I first met Nurbübü Abdirashitova in Ala-Too Square, Bishkek. I couldn’t check into my hotel until that evening, so I’d found a free walking tour on Guru Walk. Nurbübü was our tour guide, a charismatic 19-year-old, who spoke to us in impeccable English, her third language after Kyrgyz and Russian.

Nurbübü told us that she was originally from Gaz village in Batken, a sparsely populated area of Kyrgyzstan near the Tajik and Uzbek borders in the southwest. Her family had moved to the Chüy Valley when she was seven years old. These days, they live in Tömönkü Chüy village, around one hour from Bishkek. “Apricots grow in Batken, but here we grow red peppers instead,” she told us, with a nostalgic air that felt beyond her years.

I felt the hot June sun burning my cheeks as we stood next to the biggest flagpole I’d ever seen. It stood at 100 metres and waved in the wind, greeting our craned necks from above. I’d read about Central Asian flagpoles in Erika Fatland’s Sovietistan. The Stans seemed to have battled it out in a game of “Look, mine’s bigger than yours…” ever since the fall of the Soviet Union.

Nurbübü pointed to the flag and explained the symbology behind it. The tunduk, the centerpiece of the roof of the yurt, a symbol of home, could be seen in the centre and the sun had 40 rays, representing the 40 Kyrgyz tribes that make up the nation.

As the hour struck, my gaze was brought back to the ground. The changing of the guards had commenced. Three sullen uniformed men thrust their polished boots skyward in a showy march, while three equally sullen men crossed paths with them. Nurbübü jokingly warned us not to step over the low glass barrier separating us from the guard to avoid being shot. I couldn’t quite tell if she was joking, so I didn’t try my luck.

After the tour, which included highlights such as the Oak Park Exhibition Hall, a statue of the “Mother of the Nation”, Kurmanjan Datka, and a slightly bitter fermented grain drink, I exchanged numbers with Nurbübü. I was curious to find out more about life in Kyrgyzstan through the eyes of a local. And I wanted to know how her interactions with international tourists had shaped her view of her country. I learned that her role as a tour guide has been one not just of imparting knowledge, but also of intercultural exchange.

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Here are six things I learned from our conversation:

1. Rural to urban migration, followed by emigration is a common path in Kyrgyzstan…

Nurbübü’s story of moving from Batken to the outskirts of Bishkek is not an isolated case. “The dynamics of internal migration in Kyrgyzstan are characterised by rural-urban migration, with people moving from economically disadvantaged regions of the country to more prosperous areas,” according to Integral Human Development. Now based in Tömönkü Chüy village, Nurbübü longs to actually live in Bishkek: “I like my village. But I want to live in Bishkek,” she tells me.

She enjoys going to libraries and coffee shops, such as Espressolab, where she orders cappuccino or iced latte. The Western influence is clear — so much so that she goes to the café with German language books, as she is learning the language. The pull of elsewhere is clearly there.

“Through my work, (…) I learned from tourists that travelling is the best thing. In our culture, everybody collects money for their wedding, for a special day, for gifts. My family never goes abroad, and they don’t know the feeling of being in another country,” she told me. She learned the phrase “culture shock” from tourists and is curious to experience this herself — enthusiastically telling me about a Brazilian tourist’s anecdote about the absence of women-only cars (vagões femininos) on German trains and metros.

In my research, I stumbled across a quote in local news outlet, 24.KG, that gave me much-needed context: “We should not forget that Chüy region is a transit region,” the former Head of the Department of the State Migration Service, Ulan Sharsheyev commented. “Our citizens leave from there for other countries. That is, they live in the region, earn money for a ticket in Bishkek and leave the country, for example, go to Russia, Kazakhstan, Turkey.”

Part of me wondered whether Nurbübü would one day leave Kyrgyzstan or if she would use her knowledge of more rural regions of the country to show tourists traditional ways of life. She recently signed up to Workaway, and tourists can now come and work on her family’s red pepper farm, eat meals with them and see what life is like beyond the tourist traps.

2. Language confidence depends on geography, schooling, politics and exposure

“In my village (in Batken), everybody spoke in the Kyrgyz language. But when we came to Bishkek, everybody spoke in the Russian language,” Nurbübü explained. “For me, it was like I was in another country. I was surprised. I started to learn Russian and look for new friends — it was a new experience for me.” Nurbübü was able to attend classes in Kyrgyz, despite attending a Russian school.

Linguistic capabilities vary greatly across the generations. “The younger generation is starting to learn the Kyrgyz language more,” Nurbübü said. “Nowadays nearly everybody here speaks Kyrgyz, which is good.” But she noted that those who completed their education in Russian may actually struggle to express themselves in Kyrgyz, despite coming from Kyrgyzstan.

Many local musicians and pop stars choose to use both Kyrgyz and Russian to cover all bases. Nurbübü mentions Jax 02.14, a local singer, who sings mainly in Kyrgyz but also released some tunes in Russian or with Russian elements. Bilingualism is very much part of life in Kyrgyzstan and is also a clear overhang of the Soviet Union.

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3. Locals will likely travel very differently throughout their own country than tourists

“We have seven regions, and I’ve only been to three of them,” Nurbübü told me. While many tourists hurtle their way through the country, trying to tick off the bucket-list sites, Nurbübü explains that the three regions she knows are Batken, Chüy, and Issyk-Kul, where she holidays with her family to visit the country’s largest lake and the nearby canyons.

“Every year, in summer, we go to Issyk-Kul region. There are red canyons, beautiful mountains, and I also started to ride a horse there. We rent an apartment when we go there. But if we go somewhere out in nature, then we use a yurt.” She explains how yurts have been repurposed by many Kyrgyz people and turned into yurt camps for tourists rather than just being used as campsites while livestock was grazing on high-altitude pastures. Travel was traditionally purpose-driven, rather than for enjoyment — and in this case it continues to be, but the purpose has morphed into providing accommodation for tourists for many.

My mind went back to Fatland’s Sovietistan, where I had learned about the systematic repression of nomadic practices under Soviet rule in favour of agriculture and a life settled in one place. I wonder how Nurbübü’s ancestors travelled across these lands. When telling me about her upcoming Workaway guest, Nurbübü tells me, “I want to go with him to Song-Kul Lake to do horse trekking.” This lake is in Naryn region, in northern Kyrgyzstan, and I begin to realise that tourists are also enabling Nurbübü to see different parts of her own country.

4. Bishkek hangouts for locals

“I really like Yntymak Park, which is a popular place among teenagers. And there is also a space there where people can go and sing a song in front of an audience. You can attend for between 100 and 200 som,” Nurbübü told me. These concerts are usually held in the park’s 800-seat amphitheatre, where the stage resembles an open-air yurt.

Nurbübü also loves going to Panfilov Park, an amusement park in central Bishkek, which offers free rides for all Kyrgyz nationals. As for museums, Nurbübü has two favourites: “The first one is the National Museum in Ala-Too Square, where you can see a lot of exhibits, mostly from the Silk Road period. And the second one is Chingiz Aitmatov House Museum — our famous writer’s home. I love his books. You can see where he wrote certain books, where he slept, and you can also see all his books.”

Before visiting Kyrgyzstan, I made a point to read Aitmatov’s most famous novella, Jamila, which is basically the Kyrgyz answer to Romeo and Juliet. The story, which is set in 1943 in a rural collective farm in northern Kyrgyzstan gave me an insight into the impact of the Second World War on the people of this region. And a timeless tale of love never hurts.

5. Romance and violence were traditionally linked in Kyrgyz culture

“My parents were classmates and when they graduated, they got married immediately,” Nurbübü told me. But this love-match was unusual among her parents’ generation. I asked her about Ala kachuu (bride kidnap), a practice that had prompted me to buy an 8-euro swiftly oxidizing “wedding ring” before my trip. “Many of my relatives got married like that — but not my parents,” she said. “Now this is forbidden. If it happened nowadays, the boys or men would be sent to prison for more than five years.” She explained how many young Kyrgyz people don’t approve of this practice, telling me, “I want to choose my partner. I want to date him, like more than five months, and know him better. I don’t want to be kidnapped and then get to know him afterwards.” Unfortunately, this practice does still occur in Kyrgyzstan, although it is gradually declining due to stricter legislation and changing views.

Another tradition that Nurbübü told me about that often shocks tourists is Kyz Kuumai (“girl chasing”). “A woman and a man ride horses. The woman rides away from the man, and the man has to catch the woman and kiss her face. If he kisses her, he wins. If not, they will turn around, and the woman, who is carrying a whip, will try to catch the man and strike him.” This nomadic game is traditionally played during weddings and festivals in many places in the Turkic world. The aim is to show good horsemanship and to test the groom’s determination to get his bride.

6. The meat-heavy diet, fermentation and the practice of using every part of the animal are nomadic overhangs

When I asked Nurbübü what she liked most about Kyrgyz cuisine, she told me, “In every meal, we add meat.” I laughed, thinking of my vegetarian and vegan friends complaining about the meat-heavy diet in Spain, where I am based. “They’d love this,” I thought.

But this diet, like the fermented milk, grain and bread drinks, seemed to be directly linked to nomadic culture. When living in yurts in remote locations, nomads were dependent on their livestock for sustenance against the harsh winters. It was no surprise that meat was a major part of the diet. Ordo, the traditional nomadic game involving flicking sheep or goat ankle bones, is another example of resourcefulness. And, while staying the night by Song-Kul Lake, I saw a dog playing with a horse hoof — a sight I had never seen before.

Two of the dishes that Nurbübü recommended are Lagman (a noodle dish with vegetables and meat, which was brought to Kyrgyzstan by the Chinese Dungan community) and Beshbarmak (the national dish, which is often made with horse meat and large noodles in an onion broth). If you find yourself in Bishkek, then head on down to Navat, Nurbübü’s favourite Kyrgyz restaurant, where there are often also traditional dance performances and flashmobs performed by waiters and waitresses.

In summary, speaking to Nurbübü opened my eyes to a different Kyrgyzstan to the Kyrgyzstan I had experienced as a tourist. Have you ever had a conversation that made you look at a place differently or understand it more deeply? Share your experiences in the comments.

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Reflections

Red ink on paper.
A teacher’s smudged fingers.
Eyes on glass.
The forest of her underarm stared back at her
— fresh bark soon to be felled.

Searching hazel irises met her own,
familiar yet alone in their companionship.
Did she belong in this glass…in this place?

Why did she find solace in mystery, question marks,
dangling toes and drunken promises?

Setting sail in the sky doesn’t make you a bird.
Swimming in the sea doesn’t make you a fish.
But the illusion is rhapsodic, warm and soothing.
It fills the empty pages she thought she’d already filled.

She knew that the maze had an entrance and an exit,
but it was the hedges that held the beauty.
They whispered, “Getting lost is just the start of being found.”

And so, she returned — duty bound.

Crescents

Old blanched citrus
Of the skies surrenders
To serial segmentation
Once again.

Periodically peeled,
repeatedly resealed,
squeezed into shadows
twixt stratosphere 'n' stars,
skewered by spires
sequestered by dawn,
where do you dissolve
when it is morn?

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Tongue in cheek

Cheeks like cereal bowls minus the milk
Sink into cold, chatter-free caverns
Of expectation and remorse,
where the dormant beast lies
prostrate and motionless,
with a vague recollection of its voice.

A moment in Alboraia Peris Aragó

A splintered spider’s web shone in the late-afternoon sun.
Far from the forest beams, it sought refuge in the glass…

Soul searcher

Embracing night and reverie,
Old seabird leaves for fairer
Shores, space and solitude.

Fly, fly, fly, till you find.

Find, find, find, lest you fly

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Chantal sat on a coach somewhere between Valencia and Barcelona. The journey was four and a quarter hours: just long enough to get numb arse cheeks, but not long enough to make her question the point of the journey.

The countryside was punctuated by rocky outcrops, short olive trees and even shorter orange trees. The olive trees looked freer somehow — their branches sprawled out in haphazard directions. The orange trees looked like small leafy blobs, rounded and orderly.

She smiled. If reincarnation existed, what would she come back as? An olive tree or an orange tree? Or neither? She wondered if trees could perceive things in a way that was comparable to human perception. Were their roots like our toes? Could they wiggle them when humans weren’t looking? Perhaps she’d have to ask the earthworms.

She had been fortunate. The seat next to her was free. A while ago, on a coach trip in Ireland, she had met a Celtic witch. She had told her that an empty seat wasn’t a coincidence. It was a gift, a response to a spell. Chantal liked that idea, even if she hadn’t cast any spells that morning.

She looked around her and wondered what all the other people on the bus were thinking about. All those heads. All those minds. All those neurons. Some people were scrolling on phone screens, as she had been a minute ago. The woman in front of her was having a persistently loud conversation in Chinese with someone on loudspeaker. The woman behind her had already asked her to reduce the volume. To no avail. The girl next to her held her phone sideways in her limp hand and an image of a man striding in front of a Ferris wheel in a rural location flashed before her eyes.

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Chantal always felt inspired when she was in between places, sitting in a passenger seat, and observing rather than focusing on the logistics of getting from A to B. A pendulum mid-swing was more bewildering than a tick or a tock. It was the inaudible moment between mechanical cognition.

A few seats in front of her, across the aisle, an American couple was sitting by the stairs that went down to the WC, which was signposted in indelible ink on the plastic coach-furnishing. The man held a backpack on his lap. He opened it and pulled two sandwiches wrapped in aluminium foil out of his bag. “Which one do you want, Joy? Cheese or Ham?” Joy didn’t respond and simply grabbed one of the shiny packages. The man shrugged and opened the remaining sandwich.

Chantal looked out of the window. She had never met someone of her generation called “Joy” before. In her mind, it was an older woman’s name — a boomer, whose parents had pinned their hopes on better times ahead. But as she glanced back in the direction of Joy, she noticed she was not far from her own age. She looked mid-thirties at most.

“J-O-Y,” she repeated to herself under her breath. In English, the word “Joy” is a journey through the alphabet, starting somewhere before the beginning and ending just before the punchline. It is monosyllabic, simple yet complex at the same time. After all, don’t most people spend their lives searching for that elusive thing called “joy”?

As the bus drove on, they passed under a bridge, and as if mocking her through synchronicity, the wall screamed out at her: Alegría. Just under the spray-painted red letters stood another message: Hasta la detención. A joyful revolt. A big middle finger to the penal system.

A-L-E-G-R-Í-A. She dissected the word in the same way she had dissected “joy”. This word had a different flavour, even if it meant the same thing.

But as with any translation, something is lost, something is gained. Alegría starts and ends in the same place: a circular route with a few detours. It spends most of its time in the initial stages of the alphabet. The furthest it ventures is the letter “r”. Alegría doesn’t worry about reaching the end point. It has the reassurance of a return. It knows it’s homeward bound before it’s even begun. “Joy” entirely ignores the first part of the alphabet — it starts en media res, calf-deep, clutch poised.

Chantal smirked. What was “joy”? What was alegría? What was this word in all the other tongues on this silly little planet? Did she feel it? Did she understand it? So many questions. She closed her eyes and imagined the first person to have ever used this word. At some point, all words must have been invented by someone, somewhere. What was that person feeling when they first expressed a state of “joy”, in whatever language it was first uttered?

She saw a person in a dappled grove in spring. The sun must have warmed their skin. Perhaps a squirrel had crossed their path. And they’d marvelled at its nimble movement and the contentment of oneness, the ease inspired by a breeze coaxing the hairs on their arms to rise ever so slightly — just alert enough to remind them they were alive.

A bump in the road jolted her eyes open. She was closer to her destination than before, but she was still somewhere in between the point of departure and the end station. They were approaching Barcelona Airport. That was the penultimate stop. True to form, Joy was gathering her things and zipping up her bag.

As Joy jostled her way down the aisle, Chantal caught sight of the tattoo on her arm: Get out of your head.

Startled, Chantal smirked. Analysis does contain the word “anal” after all.

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Looking out over what was supposed to be Lagoa do Fogo, I was embraced by a dense fog that reminded me that “Vivaldi weather — four seasons in one day” was common in these parts. The Azores demand spontaneity, last-minute changes in schedule and outfit changes. It is part and parcel of the experience. For those who decide to get down on one knee on the Azores, the same applies.

“Honestly, cloudy or misty weather isn’t a bad thing at all,” Ayla Harbich, a hiking guide and incognito wedding proposal photographer based on São Miguel, the biggest of the islands, told me. “Some of my favourite photos were taken in those conditions. It creates a really special atmosphere, and to me it feels very Azorean.”

Just like the weather conditions on the Azores, the outcome of wedding proposals and the actions of a nerve-consumed lover can be unpredictable. Harbich knows this all too well. “A few days ago, I had a proposal where I almost missed the moment because the client proposed behind my back instead of passing by me and doing it in front of me!” Harbich told me. “Another time, I was waiting in the spot I’d agreed upon with the client. I wrote, ‘I’m ready…’, and he proposed at the exact spot where they were, 500 metres away from me.” Clearly, the unpredictability goes beyond the answer to that all-important question.

Born to German parents on São Miguel, Harbich has always loved being outdoors, and these days she even has a small farm on the island, with horses, dogs, cats, chickens and a sheep, so nature is never far off. “Looking back, I think growing up between two cultures made it really easy for me to connect with people from different countries,” Harbich reflected, shortly after telling me that many of the couples she photographs are international.

While she doesn’t mention it, I have a feeling that the changeability of the local weather conditions also made her an expert in thinking on her feet, a good trait for someone secretly accompanying lovebirds on what could be the most memorable day of their lives. “I’m always checking different forecasts, but after living here all my life, you also get a bit of a feeling for the weather. Sometimes, driving just ten or fifteen minutes can completely change the conditions,” she explained. “I always have a plan B, and sometimes even a plan C. I tell my clients to stay flexible and trust the process.”

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A place in flux
Harbich has seen the evolution of the Azores into a tourist destination — even though she also remembers her German relatives being baffled by her parents’ decision to settle down on São Miguel back in the 1980s. Many of them hadn’t even heard of it before, let alone visited it. “Nowadays, so many more people know about the Azores, especially São Miguel. I think people are travelling a bit differently now, too,” Harbich commented. “They’re not only looking for the famous viewpoints anymore. Many want to hike, learn about the island, experience the local culture, and spend time in nature.”

The scenery in the Azores is one of the archipelago’s major draws, and people planning proposals are usually keen to accompany the moment with stunning backdrops. Choosing a cluster of nearby spots that offer different levels of coverage can be a good option, in case the heavens open. A clifftop proposal could end in raincoats and soggy socks, but that isn’t the worst thing. Wet t-shirts are a thing, I’ve been told.

“I think the most romantic places aren’t necessarily the most famous ones. Especially for proposals, I usually recommend quieter locations where couples can really enjoy the moment without lots of people around,” Harbich remarked. “Privacy makes such a difference, because people feel much more relaxed and can really focus on each other. My biggest piece of advice is actually to try to forget that I’m there. I always keep my distance during the proposal because I want couples to have their moment without feeling like they’re being photographed.”

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Where to pop the question
What São Miguel lacks in predictability, it makes up for in its variety of landscapes. “Within a short drive, you can go from a volcanic lake to dramatic cliffs overlooking the ocean, or from a lush forest to a beautiful waterfall. That’s why I often suggest combining two or three locations during a photo session, so couples can experience different sides of the island,” Harbich commented. Whether you’re looking for a scenic coastal hike from Ribeira Funda to Maia or a stroll around the botanical gardens of Furnas, São Miguel has plenty to offer.

That said, the other islands are also strong contenders, if you’re looking for a quieter place to propose. “Flores feels really wild with all its waterfalls, Pico has the vineyards and the mountain, which create such a unique landscape, and Santa Maria has beautiful cliffs, warmer colours and some lovely beaches,” Harbich said. “I think that’s one of the nicest things about the Azores. Every island is completely different, and that’s what makes exploring them so special.”

Embracing hiccups
When it comes to proposals, the one thing that unites everyone about to get down on one knee is nerves. But rigidly sticking to a plan is not advisable. “One thing I’ve learned is that no matter how much people plan, every proposal unfolds in its own way,” Harbich said. It’s worth considering the dynamic between the two individuals while planning potential proposal scenarios. “I always try to choose the locations based on the couple and the kind of experience they want to have. Some people dream of proposing on a cliff overlooking the ocean, while others would rather have a quiet spot in the forest or next to a waterfall. For me, it’s about creating a moment that feels personal to them.”

On one occasion, a man was planning on proposing to his girlfriend, but she was the one who usually took the reins and did the planning. Harbich realised there was going to be a downpour at the man’s chosen location, so she messaged him a quick change of plan — an alternative location where the weather was better. He had to suddenly come up with an excuse as to why he had changed direction and was driving elsewhere. It’s a skill to do this under pressure without radically altering your usual dynamic. If you are not usually the planner in your partnership, then letting your partner take the lead a little and gently nudging them towards a compromise in location could be a less abrupt way of doing this. After all, they’ll think they are going to another activity.

Like any high-pressure situation, it’s normal to want to rehearse your lines and present the best version of yourself, but things don’t always go to plan and even if they do, they can come across as a little awkward. “I had one guy who booked a photoshoot for him and his girlfriend. His partner thought they were just getting photos done, and he said, ‘Now let’s pretend I’m proposing to her.’ This felt a bit weird until he actually got a ring out. It’s better to maintain that element of surprise,” Harbich said. “Sometimes people forget what they wanted to say, or it suddenly starts raining, but those are often the moments that feel the most genuine. I also always tell people not to rush afterwards. Take a few minutes together and just enjoy the moment before thinking about photos. Those first few minutes are usually my favourite because everything is still so real.”

The reality is you might trip over. There might be a storm. Your partner might twist their ankle. A bird might splat on your freshly ironed shirt. Be flexible. Laugh. Heartfelt words work better than memorised lines. And don’t feel like you’ve failed if you kneel in a cowpat by mistake. Funny moments and spontaneity make for shared laughter and great photos.

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In many ways, he seemed to have lived his life backwards — so many people wait until retirement to fulfil their dreams, whereas Heinz spent the majority of his life on the road, only going back to his village in North Rhine-Westphalia in his seventies. But he was a wartime child, born in Nazi Germany, and I couldn’t help but feel he must have been escaping something. This didn’t feel like a one-sided triumphant tale of a traveller on an unfathomable adventure. There was depth and humanity to this story that made me ponder.

That’s why I reached out to Ryan Anderson, the journalist and biographer who has dedicated several years of his life to documenting the story behind this mammoth journey. Following Heinz Stücke’s recent death at the age of 86, this seemed an appropriate time to share this piece about the man who flouted convention and saw more of the world than many of us will ever see.

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Melita Cameron-Wood: What first drew you to Heinz Stücke’s story?
Ryan Anderson: Heinz’s life was the real-life Odyssey. How else can you describe a journey that started when he was just 22? That’s when he left, in 1962, on a three-speed bicycle. His next 52 years were a non-stop adventure — from evading killer bees in Africa, searching for gold in the Ecuadorian Amazon, falling in love in Colombia, climbing countless mountains, including up to Everest base camp. By the time he finally returned home, aged 74, his body was broken down and worn out.

I first heard of him in 2014 and was astonished that nobody had written a book or made a film* about his life. Although hundreds of journalists had written about him over the years — in Arabic, in Amharic, in Japanese, in French — nobody ever probed deeper. Nobody interviewed Heinz’s family and friends. Why would a man spend his entire adult life pedalling a three-speed bicycle? This is the question I want to answer.

MCW: You are a cyclist yourself. What did working so closely with Heinz Stücke teach you about the psychology of endurance and being on the road?
RA: Heinz’s drive was Olympic in its ferocity. His compulsion to push himself came from a place of shame. As a child he’d convinced himself that he was just a poisonous dwarf — a Giftzwerg as he said in German. He was born into a murderous country, Nazi Germany, and grew up in an impoverished farm village. His schoolmates teased him because he was tiny.

Pre-teen Heinz wanted to escape the negative image he had of himself. The bicycle, and the attention it brought him, became his way out, his path to self-esteem. But Heinz, the adult, just never figured out how to dismount. He just kept riding, and the years slipped by. Even in 1995 — Heinz was then fifty-five — when the Guinness Book of Records recognised him for his feats, he still wasn’t satisfied. He complained in a letter to the deputy editor, Stuart Newport, “I would have liked the title of ‘Most Travelled Person.’” Heinz continued to pedal. He wanted to be recognised as a travel god.

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MCW: You are currently in the process of piecing together Heinz Stücke’s journey for the biography you are working on. Can you explain what this process has involved? And what it was like moving to Germany for the process?
RA: Being German-American has had advantages — from conducting interviews to reading Heinz’s messy diaries. I’ve invested most of my research time in finding the people that Heinz met throughout his life. Their stories and background add richness and depth to his story.

For example, in 1967, Heinz journeyed to a corner of the Amazon, along the Vaupés River in Colombia. I was able to travel there myself and meet his guide from that trip, Mr Tellez, a member of the Tucano people.

He teared up looking at the images Heinz had taken 50 years earlier. He’d never seen them. One of the images features Heinz gloating over a giant green anaconda that he’d hunted, killed, skinned and shipped home to someday display. It’s the rawest picture he ever took. But as Mr Tellez told me, the Tucano people have deep respect and awe for the anaconda. It’s part of their story of creation. Mr Tellez didn’t really protest at the time. What should he have said? Heinz won a trophy, but at what price?

MCW: How did the local community in Hövelhof react to your work and to Heinz Stücke’s return back home?
RA: The people of Hövelhof have been extremely welcoming and supportive, especially Mayor Berens and his team. This includes all of Heinz’s childhood friends, who are luckily still alive. They’ve been extraordinarily generous — welcoming me into their homes, taking me on tours of the village, granting me two, sometimes three, interviews. They didn’t think Heinz had made great life choices, but all of them deeply respected him for his travel accomplishments.

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MCW: Heinz Stücke stayed in contact with many of the people he met along the way. Could you explain how important these people have been in piecing together his story for you?
RA: Heinz made himself the hero of his own story, as is to be expected, right? Heinz was the champion, always right. Except that he wasn’t. He was a goof-up, like you and me.

For example, Heinz met an influential picture editor, Frank Spooner, in London. From 1978 until 2000, Frank’s agency, Frank Spooner Pictures, acted as Heinz’s agent and kept his slides. Heinz’s photography rarely generated much revenue. Spooner himself thought Heinz’s images were “pedestrian”. So why did the agency keep sending Heinz money year after year?

I interviewed some fifteen former employees and photographers at Frank Spooner Pictures to figure this out and document it. Spooner kept giving him money because he believed in Heinz’s quest. But it was charity. Heinz complained in later years that his agency had cheated him — that Frank Spooner Pictures never paid him what he was owed. But — talking to the Spooner team — this was simply not true.

For an example of a photographer who converted his images into a hardcore revenue stream, see my article about Gered Mankowitz.

MCW: What are the key lessons you learned from spending time with Heinz Stücke about travel and life in general?
RA: People usually learn about Heinz’s life through his images and the daunting statistics of his journey, but his story offers much more. His life, told in full, offers answers to questions we all grapple with in 2026. How do I live an incredible life? Should I quit my job and travel the world? What responsibility do I have to my family? What goals should I pursue? Should I really climb that mountain?

I had the privilege of interviewing Egbert Steffen before his passing. He knew Heinz longer and more intimately than almost anyone else. Heinz was a frequent guest at the Steffen family’s spacious home in Paris. They were the same age, but Egbert, as a young man, chose a different path: business. Egbert was financially successful, had a beautiful family, and travelled quite extensively himself, but when pondering Heinz’s life even he couldn’t help but ask, “Did Heinz live life the right way and the rest of us all wrong?”

MCW: If you would like to include any information about the upcoming biography, then feel free to do so!
RA: I broadcast snippets of Heinz’s story while I work on the book via social media (Search: heinz-stucke-book) and via an email list. The sign-up is at www.heinz-stucke-book.com.

*NOTE: The Man Who Wanted to See It All by Albert Albacete is a feature-length documentary about Heinz Stücke’s life, released in 2021.

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If you enjoyed this article, please consider a paid subscription to this reader-supported newsletter or buying me a “coffee”. Any amount is appreciated. Thanks in advance. Contributions help to get inspiring stories delivered straight to your inbox. I am a working journalist and this side project has three aims:

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• To connect the dots between intercultural topics and to shed light on difficult conversations that it’s easier to shy away from. Leading with the heart, always.

“There was a time when my diet consisted of bread, pasta and chicken nuggets,” Daniel Pisani says, laughing.

It isn’t just his diet that the former IT manager has changed over the past few years. After graduating with a degree in IT, Pisani began working in the office of his family’s meat company, Dewfresh. “Two of my friends were vegan, and I used to tease them about it. I thought we needed to eat meat,” Pisani recalls. “But then they showed me a couple of documentaries about plant-based diets. I did some research and found out how healthy and sustainable for the planet this type of diet can be.”

Having always struggled with his weight, Pisani was no stranger to trying new diets. “My weight was always yo-yoing, and I always experimented with my diet to find the right one for me. I even had a stage when I just ate chicken and lettuce.”

To the initial dismay of many of his colleagues and family members, Pisani switched to a fully plant-based diet while still working full time at Dewfresh. “They thought I had lost my mind,” Pisani comments.

Little did anyone know, Pisani’s new diet was to take him on a journey of culinary discovery that would impact the trajectory not only of his career, but also of his life. “The diet forced me into the kitchen. I started using ingredients that I had never even heard of before — herbs, spices, legumes, grains, all these different types of vegetables. I thought that the whole perception of a plant-based diet was that it was restrictive, but I discovered so many different things. I had this internal shift in consciousness.”

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It was this shift that led Pisani to question his career choice and start looking for alternatives. “In the past I aspired to work in an office in Portomaso Tower, but then I started getting closer to nature and going on hikes. I started buying fresh produce at the farmer’s market, and my priorities changed.”

Around this time, Pisani stumbled across a part-time vacancy at Vincent’s Eco-Estate in Mgarr. Impressed by his blog about the benefits of a plant-based lifestyle and connecting with nature, the team at Vincent’s Eco-Estate was keen to have him on board.

What started out as a weekend job soon developed into a full-time position when a vacancy opened up at the farm shop. Pisani went on to become a manager at the farm and even spent almost two years living on the farm, as a result of Covid-19.

“During the first year, I noticed how different my life had become,” Pisani comments. “I thought ‘What am I doing with my life? I have an IT degree and I’m selling vegetables.’ But then, after that period, nature began inspiring me so much: its beauty, the changing of the landscape, the fresh harvest in the morning, the seasons. People have lost that connection with the food cycle. They find everything all year round in the supermarket, so there is no particular excitement. When we had the first oranges on the farm, I was so happy. You appreciate nature and realize that everything has to be done according to nature and not what humans want.”

During his time living on Vincent’s Eco-Estate, Pisani found his surroundings so inspiring that he decided to restart a project that he had embarked upon before the pandemic hit. After having received stellar feedback from family and friends on his vegan Pudina Tal Ħobż, Pisani had the idea of creating plant-based versions of traditional Maltese dishes. By using wholesome, locally sourced ingredients, he wanted to create a healthier type of Maltese cuisine while also encouraging people to reconnect with nature. “Had I still been living with my family in Swieqi at the time, I wouldn’t have written this book. The natural setting of the farm changed everything.” Pisani’s debut cookbook, A Plant-Based Maltese Kitchen, involved a great deal of hard work, experimentation and a willing team of friends, who tried and tested a number of Pisani’s recipes.

“It is not just a recipe book. Before every recipe, I have a page either explaining a type of Maltese landscape or a kind of food that is in season at a certain time of year,” Pisani explains. “It has a very personal touch. It shows the true Mediterranean lifestyle. For example, in summer, I mention the custom of going to the sea, taking a ftira with you, eating watermelon, then having a glass of wine with a platter at night. I also mention the traditional feasts at different times of the year” The book is 350 pages and contains around 90 recipes. It is divided into the four seasons, according the availability of seasonal produce in Malta.

“We are so influenced by westernized culture that people think that pumpkins are in season in October around Halloween. Pumpkins are planted in early spring in Malta, and by June/July, they are ready,” Pisani comments. One of his aims when writing the book was to increase awareness of the seasonality of produce. “November is the shift from pomegranates to citruses. So, now up until February or March, we will have grapefruits, lemons and oranges. If you look at the trees now, you will notice citrus fruits. Around this time of year, you also have winter vegetables like broccoli and cauliflower, fennel and fresh garlic.”

For the Christmas season, Pisani included vegan versions of traditional Maltese recipes like Qagħaq ta’ L-Għasel (Maltese honey rings), Christmas trifle, and Imbuljuta tal-Qastan (a chestnut hot chocolate drink).

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While Pisani managed to successfully rewrite some recipes after just one or two tries, some were more challenging and required seven or eight attempts until he was satisfied with the end result.

Creativity and alternative solutions became the order of the day for Pisani. “The hardest recipe to redo was the one for Biskuttini tal-Rahal (village biscuits) because they are usually made with no oil and just egg and flour,” Pisani says. “To substitute the egg meringue, I used aqua fava, which is basically water from drained chickpeas. The proteins in aqua fava are similar to the proteins in egg white, so when you mix them they become white and fluffy. In that recipe, I didn’t want to use fat. I used good flour as well — half of it was wholemeal. But the biscuits still had to taste good and be nice with milk, coffee and tea.” Vegan ġbejniet (Maltese cheeselets) were also challenging, and involved substituting rennet for lemon juice.

The cookbook is dedicated to Pisani’s grandmother, who passed away while he was still working on the project. “She was a very simple woman. She had nothing, but she wanted to give everything. She was one of the greatest inspirations for the book,” Pisani remarks. “After she died, I went through her cupboards, and I found some recipe books she had and even some recipes that she had written herself. Those were a big blueprint for the book. And I did a couple of photoshoots in her house before and after she died. I wanted her to be present. The photos are very personal.”

Pisani’s journey to a plant-based diet is in many ways a form of awakening, in which he re-discovered his surroundings in a new and exciting way. Food can be a means of getting closer to nature rather than more distanced from it, and he hopes to plant a seed of change in his readers’ minds, so that they too will take a step back from the hectic world of consumerism, and consider the potential of nature as an ever-giving source of joy. “For me, nature is the greatest healer,” Pisani reflects. “People think meditation is to do with breathwork and a particular environment, but it can be something as simple as going for a walk or picking vegetables off the trees.”

Last year, Pisani published his second cookbook: A Mediterranean Island Kitchen, which island-hops around the region from Malta to Sardinia to Mallorca, in search of the recipes that define these territories.

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If you are into climbing, abseiling and heights, have you ever considered being a rope access technician? Well, here’s your chance to find out more about the ins and outs of this unconventional career.

I caught up with Ollie Laker, a professional rope access technician and the founder of Figure Nine, a Bristol-based rope access company.

Laker’s been in the industry for 25 years (and counting). He has worked on major TV and film productions, but his career can actually be traced back to a tree in his family’s garden. Are you curious to find out more? Click on play! Listen to the full interview below (real humans, not AI voices). For those who prefer to read, I have included the transcript.

Melita Cameron-Wood (MCW): I’m here today with Ollie Laker, who is a rope access technician, and he specialises in rope rigging. He’s worked on some major TV and film productions, accessing places that people may find a little bit hard to access otherwise. So, hi, Ollie. How’s it going?

Ollie Laker (OL): Yeah, good morning. Nice to be here. How are you?

MCW: Yeah, I’m good. Thank you for joining me. I was just curious; how is it that you got into this career in the first place? Because, I mean, a lot of people are scared of heights. I’m one of them. So, when I first found out what you did for a living, I thought, “Wow, OK. That must take a brave person.” How did you discover this love of heights?

OL: There’s a long history with that, actually. From the age of three years old until I was ten, we had a tree in our front garden. And I used to climb that tree. I spent a lot of my life in that tree. It wasn’t until later in life that perhaps I realised that tree had a very poignant role in my life, actually.

Then we moved along the south coast when I was ten years old, to Bournemouth. Along the south coast is the Jurassic Coast, which is a limestone sea-cliff coast along Dorset (and East Devon), and there’s some really good climbing there. My mum bought me a rope, and I started climbing, and then I fell in love with climbing, and it’s all I wanted to do, really. I just wanted to travel, climb and be a photographer.

I did a bit of travelling, and then, I got into my twenties and I was like, I really need to do something with my life. Climbing is wonderful, but I need to earn some money. So I did an outdoor education course based in Scotland. It was a year-long course and it was a really good course. It was mobile, so we travelled around the UK for a year.

MCW: OK, cool.

OL: And yeah, it was great. We were based in Scotland, but we had this kind of transit van, and it was loaded with canoes and kayaks and climbing gear, and we travelled around the UK.

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As part of that course, we went climbing in the States, in Joshua Tree, which was amazing. And then we went kayaking in Costa Rica. They only ever did that course for eight years, so if anyone’s listening and thinking, “I want to do that course”, that boat has kind of sailed. It was a very short-lived course, but it was fantastic.

I got to the end of that course and I realised I wanted to earn some money. It was a little later in my twenties, and I thought I’d probably like to buy a house. And I realised that I wouldn’t earn the money I would need to earn to buy a house if I stayed in the outdoor industry at that beginning level.

And back then, all the climbing magazines and climbing media used to advertise rope access as an alternative career choice.

MCW: And what exactly is rope access? Because, I mean, before I met you, I didn’t know what it was, to be honest.

OL: OK. So, I mean, it’s pretty much what it says, really. It’s a vehicle, in a way, to access hard-to-reach locations.

For example, they used rope access of a type during the construction of the Hoover Dam, and no doubt rope access was used way, way back in history for some major construction projects. But they were different. They would have been very different techniques from what we use today.

Then, leaping forward to the end of the eighties, a group of climbers and cavers started doing work on buildings in the UK, on high-rise buildings.

MCW: Oh wow.

OL: You know, probably on single ropes back then. Essentially, taking caving techniques and some big-wall climbing techniques and taking them to buildings. And it was a very small thing, and it sort of got made up as it went along, a little bit.

It proved successful, but it also proved that it could be safer. Then, over the years, from the eighties into the early nineties, these people who were doing this got together and were like, OK, well, we need to regulate this a little bit and make it perhaps have some kind of safety protocols.

MCW: Some kind of precautions, I imagine, right?

OL: Put some actual systems in place that are going to create safe systems of work. And so IRATA was born, and IRATA is the Industrial Rope Access Trade Association.

MCW: Oh, OK.

OL: Now it’s global. I mean, really, it kicked off properly in the nineties, late eighties.

MCW: So now, if you want to work in rope access, you need to get an IRATA qualification. Is that right?

OL: So, depending on where you work in the world, though. In America, in the States, you can do SPRAT, which is the Society of Professional Rope Access Technicians. It’s essentially the same thing. And then in Australia, they have their version. All over the world, there are various versions of rope access trade association training.

There are three levels of rope access: Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3. Level 1 is entry level, and you go out and work with more experienced people. You log your hours and eventually, once you’ve logged enough hours and had enough experience, you can then sit your Level 2.

Then again, you gather your hours, log your hours and get your time, experience in, and then you can go for your Level 3 and become a supervisor.

So that can all take a little bit of time — or should take a little bit of time — and then the world’s your oyster, really. I mean, rope access originally was, as it says, industrial rope access, but I’ve worked industrially with it. I’ve worked in the entertainment rigging industry with it, wind turbines, conservation. But in its pure form, it was born to service the industrial.

MCW: How was that transition for you, going from working in industry and construction to working in nature documentaries and other productions?

OL: To be honest, it was really easy.

MCW: Yeah? Was it?

OL: I’ve always really enjoyed the natural world. That’s where I thrive. That’s what I enjoy.

The industrial work is really interesting and it can support you financially. You can definitely make a career out of industrial rope access, especially now. But for me, it wasn’t really about the money. It was about working in interesting places, travelling, seeing nice things and, perhaps, trying to do something of interest, really.

I mean, you’re never going to be a millionaire for sure, or make vast amounts of money in the rope access industry, but you can make a good living. You work away a lot. You travel a lot, which may or may not suit some people. But it’s a great career. I mean, it keeps you strong, keeps you fit. You can earn good money.

I’ve done a lot of jobs in my life.

MCW: Yeah.

OL: In a lot of different industries and genres. And I’ve never met a bunch of people that are quite so solid. I’ve worked with award-winning hairdressers, lawyers, farmers — like, all people that have transitioned into rope access. It’s extraordinary.

MCW: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

OL: Real salt-of-the-earth people. It’s brilliant. It’s a fascinating way to work and make a living, really.

MCW: And I mean, now you’ve been working in rope access for what, twenty-something years? Is it?

OL: Twenty-five years? Yeah.

MCW: So, I mean, you’ve got quite a few projects under your belt. Which ones really stand out to you as the most memorable projects you’ve done?

OL: So I worked in Cheddar Gorge as my first-ever rope access job. I enjoyed that. That was a natural environment — the deepest limestone gorge in the UK, four-hundred-foot cliffs — working with a guy called Nigel, and it was amazing. We’d stop at lunchtime and sit on a ledge and watch the peregrines fly around. It was beautiful.

We were doing a lot of loose-rock removal, ivy removal and rock monitoring. Fascinating. Really interesting.

But after that, we worked on the Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth.

MCW: Oh, yeah?

OL: Yeah, it was a millennium project. And I think, like most millennium projects, it didn’t actually end up being ready for the millennium.

We cut our teeth on that, actually, a lot of us. So that was probably in about 2001, I think, maybe. So, it was still quite early days within the industry. We were there for over a year. It was a big group of folk, and that was incredible.

So, the Spinnaker Tower was 170 metres.

MCW: Oh, I’d be dizzy.

OL: Yeah. Well, we were. It took a while. It’s extraordinarily exposed. It’s right on the coast of the Solent, down in Portsmouth, so you can see for miles. You can see all along the South Coast in both directions. You can see the Isle of Wight.

So, we were doing construction work on it, painting and fitting lighting systems. You came away from that quite competent, in the sense of being able to deal with exposure.

Another one, industrially, I guess, would have been during the construction of the O2 Arena, which was the Millennium Dome, wasn’t it, in the day? I didn’t work on that, but I worked for an organisation called Base Structures. They do tensile fabric structures, like the O2, and they won the project to build that walkway over the O2 that’s there now — the skywalk.

MCW: Oh yeah. Yeah, yeah. Oh wow. That’s a big project.

OL: It was incredible. I think we were there for about six months, something like that. That job encapsulated just about everything you wanted to do. It had extraordinarily good fitness, good rope rigging, industrial rigging. That was a fantastic job. Great views. I mean, who gets to work on the roof of the O2, right?

MCW: You’ve been on a lot of these major standout landmarks, right? But what is it exactly that you would do during those projects? So you would rig ropes so that the builders could access, or...?

OL: No, no. So the thing with rope access — it’s a funny industry. Rope access technicians are basically multi-skilled people, kind of like Swiss Army knives.

I think it’s important, for clarity, to state that rope access is essentially like your vehicle, right? It’s your bus. It’s like a cherry picker or a set of ladders, right? It’s a way to reach the location you need to reach in order to do your work.

And that work: you might be an electrician, you might be a painter, you might be a welder, you might be a lighting technician, you might be a bricklayer. You could be any trade, pretty much, nowadays, to a degree. You can back it up with rope access.

So you can be a tradie with a rope access ticket, which kind of opens the door. Rope access is really just a vehicle to get to where you want to work.

MCW: So do you have a trade yourself?

OL: No, I don’t have a trade. And it’s interesting, actually. There’s always this ongoing conversation: is rope access a trade?

It’s a hard question to answer. I mean, it’s not a trade in the traditional sense, but it’s my trade. I’ve made my living from rope access for the last twenty-five years without having a trade other than rope access.

So, you could argue that rope access is my trade. And it is the Industrial Rope Access Trade Association. So I don’t have a traditional trade at all, but I’ve made it work for me.

Once you get through the IRATA hierarchy, through the training system, and you become a Level 3, then you’re a supervisor. So, then you can go out and supervise jobs and look after teams of people and support those teams.

So, in a sense, once you’ve become a Level 3, you can kind of work as a supervisor. You know, that in itself is a job role, isn’t it?

MCW: How long does it take to get your Level 3? Is it like one year per level, or does it take longer than that?

OL: The way it works now is anyone can go and do your IRATA Level 1, or their SPRAT Level 1, depending on where you are in the world. You do your rope access Level 1, and then you have to log 1,000 hours of work. It has to be a minimum of a year, I believe.

Then you can sit your Level 2. And then, similarly, you need to log another 1,000 hours, with a minimum of a year. And then, you can go for your Level 3, your supervisor.

MCW: And is it possible to get jobs after you’ve just got Level 1 or just got Level 2? Or do you only really enter the industry after Level 3?

OL: No, you can enter the industry. You can be whatever you’re doing, and on a Friday you can decide you want to become an IRATA Level 1 or a rope access Level 1, sorry. On the Monday, you can go and sit your rope access Level 1, and at the end of that week, you can go to work.

MCW: Oh wow. OK.

OL: I guess the caveat on that now is that fifteen years ago, it was a very young industry, with a small pool of people and a lot of work. And then, over the years, the amount of people who have come into the industry has expanded massively, so that work has kind of spread out and thinned out.

But I think what’s also happened is that rope access has now reached into other genres and areas that I don’t think it was ever intended originally to do.

So, for example, you can work in conservation. We’ve trained science students in tropical forests to climb into the canopies of these tropical forests and collect data.

You can work as part of rescue teams. The police, fire service and ambulance service all have rope access teams nowadays. Within the ambulance service, there are the HART specialists, the hazardous response teams, and the forces, the Army — they have rope access teams. It’s massive.

So, my journey within rope access was I was working industrially, but I always wanted more. I wanted adventure, and I wanted to travel. I wanted to climb and I wanted to do photography, and I just wasn’t content with working in construction or industry.

MCW: Is that how the TV and film work came about, then?

OL: Yeah. So that came about just through stubbornness.

I remember having a conversation on one of my early jobs. And I was chatting to the guy I was working with, and he was like, “What are you going to do after this?”

And I’m like, “I’m going to go and find a way to do rope access and climbing within adventure TV, film, something like that.”

And I remember him saying, “Good luck with that, mate. That doesn’t exist.”

If you were in rope access, to some extent this was true, but he was like, “If you’re in rope access now, you’ll be cleaning out silos, working on cliffs.”

To some degree, he was kind of right, in the sense that’s where the industry was at that point.

But I was like, “No, man. I’m going to make this happen. I’m going to go out there and I’m going to find a way to make money using rope access and climbing within TV, film, adventure. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t even know what that is.”

It was the early days of the internet, and I just sat down and spent literally months typing stuff in, like “rope access in rainforests”.

Eventually, I found an organisation called the GCP, which was the Global Canopy Programme. They were an organisation based out of Oxford and worked in conjunction with Oxford University. They were all about tropical forests.

And there was a guy there called John Pike. He had taken that industrial climbing system and put it into an arboreal environment. He was using that system to train scientists to be able to go to rainforests and collect data from the canopy.

So, it was a canopy access system, and he created these courses. I went on one of these courses, and I knew that I already had that skill set, and I was like, “Maybe if I take a chance, maybe something will come from that. Maybe I’ll meet someone. Maybe there’ll be a conversation that I can have with someone which will lead to something.”

So, I went on this course and I kind of resat my Level 1, if you like, but within a really beautiful environment. I really enjoyed it, and it was wonderful. They were great people.

Then, I went back to the second course and I voluntarily helped train this new cohort of students, and I loved it.

And off the back of that, the guys who were running that recap course at the time asked three of us if we wanted to go to Borneo for five weeks and help train forty Asian science students.

MCW: Incredible.

OL: And yeah, we were like, “Yeah, of course. Absolutely.”

And that really, for me, was where it started. We got involved with those guys and we did a lot of training. We trained a lot of people in rope access, but within this arboreal context, within this rainforest.

And I loved it. I was like, “I’ve found my thing.” Being in rainforests, climbing around in trees in the rainforest. It was amazing.

MCW: And how did you get specifically into nature documentaries from that, then?

OL: So, you take a chance in life, and then off the back of that chance, multiple other avenues open up for you.

Through that Global Canopy Programme contact with John, I ended up going on a shoot with one of the guys who ran the courses alongside John. I went on a natural history shoot with him to Mexico. Disney were making a film about the migration of the monarch butterflies out in Mexico.

I went to just help, and I was like, “This is it. This is what I want to do.”

And then it just opened these gates. Then I went on another shoot and another one. And then you meet people and they’re like, “Oh, you can do this.” And I’m like, “Yeah.”

And it just snowballs.

So, that was me, maybe sixteen years ago. I’ve spent pretty much the last fifteen years making my living from working within the natural history industry. It’s been fascinating.

But I have to say, there have been a lot of people — far too many people for me to mention here — who have inspired me in my life.

But I was watching — you know, at the end the natural history programmes, they do the behind-the-scenes section.

MCW: Yeah.

OL: Yeah, yeah. So I was watching one of those one day and there was this guy climbing trees with ropes. And I was like, “That’s it. I want to be that guy. Who’s that guy?”

And this guy was called Tim Fogg, and he’s a bit of a legend. He’s a really proficient, well-known, globally recognised caving specialist. He’s a rope access specialist, and he, at some point, I don’t know quite how, but he also got involved with the natural history world.

But way back in the day, when I was still really, really young, I remember seeing that guy on screen and going, “That’s it.”

Then, the first time we went to Borneo to train those science students with John, the BBC were there. We were in a place called Danum Valley in Borneo — absolutely beautiful nature reserve, huge trees, beautiful forest, orangutans.

We were there, and separately, alongside us being there, there was a BBC natural history team filming for the first-ever Planet Earth. Tim Fogg was there, and we had some ropes in a tree.

I remember Tim coming over and going, “Are these your ropes?”

And we were like, “Yeah.”

“Do you mind if I just nip up your ropes quick?”

And I remember being kind of overwhelmed that I’d met this guy who I was like, “Wow, OK, that’s a guy.”

And I watched him climb those ropes, and I was like, “OK, that’s it. I’ve found my thing.”

MCW: Yeah.

OL: Pretty amazing. You take a chance on something. It doesn’t work. You come back, you try a different route. I think I knew what I didn’t want to do.

MCW: Yeah. In a way, it’s a process of elimination sometimes, isn’t it? And then you kind of find your way.

I wanted to ask you, if someone is listening to this and thinking, “This all sounds really interesting, but I don’t know if I’ve got the right skill set,” are there any other qualifications you need, or any other skills that you need, other than what you’ve mentioned so far?

OL: In short, no.

I think perhaps it’s important for listeners to understand that I left school at fifteen. I left home at fifteen. I don’t have a single GCSE. I don’t have a single academic qualification to my name, at all.

I just went after what I wanted, and I made it happen. And everyone can do that. Every young person can make that happen.

It’s probably another topic, but if you’re not academic and you leave school and you don’t have these qualifications, it’s not the end. You can make anything happen.

I have no academic qualifications whatsoever. I’ve worked in over forty countries. I’ve made some good money. I’ve had good years. I’ve had bad years, like a lot of people.

MCW: Yeah, of course.

OL: It hasn’t come from being academically gifted at all. It’s come from knowing what I want and going for it. And that is it.

So, to answer your question succinctly: no, you don’t. You can come from any background.

If you want to become a tradesperson, that’s brilliant. You’ll have a fairly long apprenticeship or maybe three years at college, whatever it is.

The thing with rope access is you can be at any point in your life. You can be doing any career. You can come from anything.

And the investment, so nowadays, it probably costs you about £1,000 to go and do your rope access ticket, thereabouts. Maybe you go and do four days’ training and one day’s assessment at the end of the week. And some training venues now do five days’ training and a sixth-day assessment.

But my point is, you’re investing maybe £1,000 doing five days’ worth of training, including an independent assessment, and then you can go and earn that money back in the first week of work.

MCW: Yeah, like you’ve got that kind of immediate return.

Yeah, no, because the reason I asked you that is I think, you know, so often people feel like it’s all about getting academic qualifications, and I think there isn’t enough awareness of all of these other careers out there.

So I think it’s really inspiring to hear that, like you said, it’s not the end if you don’t get your GCSEs. There are options out there.

And as well, you know, like, the fact you can earn the money back pretty much straight after the course, and it’s not a really long course, is a massive advantage, right? Because I mean, a lot of careers require voluntary work and stuff like that.

Did you have to do any voluntary work, or was it immediately paid?

OL: I didn’t do any voluntary work at the beginning.

When I got involved with the Global Canopy Programme, I think I did one course voluntarily, as a kind of trainee instructor, just so everyone could see it from both sides and see if we would work together.

Other than that, no. I didn’t.

And off the back of that, you know, look, I’ve met some of the most incredible people. I’ve met people that I would never meet otherwise. I’ve worked with scientists. I would never, ever have come into contact with these wonderful people around the world if I hadn’t gone into rope access.

That level of academia...

MCW: I suppose that must have stretched you in different ways, right? You were saying you did a project with monarch butterflies, for example. That’s very different to working on the Spinnaker Tower, right?

OL: Extraordinarily. Working in natural history is a very different beast to working on a construction site. It’s worlds apart, actually.

So it forces you to adapt and kind of improvise and check yourself a little bit, you know, your behaviour and stuff. It definitely forces you to consider yourself, your actions and your behaviour, and it ultimately allows you to grow into a kind of better human, I would say, by, you know, spending time in a rainforest in that environment.

MCW: And were you kind of living in the rainforest during filming, or how did that work?

OL: Yeah. I think I have to clarify that there are good times and there are bad times.

There are times where you’re staying in some extraordinarily nice accommodation. You know, so you would go to work and come back at the end of the day, and you can go and get in the pool and it’s all very lovely.

And then there are times where you’re literally in a hut or in a hammock in the forest. It depends on the subject matter, depends on the shoot.

But I’ll take both of those. I’ll take the rough with the smooth.

MCW: And you mentioned, you know, you have to travel quite a lot for work. How is it balancing all of that travel with other commitments?

OL: I mean, within the natural history industry, everybody travels.

I think what happens, perhaps, is you live in a family unit and then you go and spend six weeks, perhaps, in a rainforest in the middle of the Amazon. And then, at the end of those six weeks, twenty-four hours later, you’re back in your house, washing up.

And it’s overwhelming. I think what’s happened is that you’ve changed, but you’re coming back to a situation that hasn’t changed.

I would say it’s challenging. I think it’s challenging for everyone. It’s challenging for the kids. It’s challenging for the partner who’s not going away, who is at home working, looking after and supporting the kids, bringing the kids up while you seemingly head off for an adventure.

You know, there is an adventure. Of course it’s an adventure, but it’s work.

But I think it’s extraordinarily challenging. It’s challenging, and I think you have to be in a very, very strong relationship to make that work.

MCW: I just wanted to ask because it is so different from your kind of average nine-to-five. And I think sometimes, you know, when people are considering a slightly different career path, you meet with a lot of doubt from people.

Did you experience that at all? Like people kind of saying, ‘Oh, are you sure about this? Is this the right thing for you to be doing?’

OL: Yeah, definitely. There are always naysayers, right?

MCW: How did you deal with it? Because I imagine you have to be quite resilient.

OL: I always say I’ve lived three lives already, and I turned fifty-two this year.

So, by the time I got into rope access, at the end of my twenties, I suppose, I’d already worked in construction. So I was kind of thick-skinned. I knew what I wanted.

And look, let’s be honest, society is challenging. If you leave school and you don’t have any academic qualifications our society has created — it’s challenging for these people, very challenging for these people.

There’s a whole world of options for you, but you just don’t know they exist.

So, I think by the time I got to my mid-twenties, I’d already done forty jobs. I was kind of like, well, I’ve literally got nothing to lose. I can just go after whatever it is I want because actually the alternatives for me aren’t overly great.

So I kind of stubbornly refused to give in.

MCW: And I imagine you probably made a much better living doing rope access than you would have done if you’d done one of those other options, right?

OL: Yeah, one hundred per cent. Yeah, absolutely.

I often wonder what I would be doing if I hadn’t found rope access.

Rope access for me came from climbing. I just wanted to climb. I wasn’t — you know, I’m not an elite, world-class climber by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, I don’t even climb that much anymore.

But, you know, I just enjoy it. I loved climbing. It consumed my life.

I would finish work in Cheddar, go grab something to eat and go back into the gorge most evenings through the spring and the summer and just go questing up in the gorge on my own and get into some diabolical situations, and I loved it.

I loved the movement and the physicality of it.

My point is that I had a thing that I was passionate about, and I kind of followed that passion.

MCW: Yeah.

OL: And I didn’t give up on it.

I was never going to be dedicated enough to become a professional climber. I just wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t focused enough. I was just interested in a lot of other things.

MCW: It’s all about finding something that really makes you tick and not giving up on it, kind of, really pursuing it.

OL: I agree one hundred per cent.

That’s what I’m saying to the kids. You’ve got to work. You’ve got to earn money, right? So you may as well do it doing something you love.

And it ain’t going to be easy, right?

MCW: Because I think sometimes the safe option ends up being a bit of a cage if it’s not what you actually like, you know.

OL: Yeah, completely. And once you’re in that cage, it’s very hard to unpick that lock and get back out and move down the road, isn’t it? You get trapped in that thing.

MCW: Yeah, yeah.

OL: So I would just say to anyone listening who’s young and maybe isn’t sure what they want to do: find something you enjoy and freaking go for it.

MCW: It’s all really inspiring, I think, because society kind of maps out a path and it’s very easy to think that’s the only path. But there are loads of other options that people aren’t aware of very often.

Anyway, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me about your career. I’m definitely feeling inspired, and I’m sure a lot of people out there are as well.

And if you want to follow what Ollie is up to, you can find him on social media. Can you give us your handles, Ollie? Where can people find you?

OL: Yeah, of course. So my company, Figure Nine, has an Instagram account, and that is @figure_nine. So, F-I-G-U-R-E underscore N-I-N-E.

MCW: Perfect. Yeah. Even if one person listens to this and goes into rope access, I’ll be happy.

OL: Well, even if one person listens to this and follows their passion, whatever that is.

MCW: Yeah, you’re right. Whatever it is. It doesn’t have to be rope access.

OL: Yeah. Brilliant. All right.

MCW: Brilliant. Oh no, it was really nice catching up. All right then, take care. Take care. Bye.

OL: Bye-bye.

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Note: This piece was originally published by Sunday Circle, Times of Malta, and has been republished here with their permission.

Little can prepare the casual visitor for the vibrancy that awaits inside. Filipova’s kaleidoscopic use of colour is just as energetic as the artist herself, whose warmth and charisma are infectious.

Despite having been based in Malta for the past 30 years, Filipova still finds traditional Maltese buildings and the rugged Maltese countryside to be a source of inspiration for her work. “I moved here because of the light. I have lived in Malta for longer than I ever lived in Bulgaria. I am from the mountains. If you see the sea, then you don’t want to go back. Here, the light is very beautiful — even the Maltese stone, the architecture, the churches and the streets. It was a crossroads for a lot of centuries for different cultures, so it’s very interesting.”

Filipova’s paintings of Bulgarian woodland scenes, which employ a comparatively subdued palette, stand in stark contrast to the vivid Maltese scenery of her more recent work. The bright colour scheme in these later pieces seems to translate Filipova’s passion for the small Mediterranean island onto the canvas.

Filipova paints primarily with acrylics as they allow her to achieve bold, impactful shades. “I love colours,” Filipova says, smiling. “My use of colours comes naturally to me. It feels like putting a collage together.” In her seascapes, brightly coloured moored boats or the lilac and amber hues of the setting sun are reflected in the seawater. The colours flow into one another as if taking on the fluidity of the water they have been used to portray. The juxtaposition of the island’s soft yellow limestone against the sea is also a recurring motif in Filipova’s work.

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“It is a very unique combination of rocks, sea and sky that you find here in Malta,” Filipova comments. Maltese landscapes are, however, by no means the only topic that Filipova is interested in depicting. The walls of her studio are lined with paintings of trees, flowers, animals, nudes, insects and abstract scenes. “Most of my customers want Maltese landscapes, but recently, I have been getting more requests for abstracts. It is a totally different approach. I like experimenting. It is fun. Each one turns out differently. Here, I used silver leaf, gold leaf and seashells to give the painting a 3D effect,” Filipova says, running her fingers across the surface of an abstract piece reminiscent of the ocean’s glinting waters. Even her traditional seascapes are highly textured. “I work with knives. If you touch it, you will feel the texture. I achieve that 3D effect with palette knives.”

For Filipova, art is a sensory experience that can be enjoyed on multiple levels — even on a spiritual one. This can be seen in her passion for iconography. A number of religious icons painted on wood gaze down at us from between the landscapes, animals and abstracts on the wall of the studio. “I do a lot of iconography because I was born in Bulgaria next to the biggest monastery on the Balkan peninsular, Rila Monastery. It is a breath-taking place! It made a big impression on me — the gold, the eyes of the icons. Iconography is a completely different way of painting and thinking. I am religious myself, and I love icons.” Filipova has created a number of icons in Malta, many of which are Byzantine in style. Filipova’s icons often have a multi-layered effect, which is achieved by creating a relief that adds depth and dimension to the work.

One of her most challenging iconography projects to date was the enormous nine-foot crucifix that she worked on for St Mary of the Angels church in Baħar iċ-Ċagħaq. The crucifix is made of solid Brazilian mahogany and weighs 450 kilos. A concealed metal frame gives the icon additional strength. “It took ten men to lift it,” Filipova recalls. “At the time I didn’t have this studio. I had another much smaller one. We had to use a crane to put it up in position.” The project took Filipova three years to complete, and required patience and dedication. “For me, the icon in Bahar ic-Caghar is like a carefully crafted piece of jewellery,” Filipova comments.

Whether working on icons or paintings, Filipova is keen to enjoy the creative process to the full, and this enjoyment can be seen in her sheer productivity. “This is the result of the pandemic: I painted a lot,” she says, laughing. But somehow, it seems that the Maltese light may be more responsible for her productivity than the pandemic itself. The midday sun glints through the window and casts its rays across the floor of the studio. It is the same invigorating light that is so present in Filipova’s work — the light that led her to relocate to Malta in the first place.

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In 1958, Tété-Michel Kpomassie left his homeland, Togo. He was just 16 years old. The next five years would be spent making his way to Greenland, a place he had discovered in a missionary bookshop in Togo. The work that had sparked his interest was Les Esquimaux, du Groënland à L’Alaska (1947) by Robert Gessain. But his fascination with the Arctic turned into an urgent desire to travel there when he realised that his family was about to force him to join a vodou snake cult upon his recovery from a snake bite.

This was the stuff of movies, and while his life has inspired documentaries, there is, as yet, no feature film about him. That said, you can read the story of his entire journey in Michel the Giant: An African in Greenland, a book that is astonishing in every sense of the word.

At the start of 2026, I was determined to find a way to speak to Kpomassie for an article. He is in his mid-eighties and has been a great inspiration to me ever since I read his travelogue.

My initial pitches had been based on Kpomassie’s retirement plan, as he is currently in the process of moving back to Greenland despite Trump’s raging threats. But I soon changed tack, realising that Trump’s comments might only be trending for a few days before another statement steered the headlines in another direction.

So, back to the drawing board. Kpomassie’s journey took him through countries such as Ghana, Côte d’Ivoire, Senegal, Mauritania, and France, the latter of which gave me the premise for the article I pitched to France Today. This article is about the role France played in the Togolese author’s life — after all, it became the place he was to call home for the longest period in his life.

But, as often happens when you sit down with a person you admire, there is a story behind the story. I say “often”, but in truth, prominent people are rarely as generous with their time as Kpomassie was with me. We spoke for around an hour and a half, which is very rare. Here are five things I learned from our conversation that did not make it into the article but warrant a mention:

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1. Unexpected terminology can be loaded

I referred to Kpomassie as an “explorer” in one of my questions, without thinking anything of it. He was quick to correct me. “No. I’m a traveller. I’m not an explorer.” Although he has spoken at The Explorers Club in New York, he told me “explorers” usually have their trips financed for them by official bodies, whereas he had to earn the money for his trip. “I pay for every kilometre I travel,” he told me.

I had been quick to define Kpomassie with a term that seemed to describe him well from my context. What Kpomassie had achieved seemed, to me, to warrant a term that sounded more exuberant than “traveller”, hence my use of “explorer”. But through my own lens of privilege, I hadn’t recognised the context of this term. “Traveller” was much more neutral.

2. Don’t force reality to “fit your pitch”. Listen and learn.

As a journalist, I’m used to keeping interview partners “on track”, but knowing when to pause and listen is also important. France Today is a magazine that promotes France as a destination, so I had, somewhat naïvely, gone into the interview, thinking this would be about extracting nostalgic anecdotes about Kpomassie’s time in France.

But, France, of course, was one of the former colonisers of Togo. Kpomassie had been a “French subject”, but the main contact he had had with French people before arriving in France had been through missionaries.

“I have never spoken to a missionary in my language,” he told me. “They banned us from speaking our language to impose French.”* He explained how his name bears the stamp of the missionaries, who changed his name from Tété, meaning “the first-born male child”, to “Michel”. “Some of my brothers were renamed ‘Norbert’, ‘Robert’, ‘Darius’, ‘Grégoire’. These are names that our own mothers could not pronounce.”**

He went on to tell me how, in Togolese tradition, when a mother loses a child, a small figurine is made to represent the child. When Kpomassie’s sister died, his mother carried the figurine with her on her back wherever she went and would even ask him to serve food to his departed sister.

These practices were frowned upon by the Christian missionaries. “They said we were worshipping idols. They seized the figurines. They burned most of them. But they kept the most beautiful ones and sold them to museums and collectors. There are museums in Europe, where I saw figurines that resembled my sister,” Kpomassie told me.

While I didn’t go into detail about the above in my article for France Today, nor could I pretend that Kpomassie just had fond memories of strolling down Quai Saint-Michel and eating onion soup at the market. Places and people are shaped by their past, and it is ignorant to turn a blind eye to that for the sake of an angle.

*If you are interested in finding out more about language loss around the world, I recommend How to Kill a Language: Power, Resistance and the Race to Save Our Words by Sophie Smith Galer (@glottalstop)
**Polygamy is a common practice in Togo.

3. We need more voices like Kpomassie’s in travel writing

One of the things I loved about Michel the Giant: An African in Greenland was finding out about the experience of a Black traveller through his eyes. This perspective is rarely showcased in travel writing. Kpomassie describes how his arrival caused commotion in Nuuk, Greenland, as people clamoured to get a glimpse of him following a radio announcement that had described him as “a very tall man with hair like wool”. For most of the people of Nuuk, this had been the first time they had ever seen a Black person.

In our interview, Kpomassie told me, “The challenge is being alone — being the only African for thousands of kilometres. But there is always that human warmth. The people of Greenland are (…) probably the most welcoming I have encountered. I was well received in France by people who had the means. (…) But in Greenland, I was taken in by people who were even poorer than I was.”

The fact that he worked and paid his own way over to Greenland also means that Kpomassie is able to offer an intimate perspective. He stayed with families who offered to put him up. When telling me about missionaries, Kpomassie said that they usually lived among people of their own nationality and saw it as their role to impart rather than receive knowledge. But privileged people who remain on the periphery of communities, looking in rather than looking out, only achieve peripheral understanding.

4. “Why not before?” vs. “Why now?”

Kpomassie’s tale is an evergreen story of great accomplishment, despite the odds. When you read pitching guidelines, so often you are met with the pesky little question “Why now?”. I get it, stories published by magazines and newspapers strive to be of the moment.

But what if in focusing so intensely on being the right story for the five minutes readers are going to dedicate to it before getting on with their day, something important is lost? What if we are ignoring complexity in favour of easy-to-digest Instagram carousels and likeable nothings?

This conversation got me wondering if we should really be asking, “Why haven’t we spoken about this before?” Kpomassie wasn’t trending or having a viral moment when I pitched a story about him. He wasn’t “news”, but he had valuable knowledge worth imparting from his lived life experience. Sometimes, by focusing too much on whether something is news, we lose unheard perspectives.

5. Genuine anecdotes rather than soundbites.

When you are given 7.5 minutes on a call with someone (true story), you are stressed. You desperately try to extract the essentials in time and wipe your brow at the end of the call, content if you have a few soundbites.

Kpomassie’s generosity with his time meant we were able to discuss the way in which Greenlandic songs are inspired by the sounds made by the icebergs. We spoke about the Togolese tradition of naming children after the day they were born. He told me about his family’s reaction when he returned to Togo after his epic journey. And I even heard about scientists in Greenland who rounded off their day with a whisky with a piece of iceberg in it to keep it cool.

Admittedly, not everything made it into the article, but what we had was a genuine human conversation. And conversations are far more thought-provoking than clickbait, however timely it may be. Talk to your elders and ask them to share their stories. Share a drink. Take it slow. Take your time. What they tell you may stay with you for years to come.

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Nightlight

Myopic vision translates the standby light
Into a luminous multi-tendrilled beast,
Sending dormant imaginings into flight.

Curious, questioning and divine,
They ascend into the charged,
Translucent air of night
That delivers dreams,
restlessness and quiet.

The spiralling drifter is carried like a kite,
Caught on the back of a rising breeze.
Freed thoughts leap, as would a sprite.

Without faltering, cognitive clusters
Energetically reform, reroute and rewrite
Themselves into those annals oft-revised
That line the bookshelves of the mind.

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A solitary swarm

The electric lamp buzzed in her ear
Like a hornet trapped in a glass.

She stepped out onto the balcony.

Short-sightedness transformed the glare
Of the lampposts into static neon octopuses,
Swimming high in the sky, tentacles sprawled.

Black mascara clung to her eyelashes
Despite the inkwell of saline ducts.

She breathed in and out.
In her detachment,
She recognised the questions
To her answers
And the answers
To her answers — 
At least for a moment,
That became a little while.

The road twisted
Onwards beneath her
And drove the horizon round the bend.

All the while, the octopuses kept on
Swimming upwards and upwards,
Until they landed on the Moon.

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My secondary school
Became an urban exploration site.

Fungi in the English classroom.
Decay on the stairs.
YouTubers on heat, running
down corridors with bated breath.

Graffiti trickled onto walls
that had housed assemblies,
sums and vocabulary tests.
Lockers gaped open in shock.

The dank smell of the place
was tangible through the screen.
On lunch breaks, we filled those rooms
with the soundtrack of Flo-Rida,
attempting to “get down low”
in kilts, ankle socks and sensible shoes.

If we failed at “getting low” here,
we would doubtless fail on Cameo’s
beer-drenched carpet-tile floors that Friday.

We marvelled over the dancing Nokia brick
and merged into a strange sisterhood.

Local boys used to call us the “lezzers on the hill”.
Head-to-toe in blue, we shimmied across the streets
in crested blazers, sky-blue shirts and blue plaid skirts.
Something about the “Smurfettes” must have fuelled their fire.

No, wait, wrong word choice.

Because there was a fire.
“OMG, MoHo has gone up in flames.”
I blinked.
I paused the tele and did a quick Google search.
There it was. BBC South East Today.

Asbestos in the air.
Local residents should close their windows.
Chemicals in the pool.
Now, there was no pool.
Nobody would be swimming lengths again.
Four youths. Arson.

The fire had shaved off the roof.
The site was being redeveloped.

Now, an application for the demolition of School House
has been filed and approved.
The other buildings are being converted.
Spacious dwellings with a price tag to match.

I wonder if the spectres of our youth are still running down those halls,
scooping watered-down ketchup out of bowls to garnish school dinners,
learning lines for school plays, gossiping about potential staff romances, and generally being a nuisance.

It seems our school, too, must “get down low” before rising up again.
No creaky knees or stilettos.
It’ll totter, but it’ll stand again.
It’ll house other stories, other voices, other plans.

For me, though, it’ll forever be a mould of sorts.
The formative sort — not the spores.
But we, the girls, like freshly made jelly,
may wobble,
yet we’ll retain our shape nonetheless.

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What was left after the fire:

A YouTube video posted by Kye Urban Explorers, showing the state of the building after it was abandoned:

BBC coverage: https://www.bbc.com/news/videos/cly4envrqkdo

Trigger warnings: mental health, child abuse

People often avoid uncomfortable conversations. But what if they need to happen to relieve a burden, provide support and prevent other difficult things from happening?

In advance of Father’s Day, I sat down with Chief Inspector Ricardo Vieira of the Portuguese National Cybercrime Unit, who works in child abuse prevention and also happens to be a father.

I first came across Ricardo Vieira in The Darkest Web, a BBC documentary by Sam Piranty. Vieira’s frankness about the impact of his work on his mental wellbeing was striking and inspirational. In this interview, we discuss the impact of his work on his own fatherhood and masculinity.

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MCW: What have you learned about men’s mental health as a result of your job?
RV: In society, at least in the past, men were supposed to take care of their families and protect them from every possible threat. It’s difficult for a man to cry, say that he has feelings, because it’s seen as a sign of weakness. I don’t agree with that. I don’t have any problem saying that something is really difficult for me, or if needed, asking for support.

Sons often want to be like their father. That puts a lot of pressure on the man. We need to share our feelings. That doesn’t mean crying at every moment, but I don’t have any issues with crying in front of my son if something really hurts me. It’s OK. I always explain to him that crying is not a sign of weakness.

I had some TV interviews about my work in the past where I became emotional. A colleague said, “It doesn’t make sense to be emotional. We are police officers.” And I said, “Yes, but, first of all, I’m a human being. Then, I’m a man. Then, I’m a father. And lastly, I’m a police officer.” My advice is: Feel free to cry, feel free to share the emotional part of yourself. I think that makes us a little bit more human.

MCW: You spend your life dealing with like very difficult crimes. How has your work shaped you as a father?
RV: My son was around five years old when I worked on my first child abuse investigation in 2010. It changed me as a father. I have a lot of colleagues that say they don’t establish a connection between the victims and their own family. I don’t know how they can do that. It was impossible for me not to imagine that the victim could be my son. I was already a protective father because I am a police officer. I know all the dangers out there and the threats we have in society. But after this, I became more protective of my kid because I was aware what some people could do.

MCW: I think that’s totally natural in that situation. When you say you became more protective of your son, can you explain in what way?
RV: I was always watching other people’s behaviour around my son and other kids. Like, “OK, this is normal.” The material I was watching in my day job stole my innocence — my ability to simply enjoy fatherhood.

I started to share some advice with friends with children. Like, for example, I told my friends, “Don’t let your young kids run around naked on the beach (which is quite common in Portugal), because you don’t know if someone is there with a camera, taking pictures.” They’d say, “Come on, you are being paranoid.” But I would tell them this was my day job, and you don’t want to have a target on your kid. Now, I see that I was being hyperprotective.

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MCW: When did you decide to tell your son what you did for a living?
RV: He realised what my job involved when he was 14 or 15. He knew I was a police officer. But I started to be on the news in Portugal, so one day I told him, “I have to share with you that my job is on the dark web.” He started to understand that my job was a little bit different. I explained that I try to protect kids and every time you see that someone was arrested for child abuse in Portugal, my team was probably behind that. At the time, I told him to keep it to himself. Now that I have more knowledge, I see I was being overly protective, but at that moment it was impossible for me to forget and say, “Feel free to do whatever you want.”

MCW: What advice do you have for other fathers?
RV: I think the best advice I have for fathers is that we need to spend more time with our kids. It’s about understanding the activities they want to do, and not just watching them. It’s about being part of those activities. I didn’t know how to play Fortnite, for example, but I played it for hours with my son. Now, my son is an adult, but sometimes he says, “Do you remember when we spent hours playing Fortnite during the pandemic? That was bonding, rather than just being a parent.

And when it comes to protecting our kids, we need to tell children when they are five years old maximum that their devices are not meant for speaking with anyone they don’t know, even if that person wants to be their friend. Tell them, “If that happens to you, come to me and show me the messages.”

MCW: In terms of your mental health, what support is available to you at work?
RV: We don’t have mandatory mental health support in Portugal, although we do now have a small team of psychologists in the police. They are available to have a conversation with us, but the biggest problem is it’s inside our headquarters in Lisbon. Everybody works in the same building. It’s a huge building, and if you knock on the door, someone will see you enter that room, and will say, “Oh, you know, Ricardo is struggling with something.” It turns into a rumour and everybody starts talking about it, so the psychologists don’t have a lot of work. Hardly anyone goes there.

MCW: What would you like to see change to support investigators’ mental health?
RV: After being in Sam Piranty’s documentary, The Darkest Web, I started to talk about mental welfare at conferences in Portugal and how important it is to have some support. I said that it should be mandatory, and it should happen at least once a year. Twice would be better, but once is better than nothing. It should be mandatory for everyone in the police, so if someone sees me enter the office of the psychologist, I’m not someone “in trouble” or “losing my mind”. It is just routine, because it’s mandatory for all of us.

I’m in a management role, and I have ten people working in my team. I need to take care of them. Sometimes, I say, “Maybe tomorrow you can have a day off. Do you need one?” or “Can you come with me for lunch outside the office? We can go to another place. I don’t want to be in the office today.” And then we might have a conversation to understand if they are OK. But we need to have mandatory support for everyone dealing with investigations.

If you have been affected by any of the issues mentioned in this piece, support is available:

https://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help/contact-samaritan/
https://childhelplineinternational.org/
https://www.inhope.org/

If you haven’t heard of Lázár, then thank me later. I couldn’t put this book down. This hit German-language novel, written by the 22-year-old Swiss author Nelio Biedermann, deftly mixes history, fatalistic knowingness and literary references. It does so through the lens of one Hungarian noble family’s navigation of the struggles of the early 20th century: war, Nazism, Communism, love, deceit, loss and eventual emigration to Switzerland.

Biedermann, who seems to be an old soul in a young man’s body, wrote the manuscript by hand. Who doesn’t love a Luddite? And he writes of historical events with such clarity that it is hard to wrap your head around the fact that he was born in 2003.

I found myself reading this book when I visited Zurich for a conference on migrant integration. Once my nerves about presenting a workshop had subsided, I attended the guided tour on the history of immigration in Switzerland at the Swiss National Museum. That evening, I finished Lázár and read how Eva and Pista, the youngest members of the Lázár family, crossed the border into Switzerland. The timing was uncanny, like life sometimes is.

Celebrity readers like Sarah Jessica Parker and Dua Lipa have publicly recommended the book, which has received great attention from the press, but, as ever, the translator remains largely in the shadows. This is my small attempt at shining the spotlight on a profession that often goes unnoticed. I spoke to the translator of Lázár, Jamie Bulloch, about his work and the process of translating this bestselling novel into English. Let’s get into it. Introducing, the one, the only Jamie Bulloch!

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Melita Cameron-Wood: At this stage in your career, how many books have you translated?
Jamie Bulloch: To date, I think 64 translations of mine have been published and there are a couple of others currently in the pipeline, i.e. at the editorial stage.

MCW: What does a typical day as a literary translator look like?
JB: I can’t speak for anyone else, of course, but my day will start with a couple of large, strong coffees and some reading for an hour or two. These days the books tend to be contemporary German novels that are looking for a home in the anglophone world, but I also make sure I read English-language fiction, too, which, apart from being enjoyable, can provide useful stylistic pointers and offer ways of expressing things I might not have thought of myself. I usually start work around 10 o’clock and try to set myself a number of words to get done that day. Being a freelancer obviously gives a lot of flexibility, and so, no two days will be alike. But I find that sticking to some sort of routine is an excellent way to make swift progress through a translation. I don’t work in the evenings, though occasionally find myself having to do a few hours at weekends if my schedule is tight.

MCW: How has your process changed over the years?
JB: I’m not sure it has particularly. Certainly I’ve gained in confidence over the years and am able to work at greater speed.

MCW: Before you began translating Lázár, what were the initial steps? Did you meet the author, Nelio Biedermann, in person?
JB: In this instance I did a sample translation for Nelio Biedermann’s agent before the English-language rights to the book were sold. At the time, the manuscript was still unedited and incomplete, so I wasn’t able to read the entire thing at this stage (which is what I normally do before embarking on any translation). My contact with Nelio was by email when I later translated the whole book. I had a number of questions for him and he was always incredibly fast to reply. We only met once the translation was finished (at the Frankfurt Book Fair last October).

MCW: Was there a sentence or a passage that took longer than readers might realise to translate?
JB: The lines of verse (all Nelio’s) scattered throughout the novel took longer to translate than anything else. Here, it was a case of trying to find a balance between the rhymes, style, rhythm and meaning of the original. For example, ‘trees’ can’t rhyme with ‘dreams’ in English, but there’s a ‘wind’ mentioned in that stanza, so this can become ‘breeze’, even though that’s a bit gentler than in the original. The German says that the church tower ‘stands on the horizon like a giant’, which I tweak to ‘Like a giant on the horizon, it seems’, thereby giving me a rhyme for ‘dreams’.

MCW: Do you think literary translators are actually authors or co-creators in their own right?
JB: This is an interesting question. I think it might be more accurate to say that literary translators are ‘writers’ rather than ‘authors’, if there can be said to be a distinction between the two. What is beyond doubt is that literary translation involves a degree of creativity and inventiveness (greater or lesser depending on the work in question and sometimes the willingness of the original author to allow/encourage this). I expect, therefore, that the boundary between literary translator and co-creator is fairly blurred rather than fixed.

MCW: How do you go about adopting another writer’s voice?
JB: I let myself be guided by the text itself. It usually takes a few pages to settle in, then the text develops a greater fluency as I feel more comfortable with the style/voice being used. Often, however, there is more than one voice or style to a novel. Lázár is an excellent case in point here. Whereas the early sections of the book have a more lyrical, dreamlike and old-worldly feel, the later parts – set half a century afterwards – assume a more modern, realistic tone. This was intentional on the author’s part.

MCW: Has AI affected your work as a literary translator at all? And how do you think it will impact the sector in the future in comparison to more general non-literary translation?
JB: Not yet. For the time being, at least, I think literary translation is safe from the onward march of AI. I’ve mentioned above the creativity that is an essential feature of literary translation, and here, I believe human intelligence is still miles ahead of artificial intelligence. The fear in the future is that translators will be reduced to editors, merely checking that an AI translation is a faithful version of the original and coming up with alternatives where the AI has failed. The truth is, this might take as much time as translating a text from scratch, so will not necessarily be a great money-saver.

MCW: Translated fiction is becoming more popular. Would you like to see literary translators becoming as visible and acknowledged as the authors of the original work?
JB: I am not overly fussed about having my name on the cover of a book so long as there is recognition elsewhere. For the most part, publishers are now more sensitive to ensuring this happens, especially given the greater popularity of translated fiction. More important from my perspective is to be treated with respect by the publishers I work for, including being paid decently and on time!

MCW: When translating Lázár, did you guess how successful the book would be?
JB: I’d already finished my translation before the German edition was released in autumn 2025, so nothing could be guaranteed. But I knew we were dealing with a remarkable talent and there was such a buzz around the whole process that the book was always likely to attract attention. At the Frankfurt Book Fair last year, it won the Independent Booksellers’ prize, which gave Lázár a massive boost and helped it stay on the bestseller list for over half a year. Even then, I was cautious about its chances in the English-language market, as so many titles I’ve translated have failed to replicate the success they’ve enjoyed in the German-speaking world (‘International Bestseller’ on the cover is often the kiss of death!). Fortunately my concerns were unfounded and the novel has been received incredibly well, both in the UK and the US. Here I’d like to credit those independent bookshops that have championed the novel and helped make it a success.

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Speaking to Jamie made two things clear to me:

1. A work of translated fiction is the product of collaboration between creative minds. This type of work would lack soul and substance if it was done by AI, which would not consider the same sorts of linguistic and referential nuances that a professional literary translator would.

2. Literary translators don’t always want to be recognised in the same way as authors, but that doesn’t make their work any less important. They are the vessels that allow novels to achieve international success and should be justly rewarded for their bridge-building efforts and expertise.

This Substack is reader-supported, so please consider opting for a paid subscription or buying me a “virtual coffee” if you enjoyed this. Your support makes this publication more sustainable. If that isn’t possible, no sweat, just give this a share. I’d appreciate a bit of cross-pollination, you kooky cats.

ANYWAY, let’s get to it.

Here are eight tips to squeeze a layered, genuinely human story out of a press trip, through the lens of the Emerald Isle. These tips also apply to any self-funded organised group tours you might have planned.

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1. Engage in unplanned conversations

My flight was delayed, and I got into Dublin Airport just before midnight. I was gutted because everyone had been put up at Killeavy Castle that night. I’d never stayed in a castle before, and I’d be arriving in darkness and leaving early the next morning. First-world problems, I know, darlings. But my designated taxi driver (fancy), Greg, soon cheered me up.

His story was representative of many locals’ experiences. He had left Northern Ireland during The Troubles for the US. He told me that there wasn’t much in the way of work back home during that time. Many youngsters had sought a more peaceful life on the other side of the pond. He’d actually met his wife, who was originally from a neighbouring village in Northern Ireland, in the US.

On the surface, you might think this exchange has nothing to do with Halloween celebrations in Derry, but Greg’s story beautifully framed the connection between America and Ireland. The strong immigration links between Ireland and the US are intrinsic to the story of Halloween; it was actually brought to the New World by Irish and Scottish immigrants.

2. Identify en media res moments

Pay attention to your own and others’ reactions to your surroundings. Things that make you laugh, stop in your tracks or gasp can help to make the reader feel like they are right there with you.

Crossing the Peace Bridge in Derry to the Halloween celebrations, I saw a group of local girls dressed as The Pink Ladies from Grease. They were skipping along and screaming joyfully. The strong winds were wrenching at their faux-silk robes. I was wrapped in a considerably less sexy witch outfit (on loan from the lovely folks at Tourism Ireland), with my fave neck scarf to keep out the cold.

The French journalist crossing the bridge with me murmured in my ear, “Même chez moi, je porte plus que ça!” (“Even at home, I wear more than that!”). Her comment made me chuckle. I was writing my piece for a German audience. I am half-British, so the sight of people wearing very little in cold weather isn’t so shocking to me. But from the perspective of my readers, this was likely to be amusing and absurd. I knew I had to include this moment in the piece.

The fact this happened on the Peace Bridge, a symbol of building unity upon a complex past, also gave me an opportunity to introduce the idea of a brighter future through joviality. I’m sure The Pink Ladies would approve.

3. Listen to other travellers’ perspectives

We had an optional guided tour of Derry’s city walls. At the start of the tour, the guide asked everyone to say where they were from. I was curious to see if this small demographic sample on 31 October was representative of the international growth of Derry Halloween. A couple had travelled all the way from Florida after seeing a TikTok video on the event. Intriguing.

Later on, at Derry Guildhall, I met a Mexican couple in full face paint for Día de los Muertos. They lived in Birmingham, but they’d made the trip to Derry to check out the Halloween celebrations. That was a unique intercultural perspective right there.

Even fellow guests on the press trip can have great stories. Geo, a Glaswegian Celtic witch with a massive online following (@thatglasgowwitch), shared a handful of her traditional Celtic practices with me and added a whole new layer to my understanding of the concept of Samhain, the time when the veil between this world and the spirit world is said to be the thinnest. I interviewed her after breakfast and sat next to her on the coach to the airport. Being curious and making an extra five minutes to delve a little deeper can reap big rewards.

4. Prepare additional questions on planned visits

When you attend a press trip, you are ferried between sites of historical and cultural interest. It is jam-packed. But you receive your itinerary in advance of the trip, so use that time to brainstorm potential questions you could ask when on site.

We visited Navan Fort, a Bronze-Age or Iron-Age Celtic settlement during our visit. The guided tour barely touched on Halloween as that wasn’t the focus of the museum. That’s why targeted questions about Celtic Samhain traditions proved to be fruitful.

The tour guide, Rosaleen, gave me information about the use of fire for purification, told me that turnips were traditionally used rather than pumpkins and that people actually dressed up to avoid getting snatched away by the spirits. Oh, and I found out that báirín breac (speckled loaf), an Irish fruit loaf, is a folkloric Halloween dish. It is baked with trinkets inside it to predict the future of those who get one in their slice.

I wouldn’t have known this if I hadn’t grabbed Rosaleen for a couple of minutes at the end of our guided tour about Celtic settlements. If time allows, ask that extra question. Take a wireless microphone with you for easy recordings and to avoid clogging up your phone storage.

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5. Keep your eyes peeled

A stroll around town with a German journalist for NDR resulted in an impromptu visit to Derry’s Guildhall. There, we stumbled across a poster advertising “Witchy Wellness”. The name got our attention. Upon closer inspection, we realized that there were a number of yoga classes, breathwork sessions and sound baths on offer under the “Samhain Moon”, an art installation by Luke Jerram.

Walking around Derry town centre, I also took many snaps of shops that had gone the extra mile to decorate their shopfront for Halloween. Derry Halloween is a community event and a simple walk around town made that evident; people love this event and many locals living elsewhere travel back home for the event.

6. Explore the story of your accommodation

If you do hotel reviews, then the hotel is obviously of interest, but even if you don’t do reviews, don’t ignore your accommodation. Why? Because many buildings have an intriguing past, particularly in places in the process of rebranding themselves. Incidentally, many places offering press trips are doing precisely that.

The Ebrington Hotel in Derry is a former military barracks, and it actually became a British Army base in 1970 due to The Troubles. These days, it’s a four-star luxury hotel (with a cracking spa). The hotel is literally a symbol of post-Troubles regeneration. My article wasn’t about The Troubles per se, but a local tour guide told me that the Halloween celebrations became a community event because of a bomb scare in a pub. It forced revellers out onto the street. You can’t talk about a Derry event that is about to turn 40 in 2026 without talking about The Troubles.

Similarly, Killeavy Castle, the private residence of the Bell family during The Troubles, was located in the high-conflict region of South Armagh. It would have been unthinkable to have a luxury castle hotel open to the public during that time. Both these buildings are symbols of peace and could be woven into the narrative.

7. Connect the dots

As we traipsed around the Ulster American Folk Park on a rainy day, one journalist turned to me and grumbled, “We’re doing a lot of things that aren’t related to Halloween on this trip.” At the time, I nodded in agreement. But, in truth, the Ulster American Folk Park is all about mass Irish emigration to America, which increased considerably following the Irish potato famine.

These immigrants brought Halloween over the Atlantic with them in the mid-19th century. While this wasn’t explicitly stated on our tour, it became clear after I began to compile the information I had gathered on the trip.

8. Would any other contacts be interested in coverage?

Tourism boards have a story that they want to promote, but there can be several stories in one trip. Sometimes, your trip is a story in itself. Local media like to know when there is international interest in events. I sent a WhatsApp message to a BBC Radio Northern Ireland producer I had worked with once to let him know we were there. He wasn’t aware that a group of international journalists had travelled to Derry to report on the Halloween celebrations. I mentioned that Fox News was there, as I imagined the American connection could get us through the door, figuratively speaking.

They agreed to feature them (and me) on the live radio show on Halloween evening. This literally cost me a WhatsApp message and a five-minute phone call in the middle of dinner. Think about any contacts you might have from previous jobs. Message them. The worst they can say is “no”. For radio commentary, always make it clear that you are a journalist if you are one and that you only provide live comments for payment.

So, in summary, itineraries are great, but they don’t spell out the story for you. To make your story original, chat to people at the hotel bar, go for an early morning walk, ask the receptionist about your accommodation, do an interview with someone you find yourself rather than through the itinerary, and eavesdrop at local bus stops. Basically, read between the lines and try to understand the place and the people who occupy it. You don’t need to explain everything you see and hear, but let your observations infuse your piece with some genuine local flavour.

Other ideas related to this trip that I haven’t acted on (yet). Editors do contact me if interested (nudge nudge):
- We went foraging with Mountain Ways Ireland on our trip. I never included this in my Halloween article, but I now regret not looking into the folkloric magical properties of local plants. I could have written up a Northern Irish magical spell guide (not too late, perhaps — after all, Halloween comes around every year). Eating dew-fresh sorrel from the field was a particular highlight for me. It really does taste like tangy lemon! And I’m told it serves as bedding for the local fairies, the Sídhe (the fae), too.
- How did Derry’s now-obsolete shirt-making industry influence its Halloween costume designs? And is creative costume design suffering due to fast fashion these days? …(still just a kernel of an idea that I need to develop)
- A ghostly tour of Northern Ireland with the actors and guides bringing the local stories to life…(as above)

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Topsy-turvy me

If eyes could DANCE
and feet could see,
we would travel very differently,
jiving HEADLONG INTO psychology.

Soles, toes and nails would be set free.
They’d gaze at lawns, soils and scree,
and re-envisage versions of ME.

Socks on the line

He hung his socks out to dry.

They relished old wind’s sigh.
For downtrodden as they were,
they felt revived by ALL THAT AIR.

SOothed by that gusty lullaby,
Momentarily, they waved bye-bye
to sweat, stench and fungal nails,
journeyed gaily upon FRESH airy trails,
as if they really were a pair of sails.

Milky way

The world capsized again on Sunday
in an ocean of time and splintered rocks,
where the lands had lost their limpet-docks
and Herculean spittle coagulated into whey.

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If I am honest, when I first decided to attend International Journalism Festival (#IJF26) in Perugia, it was for three reasons:

• In-person networking after a bout of LinkedIn-fatigue

• A desire to understand what on earth AI is doing to the industry

• An urgent need to visit the home of Baci chocolates

Side note: If you haven’t tried Baci chocolates, you absolutely must. A whole hazelnut perched atop a hazelnut-chocolate praline and enveloped in a layer of yet more choc. What’s not to like? My Maltese side of the family is obsessed with Baci, and I clearly got that gene, too. ANYWAY, I digress.

Having now been to #IJF26, which, by the way, is free to attend and requires no registration, here are my first three key takeaways. I have linked to the talks that really inspired me, so you can watch them on playback, too.

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1. Difficult deep-dive storytelling requires patience

The best things come to those who wait. Sitting in the small auditorium of PostModernissimo at the screening of Sam Piranty’s The Darkest Web, a harrowing but fascinating BBC Eye documentary about infiltrating online networks of child abusers, this became abundantly clear. This documentary was seven years in the making. The undercover investigators featured in the film were potentially putting themselves and their families in danger by participating. It was essential to build trust to make the most out of this unprecedented access. It was about making the agents feel able to open up about the impact of their work — both on their mental health and the wider community.

The timescale of the production allowed for some of the narrative arcs to come full circle: a victim nicknamed “Lucy”, who is rescued by the detectives as a child, meets with investigator Greg Squire at the end of the documentary. They sit on a park bench and discuss how she is trying to move forward with her life. It’s a vulnerable, interpersonal moment that would never have occurred if the film had been made in a hurry. This BBC Eye documentary for Storyville and World of Secrets had the funding to make this patient storytelling possible. And it paid off.

In an age of speed and forgettable short-form content, the true value of slowness has become undeniable. The stories that stay with me are thoughtfully told and invest time in allowing interview subjects to open up naturally. Here’s the full documentary via the BBC World Service YouTube Channel and the related World of Secrets podcast. I will be interviewing Sam Piranty for a future piece on here about making documentaries on sensitive subject matter, so stay tuned.

2. Massive reach doesn’t necessarily mean better journalism

I’m sitting in the audience of “You Heard It Here First: The Judges of the European Press Prize”. The talk is held in the beautiful setting of Teatro della Sapienza. My eyes wander to the wall, and I read the phrase commovendo esalta (by moving the heart, it exalts) painted above one of the doors. This phrase gains new relevance when panel member Clara Jimenez Cruz, co-founder and CEO of Maldita, says, “We are reaching less and less people every day. So, we might need to think of other ways of referring to impactful journalism that is not necessarily readership. (…) One of the things that is feeling more and more significant to me as I go through the shortlist is the human factor — (…) how much something moves me.”

This resonated with me. It feels like our goals have become too numerical. It’s all about metrics, trending content, volume and reach rather than heartfelt stories. Of course, journalism has the potential to make an impact, and it can only do that if it reaches people, but does it have to slot into an addictive ecosystem engineered by some tech bros to reach that goal? Is what’s really missing adequate funding for independent investigative journalism? Probably, yes.

But it’s also a lack of interdisciplinary learning. Traditional journalism shouldn’t only look within its own field for inspiration. To innovate, it should look beyond it — where many of the people it wants to reach are working in different professions. For example, the film industry uses platforms like Netflix, where viewers choose what they watch and when they watch it, basically curating their own experience.

People want more autonomy over what they consume, and a multi-outlet journalistic platform like this could provide access to high-quality, accurate, human-centred stories. I think it’s about trusting we know how to move people and creating a more appealing, accessible, easy-to-use, international platform. The addiction-based information-saturated approach isn’t conducive to genuine emotional connection. We need to rethink the format to allow connection to happen.

3. Live journalism is growing, but will it remain in theatres or take to the streets?

There were several talks about live journalism, something I confess I had never heard of before attending the festival. Live journalism comes in many formats. It can be journalists on stage unpacking the story behind the story they told. This is Live Magazine’s preferred format.

During the talk “How to turn journalists into rockstars: a Live Magazine Showcase”, three journalists got up on stage with projected supporting imagery to illustrate their experience of getting a story they had submitted to their respective outlets. Doan Bui, a reporter at Le Nouvel Obs, told us how she attended Flat Earth International Conference in the US for research for a piece. And artist and photographer Tomas van Houtryve explained how he went undercover as a chocolate salesman to be allowed entry to North Korea for a story.

Other initiatives, like Mensagem de Lisboa, specialize in hyperlocal monthly live journalism that brings the people of Lisbon from every walk of life on stage to tell their stories. In Spain, Diario Vivo sees journalists and protagonists treading the boards to tell real-life stories. And in Germany, the creators of Headliner gUG were inspired by poetry slams to create a similar format called “Reporter Slam”, where journalists battle it out in a short-format competition. Headliner has even created JIVE, a live journalism show, where journalism is presented on stage with a live orchestra. And Germany’s CORRECTIV showcases investigative journalism in a live format to combat a growing disengagement with the news.

One thing is clear: as post-pandemic humans, we are craving greater real-life connection. I went to every single talk about live journalism at #IJF26 because these talks filled me with hope that we will begin to share stories in a more meaningful way again. I love the theatre, and I think the format is wonderful, but my one concern is that this will be an elite form of journalism that is only accessible to those who are able to pay for a ticket. I would love to see shows like these in public spaces, too. Of course, money needs to be made to make it sustainable, but I wonder if occasional donation-based shows in parks, on beaches or in skate parks might one day be an option. Mensagem de Lisboa already offers free shows to the local community, so it seems some initiatives are already moving in that direction.

I will follow this up with another post with more takeaways from #IJF26 in the not-too-distant future. There is still lots to cover, but I wanted to break this down into bite-size chunks to avoid overwhelm. Do watch the talks back and comment your thoughts below. Let’s cross-pollinate, baby.

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This is an old one that I recently unearthed. It won third prize in the 2018 Hastings Week Poetry Competition, which was very exciting. Here’s my ode to the British summer. It’s nice to be comfortably sharing this from my living room in Valencia, where the outside temperature is 32 degrees.

Seaside Shenanigans

Supposedly starved seagulls swoop
down upon tentative gobblers
emerging from the chippy.

Summer’s final rays beat down,
and shutting their eyes,
windbathers dream themselves
from Rock-a-Nore to Rio.

Their aching, pebble-bruised feet
longing for soft sand and warmth...
But in their heart of hearts,
they love the bracing British summer,

And if they really were in Rio,
they would likely moan of
burnt bottoms and heatstroke.

We may groan and sigh
but really we can see why
ol’ Will the Conq’ went the extra mile.
So we chug on a Stella and smile...

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And here’s a piece on Fairlight, the Hastings-adjacent countryside, where I used to enjoy childhood rambles and picnics. There was an abandoned house that had half-fallen into the sea that we sometimes used to pass by. This is a poem about that place. I have embellished it for dramatic effect, but the toilet that ended up halfway down the cliff was very real. And coastal erosion, I need not tell you, continues to tear away at buildings. This one was featured in Seaside Gothic a few years ago. Enjoy!

Memories of Fairlight

A rusty oven protruded out of the rubble.
Someone had cooked on that stove once,
lived within those walls,
laughed in that kitchen.

They had stained their lips
red with glasses of wine
while listening to Southern FM.

Now, the wind and the sea
had taken half the house captive
and ramblers traversed the tiles
in trainers and walking boots—
suddenly pensive and quiet.

The remains of the wall were
a faded shade of apricot.
Angry spray paint screamed,
FUCK CAPITALISM
in blood-red tones.

Peering over the edge of the cliff,
passers-by eyed the surging beast
below as it slowly ripped
the stone away
from under
their
feet.

It was a steady work in progress
that only relented with the tide.

Like a bow on the string of a violin’s
moonlit serenade, the sea,
held in the clutches of that great
nightly ghost, would return with
the precision of the hand that guided it.

One-by-one, particles would surrender,
turning rock into sinking ships,
pulled downwards by
gravity’s firm embrace.

The sea would wave goodbye.
The wind would howl into
the doorless kitchen cabinets,
and the gulls would caw
around the cove.

Routinely, clouds would gather for the final rites
and season the sea with salty tears.

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Melita Cameron-Wood is a freelance journalist, editor, and voice-over artist who writes poems and short stories. Particularly interested in nature and everyday human interactions, Melita uses writing as a way of processing thoughts and surroundings.

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After eating the bougiest daisy-adorned Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut I have ever encountered at Globo Restaurant, I made my way to the Amber Museum, Nuremberg. It’s an unassuming place, housed in a repurposed ground-floor flat on Tucherstraße. I’ve been to Nuremberg several times, as I used to live in nearby Ingolstadt, but this is my first time here.

I had recently discovered that an over 3,000-year-old amber necklace had been unearthed in Ingolstadt in 1996 when a car park was being constructed for AUDI AG. I saw the necklace, which is made up of 2700 beads, at Ingolstadt’s Stadtmuseum and became fascinated by the connection between Bavaria and amber, one of my favourite organic gemstones. The necklace is a reminder of the ancient Amber Road (Bernsteinstraße). This trade route transformed Bronze Age Europe by connecting distant places through the transport of amber from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean.

A trade hub

After a bit of digging, I found out that Nuremberg used to be an important hub for the historic amber trade, as it was positioned on a crossroads for merchants pedalling their wares across Europe. Metal tools and scientific instruments made in Nuremberg were exported to countries like Poland and Portugal. And the raw materials for Nuremberg’s metalwork industry were imported from Hungary and Bohemia. Fine cloths were also imported from Venice and the Netherlands. And along with furs and salted fish, amber was imported from the Baltic.

Back in the 1400s, the Baltic amber trade was taken over by the Teutonic Order. Amber was exchanged for other products, such as spices, cloth, lead, copper and wax. And two towns emerged as vital trading centres: Königsberg (modern-day Kaliningrad) and Danzig (now known as Gdańsk).

The owner of Nuremberg’s Amber Museum, Janusz Henn, has strong personal ties to Gdańsk, where he and his late father sourced many of the items on display in the museum. “It’s a wonderful city,” he tells me, his eyes aglow with nostalgia. “And it’s the home of amber, of course.”

The Amber Room

Upon entering the museum, I am greeted by framed pictures of the Amber Room, which has often been dubbed the “Eighth Wonder of the World”. This room, which was adorned with amber and gold, was originally located in Potsdam. Back in 1716, however, Prussian King Frederick Wilhelm I gave the Amber Room to Russian Tsar Peter the Great. In exchange for this generous diplomatic gesture, Peter the Great gave the Prussian King 55 highly skilled Russian soldiers.

For 225 years, the Amber Room was housed in Pushkin, at Catherine Palace. However, in World War II, when the Nazis advanced into the Soviet Union, the Amber Room was looted and “confiscated” by the German army. They clearly recognized its high value. In fact, the Amber Room has an estimated modern-day value of over 200 million euros, according to Deutsche Welle. Packed up in crates, its contents were sent to Königsberg, where it was displayed in Königsberg Castle in 1941.

However, when it became clear that the German Reich was set to lose the war, the Amber Room mysteriously disappeared and is thought to have been hidden somewhere for safe storage by the Nazis. To this day, the exact location of the original Amber Room decoration is unknown. Amber aficionados have to make do with the reconstruction at Catherine Palace, which is undeniably impressive, even if not the original.

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The Museum

While the Amber Room was a display of wealth, designed to make jaws drop at its splendour, Nuremberg’s Amber Museum is a love letter to this organic gemstone. Janusz Henn co-founded the museum and Hemis Art Collection with his father, Horst Henn. The pair grew their collection and made it available to the public after years of sourcing unique pieces. Bernstein, the German word for amber, derives from the Middle Low German word Börnsteen, meaning “burning stone”. And this place seems to be the physical manifestation of a burning passion for amber.

Everywhere I look, I see varying tones ranging from cognac to yellow to burgundy red. Some stones contain remnants of past lives: grasshoppers, mosquitoes, bees, beetles and termites. It strikes me that amber itself is a natural museum of sorts. As if reading my thoughts, Janusz shows me a large spider encased in amber: “If you think about it, this piece is around 40,000 to 50,000 years old. It’s like a message from the past.”

Janusz tells me that amber is between 40 and 120 million years old. It is formed from the resins of coniferous trees. And these deposits become fossilised as a result of the pressure of rock layers and water. “Amber can be found in the whole of Europe, but not to the same extent as it can be in the Baltic Sea region,” Janusz explains. “For example, in Austria, there is a place that is even called Bernstein. Now, there’s no amber left there, but the story is interesting because the Alps are much younger than amber. The Alps are around 45 to 65 million years old, but amber can be much older than that. So, the amber was there first, then the Alps pushed it upwards.”

The museum is filled with neatly arranged glass cabinets showcasing everything from amber models of ships and religious artefacts to amber pipes. “I actually found out that amber pipes were produced locally here in Nuremberg around 200 years ago,” Janusz tells me. It turns out that the oldest and largest tobacco pipe manufacturer in Germany is based in Nuremberg: VAUEN. They historically produced a line of smoking pipes with amber stems. While these are no longer produced, pipe enthusiasts can visit the factory for tours to find out more about the history of pipe production.

Looking up from the various amber pipes, I am struck by the sheer size of the museum’s pride and joy: the biggest piece of amber in Germany. Encased in a large glass case, a huge chunk of fossilised resin weighing 12.41 kilograms stands proudly by the window. It is thought to have come from a tree that was over 100 metres tall and 15 metres wide. Given that it is unusual to find pieces of amber that weigh more than 100 grams, this was a rare find.

Surrounded by all this amber, I begin to wonder about the authenticity of the amber ring on my index finger. I bought it a while ago on Etsy from an Indonesian artisanal company. I show it to Janusz, who casts his expert eye over it and tells me it is indeed genuine. Relieved that I haven’t been scammed, I ask him how real amber can actually be distinguished from fake amber.

As if waiting for this moment, Janusz takes a bowl of saltwater with various stones in it out of a cabinet. Some of the pieces are floating and others are sitting resolutely at the bottom of the container. “Real amber is lighter than saltwater. Fakes tend to be made of plastics or other synthetics, which are heavier. The fakes are at the bottom of the tub,” he tells me. Genuine amber has a specific weight of around 1.08 to 1.1 g/cubic centimetre. It is also flammable and gives off the scent of resin. “When you rub real amber,” Janusz says, “it becomes electrostatically charged. So, if you leave small shreds of paper next to it, they will become attracted to it.”

At the cash desk, I see a box of raw, unpolished amber pieces. They are beautiful, but a stark contrast to the carefully crafted amber ornaments and jewellery on display. But both the natural and processed amber have something in common — they emit a warm glow when the light hits them. Holding a piece in my hand, I can understand amber’s timeless appeal.

After bidding farewell to Janusz, I stand across the street from the museum for a moment. This place, founded by a father and son in 1991, houses a painstakingly sourced collection of approximately 1,450 pieces of amber. It’s the fruit of patience and perseverance. And come to think of it, that isn’t a world away from the slow fossilisation of resin into amber.

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This newsletter is written and curated by Melita Cameron-Wood, a self-employed writer, journalist, audio producer, voiceover artist and EFL educator based in Valencia, Spain. If you enjoyed reading this reader-supported publication, please consider subscribing or sharing with a friend.

Before you enter a prize for the creative arts, it helps to know a little more about the organisation behind it. I spoke to Kieran Lynn, the winner of The Alpine Fellowship’s 2018 Theatre Prize for his play The Perfectly Timed Death of an Imaginary Friend, which was inspired by the theme of “childhood”. These days, Lynn is the Executive Director of The Alpine Fellowship. Here, you’ll find out about this year’s theme, the creative community and why newcomers should still consider participating.

MCEW: For people who have never heard of The Alpine Fellowship, please could you explain what it is and what its purpose is?
KL: We are a charitable foundation that supports, commissions and showcases artists, writers, academics and playwrights. Each year, we discover and support artists through our arts and academic prizes, including the Music Prize, Poetry Prize, Theatre Prize, Writing Prize and Visual Art Prize.

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MCW: This year’s theme is “joy” and applicants have until 1 July to submit their work. Can you explain why this theme feels especially relevant this year?
KL: Joy is something that humans need and crave at all times; however, this need does become more pronounced at times of global unrest. At the moment, we are surrounded by bad news, both because of world events and because of the constant flow of information. It’s crucial to balance this flow of difficult information with access to joy, and we believe the arts are uniquely positioned to deliver it.

MCW: If someone is on the fence about submitting their work because they are not yet established in their field, what would you tell them?
KL: In the past, we have had winners who are right at the beginning of their careers, so even if you are not yet established, you should consider entering. Everyone has to start somewhere, and winning a prize like this can be the ideal way to attract a wider audience to your work.

MCW: Other than funding and prestige, what can a creative community like The Alpine Fellowship offer successful applicants?
KL: Winning a prize with us is not just a transaction; you become part of our community. Even now, we are regularly in touch with winners from many years ago, and we love to support their work in whatever way we can. That might be attending performances or exhibitions, or helping to publish new work via our social media channels or website. We want to support artists and writers, and we know that is best achieved through long-term relationships.

MCW: Any final words of advice before applicants hit “send”?
KL: The theme of 2026 is “joy”, but the theme of every year could well be “courage”. It takes a remarkable amount of courage to complete your work and to submit it to a contest like ours, but it is that act of courage that every artist or writer has to commit to. Every book you’ve ever loved, a piece of music that inspires you or a painting that moves you, was once exclusively the property of the artist, and in all cases, it took that moment of courage to share it with the world. Be brave and take that step. Who knows where it might lead you?

Important information:

The Alpine Fellowship has a £10 submission fee per entry. The winner and runners-up of each prize category will receive financial support in the following amounts:

First place: £3,000

Second place: £1,000

Third place: £1,000

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Originally featured in DUTCH The Magazine in 2024. This piece has been republished with minor updates with permission from the original publisher. Thanks to the editor of the original piece, Paola Westbeek. Words and interviews by yours truly, Melita Cameron-Wood. This is a reader-supported newsletter, so please consider subscribing or buying me a “coffee” if you enjoy receiving this in your inbox.

The Nijmegen 4Days Marches, also known as ‘The Walk of the World,’ attract over 45,000 participants annually. Walkers can choose whether they want to walk thirty, forty or fifty kilometres per day (approximately eighteen, twenty-five and thirty-one miles), depending on their fitness levels—and how much they want to party upon their arrival in Nijmegen, where the route always starts and ends.

The event has undergone a radical transformation since its humble beginnings over 120 years ago. Originally conceived as a stamina-building activity for Dutch soldiers, the first 4Days Marches, which took place in 1909, had just 306 participants. There were ten different points of departure, all of which were army barracks. The walkers marched fifteen alternate routes before joining forces again in Breda, a city in the province of North Brabant, in the southern part of the Netherlands.

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The number of routes turned out to be an organisational headache, so the subsequent year, all event participants started from the same place and walked the same route. In 1910, the chosen point of departure was Arnhem. It was only in 1925, after the walkers had tried out various starting points, including Den Bosch, Utrecht and Amersfoort, that the organisation settled on Nijmegen as the start and the end of the routes on each day. This decision was based upon the varied hikes around the town and the impressive hospitality shown to the walkers—brown beans, bacon, a bath and a bed can go a long way, it seems!

The 4Days Marches have also seen many landmark moments over the years, but the early 1980s were a particularly tumultuous time. Several protests were organised by the group of activists, Is het hier oorlog? (Are we at war?), which took a stand against the military style of the event.

The activist group was disqualified in 1984, as they chose not to cross the military bridge in Cuijk, a town near Nijmegen, out of principle. This sparked a debate in parliament and raised some tricky questions for the Dutch Ministry of Defence. In the early 1980s, anti-gay riots also took place at the Nijmegen Marches. In reaction to this, the event was transformed into one of the country’s biggest LGBTIQ+ celebrations, with the second day of the event now called ‘Pink Wednesday’ in celebration of inclusivity and acceptance.

In 1989, the first Russian soldiers participated in the event, and they were given accommodation in the same camp as American soldiers, Camp Heumensoord. Photographer Jan van Teeffelen famously took an iconic snapshot of a female American soldier kissing a Russian soldier during the event, which became a symbol of the end of the Cold War. In 1995, wheelchair users were allowed to participate for the first time, but there was some controversy around this, as these participants technically were not completing the event on foot. The organisational body only started awarding wheelchair users the official 4Days Marches Cross from 2009 onward.

To avoid overcrowding, the organisers introduced a limit to the number of participants allowed to take part in the event in 2005, as they noticed that the number of people signing up was too high for the infrastructure of Nijmegen. In its history, it has only been called off midway through the event once, in 2006, when record temperatures led to the hospitalisation of multiple walkers and the deaths of two participants. Since this tragedy, the event organisers have worked closely with a meteorologist and regularly inform walkers about the conditions they can expect during the 4Days Marches.

People travel from far and wide to participate in the event and often do so in groups to raise funds for charitable causes. UK breast cancer charity Walk the Walk is an example of such an initiative. They have been sending groups of walkers to the Nijmegen Marches for years, many of whom have a personal connection to cancer, whether that be through the loss of a loved one or their personal battle with the disease.

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Seventy-year-old Canadian Mike Colbourne, who has now recovered from stage 4 bladder cancer, participated in the Nijmegen Marches with the Walk the Walk team in 2023. And he has become a regular participant. His participation in the event marks the fulfilment of a goal he set himself many years ago. “The Nijmegen Marches were always on my bucket list. I first found out about them in 1995. My mother and I were in Holland for the fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of the Netherlands,” Colbourne recalls. “My mum lost both brothers in the war. Her brother, Cecil Stanley Wharton, was a grenadier guardsman, killed close to Nijmegen. He was buried there and then moved to Groesbeek Cemetery.”

When Colbourne recovered from cancer after participating in an immunotherapy study, he knew he had to seize his chance to turn his dream into reality. His original plan was to march with the Canadian Legion, but as the Canadian army didn’t march in 2023 due to COVID-19, he went online and discovered Walk the Walk. “Our team was amazing. I was probably twenty years older than the rest of them,” Colbourne comments. “The most emotional moment I had was when our team stopped at Groesbeek Cemetery, where we laid Canadian flags on my uncle’s grave while the Last Post was being played.”

Other participants from the local area have fond memories of the event and have passed their enthusiasm on to younger generations. Astrid van der Looij, a local from Nijmegen, first participated in the event with friends from university in 1993, shortly after her graduation. “We had done our training, but it was still hard. I remember we cried together when we reached the finish line. We were exhausted,” she said.

The experience did not put her off, though, and she signed up again two years later with her partner Haaije Postma. Fast-forward to the present day, and they have now participated as parents with all three of their children. Ben, their youngest son, joined the event in 2022 for the first time at the age of twelve, the age from which participants are permitted to do thirty kilometres (eighteen miles) per day. “When I am tired and my feet are aching, I tell myself it is only a few more kilometres,” Ben commented.

“The hardest part was the last seven kilometres (four miles) on the Via Gladiola. The best part was the hilly zevenheuvelenweg (Seven Hills Road) between Groesbeek and Nijmegen.” As Ben’s parents are on the board of the charity Steppenomaden Mongolië (an organisation that raises money to support the Steppe nomad community in Sogog, Mongolia), he is using his participation in the Nijmegen Marches to raise money for this cause.

This year’s 4Days Marches are due to take place from 21 to 24 July. Like every year, walkers will descend upon the town of Nijmegen for a memorable sporting event that sees them push their physical boundaries, gather in groups and support each other to the finish line. During the festivities, walkers and non-walkers can enjoy live music, food, theatre, dancing and market stalls set up throughout town. In short, in the words of Astrid van der Looij, “It is hard not to have a good time!”

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