My monthly musings for March, including thoughts on my own mortality, and the outdoor adventures that continue to bring colour and meaning to my days.
March was a month of movement. I travelled across borders, into new‑to‑me landscapes, and through small adventures that stitched the weeks together. It was a month of trains and ferries, cold coastlines and warm saunas, meeting new people and stepping into unfamiliar places.
It looked full; busy, varied, colourful. And in many ways, it was. There’s something about being in motion that feels good, a reminder that life can still expand, even when it feels heavy. March gave me a sense of forward momentum, regardless of being unsure if I had the energy to keep up with myself.
Weight Beneath Movement
At the same time, I’ve been dealing with further wrangling with difficult grief‑related thoughts and feelings. Grief was forced a little closer to the surface for reasons I won’t go into here. And as such, has made me think a lot about my own mortality, and the way loss rearranges time. Grief has brought a pressure – subtle but insistent – to make the most of the days I have. To say yes to adventure, to the world.
And I have been saying yes. I’ve been out there, doing things, gathering stories and stamps and moments.
But I admit a real truth: it’s taken grit. More grit than spirit, some days. The doing has been good for me, but it’s also been exhausting in a way that’s hard to articulate. There’s a huge gap between the life I want to be living – the life I imagined I’d be living – and the reality of the situation.
Still, there were adventures – winter fun in Estonia, quick visits to Latvia and Finland, a book-themed quirky stay, and time connecting with friends. I’ll get to those in a moment. If I may, I will start in what has become my usual format, trying to explain grief.
(And yes, I’m only just sharing my monthly journal now, three weeks into April. Time has been moving strangely, and I’m simply letting this land now it’s ready.)
Life is Short: My Own Mortality
Grief has already taken so much from me. I’ve lost the person who was the other half of my existence, and with that loss has come trauma, disorientation, and an identity that no longer fits the way it used to. But this month, something else has been sitting beside all of that: the sharp awareness of my own mortality. This isn’t new – none of us are promised tomorrow – but it feels as though the universe has underlined it in thick black ink. A reminder I didn’t ask for, but can’t ignore.
And woven through that is the quiet belief that he would want me to keep living. Not ‘moving on’, because I don’t think grief works like that, and I’m nowhere near ready for anything that resembles an ending. But doing.
He was never one for wallowing, and I can almost hear him nudging me toward the world rather than away from it. Trying to live in a way he would recognise feels like honouring him. A way of carrying him with me, rather than leaving him behind.
The desire is fierce; the energy is not. It’s a strange thing, realising so sharply that my own life is just as fragile as his was, that I’m not exempt – none of us are exempt – from the randomness of endings. That knowledge sits in my chest like a warning and a call.
So, I find myself wanting, desperately, to make the most of today. To say yes. To go on the adventures, see the places, gather the stories. Live well because life is fragile, and because I know too intimately how quickly everything can change. But here’s the difficulty: wanting isn’t the same as being able.
The Space In Between
I feel stuck in a strange middle ground, caught between the part of me that wants to do and be and have, and the part of me that wants nothing at all. Nothing is appealing. Everything is appealing. Both truths sit side by side, and neither cancels out the other.
I even found myself looking at a folly hermitage the other day and thinking, with surprising sincerity, that it looked like an excellent option. A tiny stone hideaway in the woods, far from everything. Part of that pull toward quiet is the awareness that even though time is finite, rest isn’t indulgence, and that much be part of whatever life I have left. The appeal of running away to a simple existence (only metaphorically, perhaps), is notable.
It’s important to make the most of life. I know that. I believe that. But I’m trying to do it with a lack of spirit that feels almost physical. The grit is still there – stubborn, determined, quietly pushing me forward – but the spark, the lightness, the energy that used to accompany it is buried. And grit without spirit is a heavy way to live. And somehow it feels even more cruel that this reminder that life is short comes at the exact moment I have the least energy to live it fully.
Over the last eight or nine months, I’ve been booking things, doing things, keeping going. I’ve been out in the world, collecting experiences (like Norway) because I want to, and because I’m afraid of wasting time I might not get back. But every single thing takes so much of me. Even the good things. Especially the good things.
Longing to Live
And then there’s the after. The cup of tea at home, where everything lands at once: the joy of new memories, the sadness that he isn’t here to share them, and the anxiety that I shouldn’t rest for too long because life is short and I must get on and plan the next thing. That urgency comes from knowing, now more than ever, that my own story could stop abruptly too. And I don’t want to sleepwalk through whatever time I have left.
It’s a strange cocktail of emotions – not unhinged, not alarming, just, well, a lot. A very human response to loving someone deeply and losing them too soon.
I’m learning that this is part of grief too: the exhaustion of rebuilding a life while carrying the weight of the one you lost. The longing to live fully, paired with the inability to do so with ease. The constant negotiation between desire and capacity. Maybe that’s the conclusion I’m meant to reach here: living well and honouring my loss isn’t about outrunning (or worrying about) my own mortality. It’s about choosing life, and shaping whatever days I get into something that feels true.
A Bright Yellow Reminder
Somewhere in the middle of all this heaviness, there has been one purposefully created source of joy: the daffodils I planted back in September. I put almost 150 bulbs into the ground along one side of the garden on what would have been my 24th wedding anniversary. It was my own quiet act of remembrance, something living to mark a date that now holds so much absence. A tribute, yes – but also a small act of future‑making. A way to say ‘I remember, I love, I hope’, even when confidence felt thin.
And through March they burst into life. A whole line of bright yellow cheer, several rows deep, unapologetically vibrant, as if they’d arrived with a single purpose: to announce spring whether I felt ready or not. They pulled me outside on days when my energy was low and my spirit felt worn, reminding me that the world keeps offering beauty even when I’m not sure I can meet it.
What surprised me most was how sharply they echoed the thoughts I’ve been having about my own mortality. These daffodils I planted months ago, as a different version of myself, grew. They flowered regardless of everything that happened around them. And standing there looking at them, I am reminded that I’m still here too, still capable of planting things, choosing things, living things.
I cannot tell you how much those basic yellow flowers meant. They reminded me that I can plant in the dark and still trust something to bloom. And if that isn’t a lesson in living, I don’t know what is.
St David’s Day Sauna
In terms of the little adventures I had in March, the month began in the gentlest, most restorative way: with a sauna.
A friend and I met at FLO Wellbeing, where we eased ourselves into the month with heat, cold, and quiet. It was St David’s Day, the first hints of spring in the air, and the perfect moment to pause after a heavy week for both of us. FLO is tucked into the Oxfordshire countryside, all wood smoke, still water, and soft light – and I think I can say our shoulders physically dropped as a result.
We moved between the wood‑fired sauna, the hot tub (we paid extra for that), and the lake – yes, we braved the cold, cheering each other on as we swam further each time we took a dip. The thoughtful touches made it even lovelier: warm changing facilities, electrolytes by the hot tubs, floaties for swimmers, and staff who checked in just enough to make sure everyone was having a good time. It didn’t magically fix anything we carried in with us, but it helped us sit still, breathe, and feel present in our own bodies for a while, and there is real power in that.
Afterwards, we laced up our boots for a winding walk through the Stowe parkland and rounded the morning off with an excellent late lunch, the perfect continuation of a day that felt like a reset. I wrote the full experience up as part of my Sauna Stories series at FLO Wellbeingif you’d like to read more.
Snow, Saunas, and a Three‑Country Whirlwind
My biggest adventure in March was an eight‑day loop through Latvia, Estonia and Finland, a trip that started as a simple plan to catch a bit more winter on a Much Better Adventures ‘Snow and Saunas’ trip, and quickly expanded once I realised (inspired by a friend) how easy it would be to add a city break on either side. Why visit one country in a week when you can visit three?!
I began in Riga, Latvia, a city that surprised me with its elegance and warmth. I spent a couple of days wandering, eating, learning, and easing myself into the routine of travel. Riga is walkable and interesting, a vibrant city where art‑nouveau architecture, cobbled old‑town streets and a laid‑back Baltic charm all meet. And pancakes. They seem to like their pancakes!
Then it was on to Estonia for the main event: a beautifully organised group trip centred around outdoor fun in a forest wilderness a couple of hours from Tallinn, and the chance to experience sauna the Estonian way. The UNESCO‑listed smoke sauna was the highlight; earthy, ancient, unlike anything I’ve tried before. And the cauldron hot tub under the trees felt like something out of folklore, like I had been caught up with the baddie in a fairytale but didn’t seem to mind.
A Winning Group Trip
Snow was limited (the spring weather of mid‑March will do that), but we made the most of what we had. We kick‑sledded, snowshoed, hiked through the forest, fat‑biked to get ice cream, cooked a meal over a fire, and visited frozen waterfalls and beaches. The group was lovely, the guides knowledgeable and clearly proud of their culture, and I’m realising that leaning into these group trips like this one is a brilliant way to keep adventuring without the admin or decision fatigue. I may have already booked another one for later in the year…
After Estonia, I hopped on the ferry across the Baltic to Helsinki for a couple of days of gentle exploring. My first experience of a boat breaking through ice – that was really fun! I’ve been to Helsinki before, so this bit of the trip was all about adding to what I already knew. Walking tours, museums, food, and – of course – another sauna, complete with a bracing dip in the Baltic.
It wasn’t a restful trip in the traditional sense, I know that, but it had enough pockets of stillness that I could at least pretend I was relaxing.
I filmed the whole thing, so adventure journals and daily vlogs will appear soon. And if you’ve never been to Riga, Tallinn or Helsinki, add them to your list; they’re easy to reach from the UK, perfect for long weekends, and the Snow and Saunas trip was a brilliant anchor for a bigger adventure. More soon.
The National Outdoor Expo
One of the biggest outdoor community meet‑ups of the year, the National Outdoor Expo is always a highlight in my calendar. I’ve been every year since it started, and it remains a good opportunity to fill my cup with ideas, inspiration and a healthy dose of get outside energy. It’s also one of the few places where you can drift between inspirational speakers, the latest gear innovations, and a climbing wall or paddleboard demo without missing a beat. As always, it was full of likeminded people, and it felt good to be part of that buzz again.
This year I met the lovely founder of SALT, who specialises in beautifully made, skin‑friendly outdoor essentials. She kindly gave me a sample of her hydration serum, which I’ve been trying out and genuinely enjoying – light, effective, and exactly the kind of thing my face appreciates after a day in the wind. I’ll be picking up more once my sample runs out.
I also spent time with the team behind PortaSauna, who had one of their sauna tents set up on the beach by Pendragon Lake. Naturally, I had a (brief) go. And also naturally, I am now wondering whether being a ‘sauna person’ means I need one in my garden. It feels extravagant… but also extremely tempting. The tents are nicely made, the kit comes with everything you need, and the team were wonderfully enthusiastic – proper sauna people through and through.
I enjoyed the talks and demos, mooched around the stalls, and (unusually for me) didn’t buy a single thing. As an ambassador for the show, I had a free ticket, and I hope those of you who used my code had a brilliant day out too.
Book Themed Quirky Stay
March also included a quirky stay that felt like it had been designed specifically for me. The Book Nook is a book‑ and writing‑themed hideaway on the edge of Dartmoor.
It was, quite simply, fabulous. Everything about it hit the spot. The hut was cosy and beautifully put together, with thoughtful touches everywhere. My host, Sarah – an artist and writer – had even lit the fire before I arrived, so I stepped into warmth and woodsmoke rather than the usual first‑night chill. She’d also left me a copy of her own book, which was such a lovely, personal gesture.
Unlike most of my quirky stays, this one had a purpose: I went to work. And honestly, what a joy that turned out to be. The Book Nook looks out over rolling countryside, and I could absolutely get used to having a view like that while tapping away at my laptop. It was the kind of environment that makes you want to create; quiet, inspiring, and just far enough removed from everyday life to feel like a reset.
I did allow myself a couple of small excursions. A nostalgic wander around Trago Mills (because how could I not, when it was practically next door), and a gentle three‑tor hike on Dartmoor on the Saturday before heading home. Both were wonderful in their own ways, but the real magic was simply being in that cabin, surrounded by books, ideas, and the soft hush of the moor.
A full quirky stay write‑up and video will be coming soon. I’m a bit behind on those, but they’ll make their way into the world eventually. This one will be a joy to share.
A Blustery Beach Walk at Pembrey
My final small adventure of the month was a wonderfully wild walk at Pembrey Country Park and Beach near Llanelli, a stretch of coastline that always feels a little bit magical, even when the weather is waiting to make a real statement. We set out across the sand in full ‘we might get drenched at any moment’ mode, the sky shifting between steel grey and almost‑blue, the wind doing its best to rearrange our hair and our thoughts. It was properly blustery and bracing, the kind of weather that wakes you up from the inside out.
We walked for miles along the beach without seeing another soul, which made the whole thing feel like it was just us and the sea – shifting dunes, the roar of the sea, and a huge sweep of horizon. Getting outside really is everything for me, and being out there with friends, moving through weather and laughter and long stretches of quiet, was exactly what my soul needed.
Eventually the sky decided it had waited long enough, and the rain arrived in dramatic fashion; thankfully just as we reached the shelter of the café on site. We watched the downpour from behind the glass, making time for a second hot drink, feeling victorious (and smug!).
It was one of those days that doesn’t look like much on paper, but lingers in the best way. A reminder that sometimes the most restorative adventures are the simplest ones: a beach, a stormy sky, and good company.
See You Next Time…
It feels slightly strange to be publishing my March round‑up when we’re already so far into April, but needs must and all that. Time has been moving in its own peculiar way lately, and I’m learning to just let these things land when they land.
Thank you, truly, for all the support over my ramblings on grief these last few months, especially over the past six weeks or so, when everything has felt a little closer to the surface. It means more than I can say. Sharing these thoughts here has become part of how I process the confusion and clutter of it all; putting words into the world helps me make sense of the feelings that don’t always have tidy edges.
On a lighter note, my Norway adventure journal series is now fully published (as are the videos), so if you haven’t dipped into that yet, it’s all there waiting. And as you’ll have clocked from this article, I have a whole stack of adventure journals still to write, which I’ll get to as soon as I can. They’re coming, slowly but surely.
Here’s hoping the rest of April continues to offer plenty of outdoors and adventure, and maybe even a little more of that elusive blend of grit and spirit – the kind that helps us create new memories, the kind that fills our souls with something like joy.
See you next time.
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