My May journal, I Did and I Didn’t: a month of grief musings, wild weather, quiet weekends, big adventures, and some slow yet active recovery.
Some months arrive quietly and some arrive carrying a whole mix of contradictions, and May was very much the latter. As always, this journal is my way of making sense of it all with a blend of grief reflection and everyday storytelling; part processing, part record‑keeping, part reminder that life can be many things at once.
I mean – I did, and I didn’t. I moved, and I rested. Filled my days, and I left them empty. Felt strong, and I felt undone. Sometimes all within the same hour.
It was also a month with the kind of weather only Britain could experience with a straight face. We had freezing mornings, torrential rain that soaked through every layer I owned, and then – because why not – a heatwave that pushed past thirty degrees even on the coast. A meteorological identity crisis, really, and one that mirrored my own internal one rather neatly.
And so, this journal begins where May began for me: with stillness. With two quiet weekends where I did ‘nothing’, or at least nothing that sounded impressive when people asked.
Nothing is Not a Bad Word
I purposefully kept the first two weekends of May empty. Or as empty as I’m capable of. No adventures, no quirky stays, no theatre marathons, no trains to somewhere new. Just two full weekends at home, free from appointments and expectations.
A concert at the Cheltenham Jazz Festival, yes, and a cardamom bun from The Artisan Baker. A bit of writing, packing for the Cleveland Way, a few life admin tasks completed and a few more ignored. Pottering, really. Frittering, in the gentlest sense. A quiet domestic drift that sounds far from impressive when someone asks what you got up to.
And that’s where the deeper thoughts began, in the space created by choosing nothing on purpose – when saying I chose to do nothing feels like some kind of confession.
I think you will relate. Saying ‘I did nothing this weekend’ lands in the mouth like an apology. It’s strange how quickly the word ‘nothing’ becomes tangled up with guilt. When I told people I hadn’t done much with those early May weekends, I felt a little exposed, as though I’d admitted to some small personal failing. And when they replied with the usual ‘oh, that sounds nice’, I heard the imagined judgement anyway. The judgement of doing nothing is a powerful thing; it doesn’t even need to be spoken aloud.
Nothing and Grief
And then there’s the grief layer, the one that sits beneath everything whether I name it or not. Doing nothing comes with an additional weight for me. When I slow down, when the day stretches out without structure, my mind has more room to wander into the places I’d rather avoid. I miss my husband when I’m busy, of course I do, but I miss him differently, and more sharply, when the day is quiet. When there’s no distraction to soften the edges, the stillness gives grief a wider doorway. It steps in more easily. It sits closer. And that makes choosing quiet feel both necessary and frightening at the same time.
It also brushed up against that familiar tension I’ve written about before, the sense that life is short, and I should be making the most of every minute. That if I’m not out there collecting memories, I’m somehow wasting time I’ll never get back. Grief sharpens that feeling, but it exists outside of it too. A cultural hum in the background: be productive, be interesting, be doing.
And yet, the truth is that the first few months of the year were full on. April alone saw me at eight theatre shows, a joyful marathon, but a marathon nonetheless. Work has been busy, life has been busy, my mind has been busy. The second half of May was also already mapped out with adventures in the north of England (read on for that). So those two quiet weekends weren’t indulgent; they were required. They were the pause before the next chapter; rest as preparation in its purest form.
It’s Never Actually Nothing
But here’s the thing: my version of ‘nothing’ wasn’t actually nothing – it never is. It was simply life lived at a gentler pace – a concert, a bun, a hiking bag packed on the bedroom floor, a few hours of writing reclaimed after months of not having the headspace. It was booking a trip to Norway and a couple of shows for later in the year, not because I needed more plans but because future joy deserves a place on the calendar too. Cool, fun, nourishing things. Not the kind of stories that make for dramatic small talk, but the kind that make a life feel more spacious.
And maybe that’s the point. Maybe ‘nothing as nourishment’ looks different for all of us. Maybe ‘nothing’ is simply the absence of spectacle. The absence of rushing. Not performing your own life for the benefit of others. Maybe ‘nothing’ is the work of resetting your tempo so you can actually enjoy the louder moments when they arrive. Maybe it’s also the space where grief breathes; not because you want it to, but because it needs somewhere to go.
Those weekends gave me space to exhale, to let my spirit catch up with my schedule, and yes, to feel the sadness that surfaces when the noise dies down. They reminded me that listening to energy is a skill I’m still learning, slowly, imperfectly. That rest is not the opposite of living; it’s part of it. And that a life full of adventure needs ballast – pockets of calm that keep everything else afloat.
Nothing as Recalibration
So yes, I did nothing for two weekends in May. And no, it wasn’t a bad word. It was a gift. A recalibration. A soft landing before the next ascent. It was a place where grief could stretch its legs without overwhelming me, and where I could gather myself for what came next. And as I look back now, after the miles walked and the landscapes explored in the latter half of the month, I’m grateful for the stillness that made the movement possible.
The Keswick Mountain Festival
The second half of May was bookended with time spent with good friends in Cumbria. I started my visit with a leg‑stretching walk up Rannerdale Knotts – a high‑value 4.5‑mile loop that packs an entire weekend’s worth of scenery into a single outing. The bluebells were at their absolute peak, rolling across the valley floor in that impossible shade of purple that looks edited even when you’re standing in the middle of it. The climb up the ridge was steady, the little scramble at the top was joyful, and the steep descent was exactly the kind of quad‑testing nonsense you expect from the Lake District.
Local folklore insists these bluebells sprang from the blood of slain Norman warriors, the aftermath of the so‑called Battle of Rannerdale, a tale of ambush, Norsemen, and a heroic leader named Buthar (or Boethar, depending on who’s telling it). The Normans, apparently led by Ranulf Meschin, were lured into the valley and promptly routed by a surprise attack from above. It’s a brilliant story… and almost certainly a romanticised one. There’s no evidence for such a battle, and the bluebells are far more likely the legacy of ancient woodland than ancient warfare. But honestly? Good legends make good hikes even better, so I’m not complaining.
At the Festival
The rest of the weekend was spent at Keswick Mountain Festival, a small, friendly, wonderfully compact celebration of outdoor life set on Crow Park under the watchful eye of Derwentwater and the surrounding fells. It’s a festival that feels like it couldn’t exist anywhere else; the landscape is part of the programme.
We dipped in and out of live music (Frankie Roe was a delight, and Cassette Baby’s Old Fashioned Lover Boy cover was unexpectedly glorious), listened to talks including a fascinating deep dive into the Barkley Marathons by Jasmin Paris, and ate our way through the food stalls with enthusiasm: churros, crepes, duck‑loaded fries, frozen smoothies. The festival village has shops and stands, but it’s really there to give people taking part in the mountain events something to do before and after. Which is how I found myself doing exactly that.
Because of course I signed up for something.
Terrex 10km Trail Run
The highlight of the weekend – the part I was both dreading and secretly excited about – was taking part in the adidas Terrex 10k trail run. Very much out of my comfort zone. I’d signed up months earlier as a way to keep myself moving through the early part of the year, and while the training was, let’s call it ‘intermittent’, I showed up anyway.
And what a way to see Cat Bells and Derwentwater.
Even with rain sweeping through in proper Lake District fashion, the route was spectacular. We took a boat across from Keswick to Low Brandlehow for the start, then headed south through beautiful (and very wet) woodland. The climb up onto the Cat Bells terrace was a long, steady up and up, rewarded with views that made the effort worth it. From there, the descent to Hawes End brought us to a checkpoint stocked with coke and crisps – elite fuelling, in my opinion – before the final stretch along the Cumbria Way back to Keswick and the finish at Crow Park.
6.6 miles. 825 feet of ascent. 90 minutes and 38 seconds.
For a hiker who does a bit of running on the side, with a training regime best described as ‘questionable’, I’m genuinely proud of that. I did my best. Kept moving. Saw the fells from a new angle. And running with hundreds of others in the rain made it feel like a shared adventure rather than a solitary challenge. Having friends cheer me over the finish line was the perfect ending.
Hiking the Cleveland Way
There was one week in May that I knew would be emotionally hard. So I chose the only thing that has ever reliably steadied me: I walked. From the National Trail stone marker in Helmsley to the one on Filey Brigg, across a trail that claims 109 miles but delivered much more than that, I followed the Cleveland Way for 6.5 days – three of them over 20 miles – through a landscape that never once made up its mind. On the first morning it was three degrees with torrential rain; by the end of the week it was thirty degrees and blazing sunshine. The moors were wild and exposed, the coastline dramatic and bright, and the bits in between were full of their own style. A whole route of contrasts.
This is what I mean when I talk about proactive grief; trying to live well even when sadness sits in the backpack with you. One foot in front of the other, through weather that tested me and climbs that made my legs swear, with emotional highs and lows arriving just as unpredictably as the rain showers.
Adventure Journal Series to Come
I’ll write a full adventure journal series soon (I have nearly 1,000 photos to sort!), but for now I’m sitting with the gratitude. Fiona helped me plan the whole thing, and Jenni walked most of it with me – steady company through the miles. Renate joined for a day, and we fell into easy conversation with a man called Richard along the way. The three solo days I had reminded me, calmly but firmly, that I can do hard things on my own.
I stayed in a hostel, country inns, B&Bs, and one blissfully air‑conditioned hotel that felt like a small miracle. I ate pie and mash, pizza, schnitzel, fish and chips, a Turkish kebab, and a frankly heroic amount of ice cream and cake. Gear included my adidas Terrex Skychaser Tech trainers and a brand new mint green Osprey pack. All of it stitched itself into a week that left me tired in the best possible way, held by people, places, and the trail itself.
Active Recovery
After finishing the Cleveland Way, I headed back to Cumbria for a few days of gentle winding down; time to let my feet stop throbbing, my lungs stop protesting, and my brain catch up with everything I’d just done. This meant long stretches in the garden when it was cool enough, time on the sofa when the outdoors was too hot, and a pleasing amount of mooching around in comfy clothes and slippers. There was great food, birthday cake, and a rather wonderful soft exhale.
But I also believe in active recovery, movement that isn’t demanding, but prevents the stiffness taking hold. So, Fiona and I headed up Burnbank Fell one evening to catch the sunset. It’s only 1.5 miles to the top, but some of that is steep enough to make you question your life choices. Still, I made it up in forty minutes, which is honestly not bad for someone who had just walked a hundred‑plus miles. The summit gave us the whole world in warm light: cotton grass swaying, the air still holding the heat of the day, the sun turning red as if performing just for us. We sat on our mats (my trusty Pacmat Patch, naturally), drank tea, and talked about life, the universe, and everything. It felt like a reward.
Fellside Sauna at Ullswater
The next day brought a different kind of restoration: a return to Fellside Sauna, this time on the banks of Ullswater. The setup here is beautifully simple: an eight‑person, hand‑built, wood‑fired Finnish‑style sauna tucked into a meadow below Another Place hotel, with views across the lake to the fells beyond. At 17 degrees, the air was cooler than the heatwave I’d walked through, and Ullswater was choppy with paddleboarders and kayakers launching from the jetty. Inside, though, the sauna was a toasty 105 degrees until we sensibly cooled it to something closer to 90.
It was just me and one other lady, both of us quietly mesmerised by the huge picture window framing the lake. I took one cold dip in Ullswater before retreating to the plunge pool on the deck – far less chaotic than dodging paddleboards – and finished the hour with chamomile, lemon, and honey tea (which I must buy, it was delicious). It was good for my muscles, yes, but even better for my soul.
That evening, I wasn’t up for another big climb, but I also didn’t want to waste what looked like another spectacular sunset. So, we wandered up the local crag instead, a smaller hill, a gentler ascent, but still a beautiful vantage point. The sky delivered again, and it felt like a fitting, quiet full‑stop to my time in Cumbria.
A Massage Back Home
And because I wanted my recovery to be as complete as possible, I booked my first ever deep tissue massage. I’ll admit I was a little anxious: my calf muscles have been tight and knotted since my teenage years (thank you, hockey and triple jump), and the idea of someone digging into them on purpose felt… bold. But so many people swear by post‑effort massages that I decided to trust the process.
And honestly? It was wonderful. It hurt, of course – a kind of sharp, necessary discomfort that makes you wince as you breathe through it – but it also felt like something good was happening. I can see why people make a habit of it.
Part of me is now curious what life might feel like with unknotted calves and shoulders, though I suspect that could become an expensive hobby. Still, as a way of helping my body recover before the reality of ‘normal life’ swept back in, it was absolutely worth it.
Sauna Craft – Making a Sauna Hat
To round off May, I found myself back at Flo Wellbeing, the setting of one of my earlier Sauna Stories, but this time for something a little different: a sauna hat making workshop. Sauna‑loving friend Jenny and I signed up partly for the novelty, partly for the craft, and partly because when you’re deep into sauna culture, making your own hat suddenly feels like a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Saturday.
If you’re unfamiliar, a sauna hat is a felted wool hat worn in hot saunas to protect your head from overheating. Wool is naturally insulating, so it stops your scalp from getting too hot too quickly and helps you stay in the heat longer without feeling overwhelmed. They also prevent your hair from drying out or becoming brittle in high temperatures. In Finnish and Baltic traditions, sauna hats are both practical and playful: a heat‑management tool, cultural quirk, and even a fashion statement in a ‘forest witch chic’ sort of way.
Crafting for the Heat
The workshop itself was good fun, even if not entirely successful. I loved learning how to felt – that is, taking tiny wisps of fine wool and coaxing them into a solid, seamless shape. My hat is, well, it exists. It’s a bit thick, not the most elegant, and definitely not winning any awards, but I’m reasonably happy with it. The only real downside was time: the workshop simply wasn’t long enough. We ran over by an hour and still didn’t get to personalise our hats (so no learning needle felting), and they were too wet to use in our sauna session that afternoon. A small shame, but we’ve fed that back, and Flo have already said they’ll extend future workshops.
After a very quick packed lunch, we headed into our 1.5‑hour sauna, swim and hot tub session. The lake was glorious: warm air, cool water, and the two of us swimming all the way out to the pontoon. It was nothing short of wonderful.
I don’t think you’ll see me donning my handmade hat very often, if I’m honest, but I love that this strange sauna journey has given me new skills, new experiences, and – most importantly – a new friend to share them with.
See You Next Time…
May began with me wondering whether doing nothing made me lazy: two quiet weekends where I pottered, frittered, and felt guilty for not filling every hour with purpose. And yet the month unfolded into one of the most movement‑filled stretches I’ve had in a long time: a rain‑swept trail run around Derwentwater, a 6.5‑day hike following the Cleveland Way, and then a week of active recovery that taught me rest doesn’t have to be the opposite of effort.
Writing this journal, I realise May held all ends of the scale: the stillness of slow mornings and the joy of sunset climbs, the heat of saunas and the cool shock of lakes, the quiet of mooching around in slippers and the satisfaction of letting my body move again. Maybe ‘nothing’ was never the problem; maybe it was simply part of the cycle.
And with June already taking shape, I can assure you there will be more of the same. I mean, no long-distance hike, but plenty of movement, a little stillness, and whatever else life decides to place in the space between.
If you enjoyed this month’s journal, you might also like the two new Sauna Stories I published in May: Wiltshire Wild Sauna and the Estonian Smoke Sauna. My Month of Theatre roundup includes eight mini‑reviews that might inspire a trip (or several), and my latest Currently Loving is live too. I’ve also started my Three Countries in a Week series, beginning with 36 hours in Riga, with the first three videos from that trip are now up on my YouTube channel if you fancy a little armchair travelling.
See you next time.