Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.
We sat on a patch of earth, the only nettle-free patch we could find within this scrap of woodland, and we listened. We had fallen in love with the knot of patchy trees as soon as we had climbed over the stile, and so here we sat.
A walk from a picturesque town, along a rushing river. Stone under foot: artificial yet natural.
Walking down the street is something which should not be hard, but it really is. People block my path at my every turn, and seem to be utterly oblivious to the fact.