A little over a month ago, my husband died.
It was sudden. A road accident.
And since then, everything has stopped. Everything has changed. Everything is different.
I’m not going to talk about the circumstances here. What happened is being investigated, and I want – need – that process to be thorough and proper, without rumour or hearsay clouding it. I therefore ask, gently but firmly, that no one tries to guess or make assumptions. I may choose to tell the full story at some point. But not now. Not yet. Until then, please respect that boundary.
This blog has always been my space to share, a creative outlet where I try to make sense of the life I’ve been given. And while doing that feels almost impossible right now, I know that turning to familiar tools is part of how I begin to process pain. So, I’m here. Writing. Or trying to.
This month has been the hardest of my life. I haven’t even begun to truly process what’s happened. As someone who usually finds solace in words, the fact that none seem adequate, that none come close, only deepens the ache. I’m still in shock. I feel sad, flat, utterly hollow. My mind is somehow both bursting and blank at the same time. I’m tired in a way I’ve never experienced, exhausted all the way through. The loss of my person makes me feel sick in my bones.
On Walking
And yet, even in the thick of this grief, I know there are things that help. They sound small, maybe even trite, but they’re vital. Eating well. Drinking water. Moving my body. Getting proper rest. Being outdoors.
I’ve spent years championing time outside – one hour at a time – for the benefit of body, mind, and soul. And I’ve tried to keep showing up for that. I’ve made it a point to go outside every single day. Mostly walking, as that’s always been my go-to. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Some start right at my front door. Others take me further. Some walks have been barely more than a shuffle to the end of the road. Others have been longer, steadier stretches. Most fall somewhere in between.
I’m not going to pretend walking has healed anything. It hasn’t. Of course it hasn’t. But it’s helped me to breathe. And right now, that’s enough.
The weather being decent has helped too, otherwise I might have succumbed to the urge to curl up under a blanket and stay there indefinitely. Although, between us, it has been a bit too hot for hiking… and I’ve certainly been sweating far more than is dignified.
Merthyr Mawr Warren
One of the longer hikes I’ve done was a ten-mile loop from Porthcawl, taken on the summer solstice – the longest day of the year. I set out to explore the beautiful Merthyr Mawr, with its remarkable sand dunes, a stretch of the Wales Coast Path, and some quiet woodland. It rained, but the air was still heavy with heat. That kind of thick, clinging warmth that makes every step feel a little harder than it should. And yet, it was gorgeous. Unexpectedly so. The kind of beauty that catches you off guard and stays with you.
Merthyr Mawr is home to the highest sand dune in Wales, affectionately known as the Big Dipper, and the second highest in Europe, rising around 200 feet. The dunes stretch across 840 acres, a vast and shifting landscape of golden sand, sea buckthorn, and whispering grasses. Some parts feel like desert, others like forest, and the whole place hums with a kind of ancient stillness. It’s where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed, so I’m sure you get the picture.
Peace in the Dunes
But it’s more than just cinematic. The dunes are alive with contrast and quiet wonder. One moment you’re climbing a steep, sun-baked slope of soft sand, your calves burning and your breath short (sand is tough!); the next, you’re descending into a cool hollow where wild thyme and lady’s bedstraw scent the air. The paths twist through pockets of thick woodland and opens out onto saltmarsh and beach, and the wind carries the sounds and smells of the sea across the whole landscape.
There’s a strange kind of peace in the dunes. The kind that comes from walking through a place shaped by time and tide, where the scene is always changing but somehow eternal. I passed wildflowers clinging to the dunes, watched butterflies and bees flit through the air, and stood still long enough to hear the rustle of unknown creatures in the undergrowth (maybe lizards?). It felt like walking through a memory – one that didn’t belong to me but somehow welcomed me. Maybe the landscape knew him and I had such a strong memory of the dunes of the Sahara?
It didn’t fix anything. But it was wonderful all the same.
I found the walk I used as my inspiration on the Wales Coast Path website, and I’d recommend the route if you are in the area. They’ve curated loads of walks inspired by the Wales Coast Path, so it’s a site worth exploring. You can also find the route in OS Maps (affiliate link), although note I walked from the marina in Porthcawl, so added around four miles to the line shown on the map.
A Short Film
I even filmed a little video while I was out. I’m not sure why, exactly – I haven’t made one in years – but it felt like the right moment to say hello. Writing has been so difficult lately, but capturing a few images of that walk, of that place, felt manageable.
What Happens Now?
I’m not entirely sure. And may not for a while. Which is okay. I think it’s okay to say that adventure isn’t over for me, I’m just not sure what it might look like, at least not this year.
I’ve got a few blog posts I’d started before all this happened – stories I still want to tell. Like running the Westonbirt 10k, hiking from Winchcombe to Bourton-on-the-Water and back along the Warden’s Way and Windrush Way, and trying my hand at riding an enduro bike on an Alex Snow Train and Trail weekend in Devon. I’ll be sharing those in the coming weeks, gently, when it feels right.
But for now, this is me, stepping back into this space. Not with a plan. Not with certainty. Just with honesty, and a willingness to keep walking.
If you would like to read the tribute I wrote for my husband’s funeral, I published it here.