ve come mentally, but we’ll see if I’m still thinking that on Friday afternoon.
I wanted to document my trip away but I was struggling to decide how to do it. I didn’t want to just write it up as a blog post as I thought that would be boring, but I also couldn’t think of anyone in particular that would be interested enough to hear about my lonesome trip, so I decided I’d write to You. If it turns out to be half decent, I might even post it on my blog. I’m not really sure who You are, but I’ll figure that out as I go along.
My plan is as follows – I’m going to take a book (A Perfect Spy by John le Carré, if you’re interested), my laptop and my camera, and I’m going to attempt to read, write and photograph as much as possible. There’s a few National Trust places I have in mind that I might visit, or I might just decide to wander aimlessly around Shropshire itself, I haven’t decided the specifics yet. The place I’ve booked has its own kitchen so I’ve bought some food to take with me, pasta for one night and fajitas for the other, and I’ve bought plenty of wine and cigarettes to make sure I fit the aesthetic of a writer who thinks they’re much more creative and interesting than they actually are. I’m going to log out of my social media for the duration of the trip in the hope that I might actually find some real peace, and obviously I plan to write to you periodically.
This is either going to be one of the best things I’ve ever done, or a complete fucking disaster. I suppose you could say that for most of the decisions I make though. I’ll write to You tomorrow at some point. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 11.10am:
Dear You,
I’ve just arrived at Attingham Park near Shrewsbury. I got flagged on the way here by an old man as I drove through a village. I assume he was angry because I was going too fast, but when I looked down I was doing 32mph, so he can shag off. To be fair, it made me chuckle. I stopped for Starbucks on the way (obviously) so I’m raring to go. As I drove past the main house it looked absolutely stunning, so I really can’t wait to wander around and take some pictures. The sun keeps popping out from behind the clouds and it’s a nice warm temperature, so I’m looking forward to the day. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 12.53pm:
Dear You,
I’ve just sat and eaten lunch on a picnic bench in the middle of the woods, listening to the birds and soaking in my surroundings. I’ve also just taken a wander through the house grounds and watched in amazement as the deer frolic through the fields, their beauty on display for all to see. I would argue that even You would struggle to find a more peaceful way to spend a Wednesday afternoon.
Interactions with strangers seem to become more interesting when you’re alone. It isn’t that I don’t interact with strangers on my own usually, it just feels that, because I’m really on my own, I think I am taking more notice of how other people behave. For example, a woman walked past me with her dog and I noticed it had a muzzle on, which she obviously saw me looking at because she spontaneously announced “he is friendly, it’s just because he eats things he shouldn’t”. I laughed and carried on walking, but I wondered to myself afterwards, what had that dog eaten, and why did she feel the need to tell me that? I don’t know, maybe I’m already going insane, but with no technological or human distractions I have become intrigued by the potential stories behind the interactions I have.
Mindless ramblings aside, the tranquility of Attingham Park is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Aside from the periodic nod and smile when I pass other walkers, there’s nothing to see or hear other than the trees, wind and birds, and I must say it’s rather lovely. Again, maybe the feeling is enhanced by the fact that I’m alone, but it really feels, as cliche as it may sound, that I am at one with nature as I meander around this beautiful estate.
My next dilemma – do I carry on walking, or do I head back to the cafe to get the bottle of water I now desperately require? I wouldn’t have to worry about such things if You were here, You would always have enough water for the both of us. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 2.17pm:
Dear You,
I’ve just had the perfect example of what I mean about those seemingly meaningless interactions. I was in the gift shop after finishing my walk around Attingham and there was a woman talking rather loudly on the phone. Naturally I avoided eye contact and did my utmost to look as though I hadn’t noticed, as is the British way, but when she ended the call she turned to me and said “sorry about that, but my daughter is trying on wedding dresses and she keeps FaceTiming me for my opinion”. I smiled and said how lovely that was, unsure what else one should say in a situation like that, but it seems amazing to me that, although rather insignificant in the grand scheme of things and in my own life, it was I who shared that beautiful, memorable moment with that woman, not her husband or her sister or her friends, but me. I was there when this woman was watching her daughter try on wedding dresses, in the gift shop of a National Trust house in the middle of Shropshire. Normally I would scoff at any attempt to attach significance to such a seemingly meaningless interaction, but as You know I’ve mellowed a lot recently, and things like this seem amazing to me now I appreciate them in a new light. It’s the little things I suppose.
I’m currently deciding what to do next. I’m not sure whether to go into Shrewsbury for a stroll or head straight to my accommodation. Don’t worry, whatever I decide, You will hear all about it in due course. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 4.20pm:
Dear You,
I’m sitting in a gorgeous little cafe in Shrewsbury, the kind of place You would love. You know the type, you pay £900 for a coffee just so you can have the aesthetic of a hardwood table and leather sofas. Shrewsbury is a beautiful town, some of the buildings date back to the Tudor era and it’s just wonderful to walk through and take it all in. It’s intriguing to watch other people get on with their lives whilst I gawk at their home town like a tourist. There was a young couple sitting by the riverbank as I walked by, talking and laughing, and I found myself almost jealous of them, living in such a nice town and appearing to be very happy with nothing to occupy themselves but each other’s company. Bastards.
I went to the Museum & Art Gallery and there was a portrait of one man who seemed to have lived my dream over 200 years ago, one John Mytton – “He was expelled from all the schools he attended, leaving Cambridge University without graduating but after consuming 2000 bottles of port. Having bribed his way to becoming MP for Shrewsbury, he found the House of Commons boring and only spent 30 minutes there in total. Jack liked to go hunting in all weathers whilst completely naked. He died in a debtors’ prison, worn out by his extravagant lifestyle, aged only 37”. If my obituary doesn’t read almost exactly like this then I will simply refuse to die.
It’s a pity I’m here on my own really, I know You would absolutely love spending the afternoon like this. Oh well, maybe next time. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 7.27pm:
Dear You,
How can so many things happen to one person in such a short space of time? I honestly deserve my own reality TV show. Ok, I’ll run You through. First of all, I managed to get lost on the way to my accommodation. In my defence, it is literally in the middle of nowhere, but they did send detailed directions so I can’t really use that argument. When I say in the middle of nowhere, I mean literally in the middle of nowhere – they’re not even connected to the electricity grid or the water supply. Yep, I’m having to drink my own piss. I jest, of course, they provide fresh water and the entire farm is solar powered. They’re attempting to become completely self-sufficient, which is pretty admirable I suppose, but certainly not enviable – I love the many luxuries of modern consumer capitalism far too much to give them up. Secondly, I started cooking as soon as I got here because I was fucking hungry, and as I was cutting an onion, I sliced into my thumb. In itself that isn’t really that bad, but my first instinct was to suck my thumb to stop the bleeding, which then meant all I could taste was raw onion. Less than ideal.
Dramatics aside, the place is absolutely stunning. It’s an outbuilding on a farm that has been done out beautifully. There’s a little kitchenette, a double bed, a sofa and a small en-suite. There is no TV but there is a log burner, not that I’ll be using it in this weather. The dog, Stan, is absolutely adorable and I’ve been playing fetch with him for ten minutes or so tonight. For dinner I cooked chicken & pasta in a creamy tomato sauce, which was honestly so delectable it made me question why I’m not a professional chef, and I’ve almost polished off a bottle of Sauvignon already. There’s a table and chairs outside for me to sit and smoke, and there’s a wifi box so I can stream Wimbledon on my laptop. Honestly, it’s exactly what I was looking for, and I’m so glad I decided to do this.
I have wondered to myself if I’d be having more fun if You were here, but I don’t fancy having an existential crisis so early in the evening, so I’m trying not to think about it. H x
Wednesday 30th June, 9.43pm:
Dear You,
Remember how the plan was to read a novel and smash out a piece of writing that would propel me to the upper echelons of the literary class? Well, I’ve just spent an hour shaving my legs. I won’t lie to you, I saw some TikToks of guys saying their legs looked more toned after they shaved them and, after a bottle of wine, it seemed like a fucking great idea. As it turned out, I’ve cut myself in several different places and my ankles are now covered in small patches of hair that make me look as if I’m suffering from leg alopecia (I can already imagine how You are looking at me but I’m allowed to make that joke because I’m going bald). I realised not long ago that I was far too pissed, which might explain why I cut myself so many times, so I ate half a packet of custard creams and now I’m just about sober enough to type. I knew that the WiFi here wasn’t going to be fantastic but it’s that bad that I am struggling to even stream the Andy Murray match. I’m glad that You are not here in that aspect because I imagine that You are not the biggest tennis fan, but then again it would be fun to discuss the innate sexism surrounding the practice of shaving your legs, and I know that’s a conversation You would certainly enjoy.
As much as I hate to admit it, I am missing social media. I am aching to scroll through Twitter and read what has been going on, or watch a few TikToks that are not funny at all but then keep scrolling through my FYP regardless. Is it because I’m addicted to social media and I need to wean myself off it, or is it because social media is a useful instrument to fill the void that’s left when one has no company? I know that You would have an insightful and interesting answer to that question, but I’m far too pissed to try and think of one right now. I have read some of my book, to be fair, but I feel like I’ve had one too many glasses of wine to properly appreciate the intricacy of the writing, so I’m leaving it for now. Jesus, do I always sound like that much of a prick?
I feel like I’m rambling at this point so I’m going to try streaming the tennis again. Speak to You tomorrow maybe. H x
Thursday 1st July, 10.09am:
Dear You,
I woke up about an hour ago and decided not to rush myself this morning, especially since the weather doesn’t look overly promising and my head doesn’t feel great. For breakfast I made myself bacon and eggs on toast with a cup of black tea (I forgot to bring milk) and sat eating whilst watching the news on my laptop. Surprisingly it’s a bit chilly, so I’ve lit the log burner, although that might just be down to the fact that I really wanted to try it out. My ankles hurt. I just know that You would absolutely love it here, it’s so peaceful and quaint and the exact kind of place that I could see You escaping to. I’m not sure what I’m going to do today, I might just lounge around for a bit and wait for inspiration to strike.
I just wanted to check in with You, let you know that I’m ok and tell you that black tea tastes like shit. I’m going for a shower now. H x
Thursday 1st July, 12.42pm:
Dear You,
I’ve just had lunch, a ham, cheese & lettuce wrap with some salted crisps. After showering I spent some time reading and, although I’m only two chapters in, I can already see why John le Carre is known as one of the best English novelists of all time, with emphasis on English – he creates a vision of England that we all feel we know, even if we’ve never actually experienced it; calm, charming and comforting, a vision that leaves you nostalgic for a country that no longer exists and almost certainly didn’t exist anyway outside of a small elite in the upper class of society. If You were here, I know we’d spend a good while discussing how the class system continues to shape the lived experiences of the English, no doubt disagreeing on most of it.
I’ve decided I’m going to cross the border today and visit Powis Castle in Welshpool (I know, I can’t believe that’s a real place either). I’ll be sure to keep You updated. H x
Thursday 1st July, 2.46pm:
Dear You,
It’s hard to describe but there’s something about driving through the countryside that I find so relaxing and satisfying. I’ve always enjoyed driving, but winding down narrow country lanes with my window down and my music on is just fantastic. I caught myself smiling several times during my journey here for no other reason than the pure enjoyment generated by the activity I’m engaged in. I think perhaps it’s a multitude of things; the stunning views of the rolling country hills, my favourite songs on shuffle and the necessity to focus on the task in hand removing my ability to overthink or wallow for too long, lest I drive into the back of the caravan in front of me doing 35 in a 60.
Powis Castle is simply stunning. Unlike Attingham yesterday, the castle itself is open to visitors, so I’ve been in and had a look around. Some of the artwork on display is incredible, dating back several hundreds of years, as does some of the castle itself. There’s also meticulously kept gardens to walk around which not only provide a perfect beauty of their own, synonymous with the glory of the castle, but also allow you to gaze up at the castle in all its splendour, towering above you as a visual reminder that beauty and history are all around you.
I wish I’d brought my book with me, I could quite happily sit in these gardens for hours. H x
Thursday 1st July, 7.19pm:
Dear You,
My legs are in absolute bits. According to my health app I’ve walked 13.5 miles in the past two days, which isn’t really that much by my standards, but they are aching like a bastard nonetheless. As I was driving home from Powis Castle I passed a nature reserve, so I decided to stop and get some more pictures. The views around here are magnificent because it’s so hilly, so if you find yourself at the top of one you can see for miles and miles all around. I’m pretty sure I’ve got sunstroke but that’s nothing new, with the size of my bald spot I’m surprised the national grid hasn’t harvested me as a renewable energy source yet.
I cooked fajitas for tea, which, it goes without saying, were excellent, and I enjoyed them with a glass of wine whilst watching the tennis. Watching Roger Federer play tennis feels almost wrong, as if it should be impossible for someone to be that talented. I doubt I’ll get up to anything of substance this evening as I am truly knackered, but it’s safe to say that this trip has been exactly what I needed. Not only is it nice to realise that I am finally completely comfortable in my own company, it’s also nice to explore new places and learn new things, about both myself and the places I visit. It’s also nice to just be away because, although it’s cliche to say, it doesn’t matter where you go as long as you’re away. Perhaps I’ll start doing this a bit more often.
I might write to You again in a bit, I might not. I’ve got a headache to be honest. H x
Friday 2nd July, 8.49am:
Dear You,
I’ve realised what it was that I wanted from this piece. I wanted someone to share my thoughts with, someone who would be interested in what I’m thinking and getting up to whilst I’m on my own, someone I could speak to freely without fear of judgement or having to listen to their own potentially boring stories. I wanted to speak to You without actually having to speak to you.
The thing is, I’ve maintained for several years that I’m happy on my own, and I am, but when you tell people this, they seem to take it as a cry for sympathy or pity. Often I’ll get “oh don’t worry you’ll find the right person eventually” or “there is someone out there for everyone” or some other nonsensical cliche that’s intended to reassure, but arguably does the precise opposite. This isn’t what I seek when I say these things, though. It is merely a fact of life that there is a real possibility that I could be on my own for a very long time, if not forever, and I am finally at a point where I’ve acknowledged this, understood it and made my peace with it.
Whilst I suppose it is only natural, I believe that the human default of assuming that you need to “find” someone to be truly happy is unhelpful, unhealthy and surely incorrect. Perhaps it is this default assumption that encourages people into unhappy and ill-fitted relationships that, whilst satisfying their apparent need to find someone, benefits neither partner and actually makes them unhappier than they would be on their own. It seems a real shame to me that for a significant amount of people, the fear of being alone shackles them into relationships which are demonstrably ill-suited, yet somehow provide more reassurance and comfort than the chance to find happiness on your own. A lot of people don’t seem to realise that it’s perfectly possible to be lonely even when you’re not alone.
I am not saying that I don’t believe in love or that I don’t want a relationship because, if the right person does walk into my life one day, no doubt I would find that they can make me happier than I have ever been. I have made connections with people before that, whilst not of the romantic kind, have demonstrated to me that love is possible and letting other people into your life, although not entirely risk free, can make you much happier than you might have been if you kept yourself emotionally withdrawn. All I’m trying to say is that it’s perfectly possible to be happy on your own, even if you’re not quite as happy as you think you could be, and surely that is preferable to being with someone just to avoid the dreaded feeling of loneliness.
That is why I have written to You throughout this trip. I wanted to prove to myself that it is possible to be comfortable and at ease in my own company, which I have. It could be argued that I haven’t really been in my own company because I’ve been writing to You the entire time, but You don’t exist. You are the person who might one day walk into my life and make me the happiest man in the world but, if You don’t, You are also the person who has demonstrated to me that I can be perfectly happy and content on my own, and for that I am grateful.
It’s been a wonderful trip and I am grateful to You for sharing it with me. H x
