The world from my window

As our plans to move abroad for a year progress, there are complaints in certain quarters. 'What about Book Club?' says the Fragrant Mrs Putter. 'Discussion by Skype?' I suggest. 'Who's going to be village hall chairman?' Mr Loggins wails. 'Somebody else?' Mr Grigg says. 'You can't go, you'll miss the harvest supper. We want Mr Grigg and his crew to do their YMCA routine as a finale,' says the parson's daughter. Celebrity Farmer's mother says: 'You've got come back to organise the fun day next year.' Well, we won't. And village life will go on. 'No it won't,' says someone else. 'It won't be the same without you.' It's flattering, all of this, but the village will still exist, things will still happen. Other people will step up to the plate and become catalysts.Lots of exciting things are on the horizon. It's just that we won't be there for some of them. Li...

Underneath the clock at Waterloo Station, the gateway to my Western world, weary women in pink leg warmers, trainers and bras over tee-shirts walk by, survivors from the London Moonwalk. I am on my way home from The City Where No-one Ever Speaks To Strangers and the camaraderie and sense of achievement emanating from these women is humbling. I have left my old friend out in the suburbs in a Brief Encounter-like moment on a station platform. Yesterday I did my pitch at the travel writing workshop. I was buoyed up by euphoria after being told by the trainer Dea Birkett that my notes in an exercise about using all the senses sounded like poetry. But when it came to pitching an idea to Dan Linstead, the editor of Wanderlust , my heart was knocking so hard against my chest I thought I might have to let it out and shake hands with everyone round the table. Rather bravely, I went straight in with my first paragraph about the wind turbines in Puglia, encircling me like a sinister army , an...