Wednesday 12th August 2026

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This morning my brain felt quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was one of those mornings where I wanted to write, yet the words simply wouldn’t come.

So instead of forcing them, I did what helps me most. I put on my shoes, picked up the dogs’ leads and headed out into nature.

As I walked, I realised something. Not every day has to begin with finding the right words.

Some days begin with just finding the right place.

The sunrise hid behind layers of cloud, yet its light still found a way through.

The water reflected the sky so perfectly it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

The bridge stretched out ahead of me, inviting me to keep walking, one step at a time.

Living with Alzheimer’s can often feel like searching for words that sit just beyond my reach. Thoughts become tangled, concentration fades and frustration creeps in. But out here, none of that matters.

The birds don’t care if I forget a word.

The clouds don’t mind if I lose my train of thought.

The water asks nothing of me except to stop and look.

Nature has a wonderful way of slowing everything down. It reminds me that I don’t always have to achieve something. Sometimes it’s enough simply to be present.

Ironically, it was only after my walk that the words began to return.

Perhaps that’s nature’s greatest gift. It doesn’t just calm my mind, it gently gives it room to breathe again.

I don’t pretend dementia is easy. I simply try to keep going because I can’t let it have the final word. There is still wonder in a moonlit room at 1:27 a.m. when sleep won’t come. There is still beauty in birds gliding across still water on a day when my head feels muddled. There are still clouds painted across the morning sky, reminding me to stop and look. And sometimes, simply finding the strength to put one foot in front of the other is enough….

And tomorrow, I’ll do it all again.

Monday 10th August 2026

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We pull into the car park. Cars are everywhere, with not a single space to be found, so we park on the main road and walk the short distance to the care home entrance.

Hubby gently squeezes my hand. “You OK?”

I nod, but the truth is I’m not OK.

Inside, I’m terrified of what I’m about to see. Every visit feels like dementia takes me out of my present and drags me into a future I’m not ready to face.

We sign the visitors’ book and make our way up the stairs to the first floor. The push buttons on the walls that unlock the corridor doors always confuse me for a moment, although I understand why they’re there.

The corridors are empty. The smell of disinfectant drifts from open doorways as the cleaners go about their work. At least it doesn’t smell of urine, as some care homes sadly do.

Slightly unsure of where I’m going, Hubby gently leads me through the maze of corridors, past the many different coloured doors, until we reach the TV room.

Through the glass window I spot my dad.

He’s slumped in a chair, looking so tiny and frail. A nurse is tending to the wounds from his previous falls and checking the fresh scrapes on his back from another recent fall. She also takes his blood pressure.

Dad looks at me and says, “You need to take me home, or I’m going to kill myself.”

I gently cup his frail face.

“Dad, please don’t say that. It really upsets me when you talk like that.”

He looks at me and quietly stops.

It’s so hard not to let my emotions take over. As I step back to sit down, the nurse catches my eye and simply smiles. It isn’t a smile that needs words; it’s one that says, I understand. Sometimes that kind of kindness means everything.

The nurse continues checking Dad over.

“She’s a good nurse,” Dad says. “I like her.”

We all smile, as she quietly leaves the room.

I look around.

People sit with their heads bowed. Some appear to be asleep. There are the occasional mumbled sounds, but no real conversation, no stimulation. The only noise is the rattle of the tea trolley as it’s wheeled into the middle of the room.

“Who wants a cup of tea? Coffee, Mavis?”

No response.

Plastic cups are placed on tables or gently put into people’s hands. Some forget they’re even holding them as the warm drinks slowly drip onto their laps. Staff return every so often to see if anyone has finished, but most of the drinks remain untouched or have been spilt.

Dad’s coffee sits on the table, slowly going cold as he comments on how awful the mug is. “ The bloody handle bends, awful cups here”

We do our best changing conversations to distract my Dad from his agitation of wanting to leave the care home. I take out my iPad and scroll through old family photographs. Almost instantly, his attention changes. He begins telling me who people are and where the photographs were taken. His voice is soft now, he mumbles more which makes understanding difficult sometimes. There are still moments of joy in his eyes and smiles as he points to certain people, touching the iPad screen.

As we continue looking through them, I notice a pattern. Some photographs bring him comfort and happiness, while others stir difficult memories. I quickly learn which ones to scroll past to avoid upsetting or agitating him.

Time slips by, and before long it’s almost lunchtime.

People begin to be woken and moved from their chairs using hoists. As they are lifted, urine-soaked cushions are left behind. My heart sinks. All I can think about is how long they may have been sitting there in wet incontinence pads.

Perhaps every person involved in care training should spend just a few hours wearing an incontinence pad. Not as an exercise to embarrass them, but so they can truly understand how uncomfortable, undignified and isolating it can feel to sit in one for hours.

These last two weeks have heightened my fears about care homes even more.

As someone living with young onset Alzheimer’s disease, I can’t help but see glimpses of what could be my future. It leaves me thinking that some serious conversations need to happen about what good dementia care should look like, and about my own future wishes, while I can still make them known.

It’s almost as though my Dad is trying to tell me something, to warn me.

More than anything, I want you to know that if the day ever comes when you need care, make sure people still see you as a person…Not just another resident sitting in a chair.

Friday 7th August 2026

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I woke during the night. It should have been dark, yet shadows were dancing across my bedroom walls, leaving me feeling slightly confused.

“Is it morning already?”

I glanced at my watch.

1:27 a.m.

But why was it so light?

Curious, I made my way over to the window. There, staring back at me, was a beautiful full moon. The moon was glowing brightly even through wisps of cloud drifted across its face, creating a striking contrast between light and darkness.

Wow… it was so bright.

No bedside lamp was needed. The moon’s radiant glow had slipped through the gaps in my blinds, creating a completely different world inside my bedroom.

A world filled with silhouettes and shadows.

A world that felt both magical and mysterious.

The shadows climbed the walls and draped themselves across the furniture, transforming my familiar room into somewhere entirely different. My imagination began to wander as everyday objects took on new identities.

My eyes and brain worked overtime, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

The dressing gown hanging on the back of my bedroom door suddenly looked intimidating.

“Is that someone standing in my room?”

A second glance.

“No… it’s only my dressing gown.”

It made me smile.

The simplest of objects can become something quite unexpected when moonlight and shadows begin to play together.

Unable to sleep, I lay beneath the duvet watching the silhouettes slowly shift around the room as the moon continued its journey across the night sky.

I wonder…

Do you ever see moonlit shadows in your room?

Do they ever play tricks on your mind?

Eventually, I climbed out of bed and stood quietly at the window, simply watching the bright silver moon illuminating the sleeping world below.

I reached for my camera.

Looking through the lens, the moon suddenly felt much closer. I could see its pockmarked surface, its deep craters and endless textures.

It made me wonder.

What is the moon really like?

Is it dusty?

What would the surface feel like beneath your feet?

Does the moon have a smell?

There is something wonderful about allowing your imagination to ask questions that may never be answered.

Eventually I returned to bed, snuggled beneath the cosy duvet and watched the moon peeking through the blinds until sleep quietly found me.

The next time I opened my eyes, the silver moon had disappeared.

In its place, was the golden sun which was rising above the rooftops.

A new day had begun.

Wednesday 5th August 2026

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Having just recently come back from a short break, I thought it would be useful to share some of my tips for taking a holiday whilst living with Alzheimer’s.

When I leave home, I’m leaving behind my security, my comfort and, most importantly, my familiarity. Going away can be wonderful, but it also brings challenges that many people don’t see. With a little planning, those challenges can become much easier to manage.

Here are some of the things that help me. They may not work for everyone, but perhaps they will give you or someone you love a few ideas if dementia is coming along on holiday too.

One of the biggest comforts for me is taking familiar items from home. I always pack my own knife and fork and my favourite china mug. There’s just something comforting about drinking my morning cup of tea from a mug that feels familiar.

I also never travel without my own pillow. The comfort, the familiar feel and even the smell of freshly washed cotton help me settle much more quickly in an unfamiliar place.

Another essential is a clock. Holiday accommodation rarely seems to have one, but being able to see the time helps me stay orientated and stick to my daily routine. Routine is incredibly important to me, wherever I am.

Talking of routine, I always try to keep to it as much as possible. We usually have a plan for each day. It doesn’t have to be packed full of activities, but simply knowing what we’re doing helps reduce my anxiety and stops me feeling overwhelmed.

Packing used to be one of the most stressful parts of going away, so over time I’ve created laminated packing lists. Before each holiday I simply tick everything off with a dry-wipe pen, then wipe it clean afterwards ready for next time. It has taken a few holidays to get the list just right, but now it makes life so much easier.

Another thing that has transformed packing is having duplicates of many everyday items. Not everything, of course, but enough to make life easier. My holiday wash bag is always stocked and ready with toiletries, first aid items and medication. I also keep duplicate nightwear, underwear, socks, towels, a swimsuit, my mug, knife and fork, a clock, dog bowls, dog blankets, dog towels and lots of other holiday essentials stored in clear stacker boxes.

This means that when it’s time to pack, I’m not searching around the house trying to remember everything. I simply take the boxes and only need to add my clothes. If you have the space, I really recommend keeping duplicates together in clear storage boxes, or even in your suitcase, ready for your next trip.

We’ve also learned that the type of accommodation makes a huge difference. Self-catering lodges work really well for us because they give us the freedom to keep our own routine. We can eat what we want, when we want, and we don’t feel restricted.

Hotels, on the other hand, can be much more difficult for me. Long corridors that all look the same can become confusing. Meals are served at set times rather than when I’m hungry, and unfamiliar foods can sometimes make me feel uncomfortable. It’s often the little differences that create the biggest challenges.

Whenever possible, we choose somewhere peaceful, surrounded by nature. We also return to places we’ve enjoyed before. Familiarity builds confidence, and that makes it much easier for me to relax.

One of the most important parts of my day is my early morning walk. Being outside in nature helps settle my mind. If, for some reason, I can’t have that walk, it can leave me feeling unsettled and throw the rest of my day out of sync. It’s a reminder that what may seem like a small routine can actually be a very important part of someone’s wellbeing.

Always allow plenty of time. Feeling rushed when you live with dementia can quickly lead to confusion, anxiety and frustration. We may simply not be able to keep up with everyone else’s pace, and that’s perfectly okay.

It’s also worth having a backup plan if the weather changes or plans need to alter. Holidays don’t have to go exactly as expected to be successful. Sometimes the best memories are made on the days that turn out completely differently.

Most importantly, remember that holidays with someone living with dementia can still be enjoyable, meaningful and full of happy moments. A little extra planning, a little flexibility and a lot of understanding can make all the difference.

The aim isn’t to have the perfect holiday. It’s to create a holiday where everyone feels comfortable, supported and able to make precious memories together.

And finally… don’t forget to take photographs. Put together a little album when you get home. Those photographs may become far more valuable than you realise, helping you revisit special moments and creating memories that can be shared time and time again.

Monday 3rd August 2026

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I’m grieving something that hasn’t happened yet. As a daughter, I’m watching my dad’s dementia progress, while quietly facing the possibility of my own future. I can’t help but wonder, “Will this one day be me?” Those two emotions collide, making this one of the hardest blogs I’ve ever written. But I also know it’s one of the most important.

A few days ago, I went to visit my dad in his care home. He is there for a couple of weeks to give my mum a well-earned break.

Caring for someone with dementia is exhausting, physically and emotionally, and respite is so important.

The care home itself was lovely. It was clean, bright and thoughtfully designed. Each bedroom door was a different colour, making it easier for residents to find their room. The bedrooms had everything they needed, a comfortable bed, a wet room, windows that opened to let fresh air in a tv and most importantly a beautiful view over the garden.

Then comes the “but.”

It didn’t feel like home.

Please don’t misunderstand me. This isn’t a criticism of the care home or the dedicated staff who work so hard to make life comfortable for the people living there. It is simply how it felt to me.

As someone living with Alzheimer’s, walking through those corridors was difficult. I wasn’t just visiting my dad; I was also catching glimpses of a future that I hope is still a long way off. Every resident I passed reminded me that dementia can take us to places we never expected to travel.

Sitting in the communal room was especially hard. I looked around at the people being cared for. Some sat quietly with bowed heads, others seemed lost in their own world, and only the occasional voice broke the silence with a few mumbled words. I couldn’t help but wonder about the lives they had lived, the families who loved them, and the stories that had shaped them.

My heart ached.

It wasn’t because I was judging the care home, it was because, for the first time, I wasn’t just seeing other people living with dementia. I was seeing a future that I hope is still a long way from my own. That realisation was heartbreaking.

I found myself wondering, Could this one day be me?

That thought stayed with me long after I left.

Home is more than four walls. It is the smells and personal belongings of my own, photographs that tells stories, a chair or sofa that fits you perfectly, familiar sounds, so many treasured memories in those walls and then there is hubby who know my little routines without having to explain.

A care home can provide excellent care, safety and kindness, but for many of us living with dementia it also represents something else. It represents another piece of independence being handed over. That is a difficult thought to carry.

Seeing my dad there reminded me of how important it is to make the most of today. To appreciate my home I live in now, the walks I can still take with Toby and Sooty, the cups of tea in my favourite mug, the laughter with my hubby, and the simple pleasures that make life feel familiar.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. None of us do.

What I do know is that every person living in that care home has a lifetime of stories, love, achievements and memories behind them. Dementia may have changed their path, and it should not change their worth.

As I left, I gave my dad a hug. I realised that perhaps the most important thing we can bring into a care home isn’t gifts. It’s ourselves.

Taking the time to communicate, to comfort, to hold a hand and simply be there can mean more than we will ever know. Sometimes, our presence is the greatest gift of all.

As we drove away, I felt emotional. Not because the care home wasn’t kind, it was. I felt emotional because dementia has a way of making me look ahead when id rather stay in the present.

My dad. The man who taught me so much, who has loved, laughed provided and cared for me and my mum, whose life is far bigger than his diagnosis. Dementia may have changed him, but dementia will never change who he is to me.

Friday 31st July 2026

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Someone recently asked me a question that really made me stop and think.

“Knowing what you know now, would you still have pursued your dementia diagnosis?”

My first answer was simple.

“No.”

Then I paused.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised my answer wasn’t as straightforward as I first believed.

When I was diagnosed with young-onset Alzheimer’s disease, there was, in many ways, a sense of relief. After months of uncertainty, I finally had an explanation for what was happening to me. I wasn’t imagining it. I had answers.

But little did I know how much my life would change.

Little did I know that people would begin treating me differently.

Little did I know that I would often be talked over as though I wasn’t even there.

Little did I know that some people would stop taking me seriously.

Little did I know that friends and neighbours would quietly drift away.

Little did I know there would be days when I would feel incredibly lonely.

Little did I know how little support there would be for someone my age.

Little did I know that living with dementia would sometimes feel like a game of snakes and ladders—making progress one day, only to find yourself sliding backwards the next.

Those losses are real, and they hurt.

But they are not the whole story.

Amongst the heartbreak have been countless positives that I could never have imagined.

My diagnosis gave me something incredibly valuable: the chance to plan ahead. Knowing what I was living with meant I could make my own decisions while I was able. I could talk openly about my wishes and have a say in my future.

It also changed my outlook on life.

The things I once thought mattered suddenly became much less important. Instead, relationships, nature, creativity and life’s simple pleasures moved to the very top of my list.

In many ways, my life has become calmer and freer.

I now have the time to discover what truly brings me joy.

Before dementia, I would never have imagined myself painting, taking photographs, writing blogs, gardening, speaking publicly or campaigning to improve the lives of others living with dementia.

Yet here I am.

Sometimes a diagnosis doesn’t just reveal what you’ve lost—it also uncovers strengths and talents that have been quietly waiting in the background all along.

Sharing my experiences has allowed me to challenge misconceptions about dementia while, hopefully, helping others feel a little less frightened and a little less alone.

Talking matters.

Every conversation helps people understand dementia a little better. Every story chips away at the stigma. Every honest experience reminds someone else that they are not facing this alone.

Living with dementia is about adapting, finding new ways to do the things you love, and continuing to build a life that is meaningful.

Being diagnosed at a younger age brings many unique challenges, but it also brings opportunities. Opportunities to educate. Opportunities to change outdated perceptions. Opportunities to show that dementia is not simply about decline.

It is about living.

It is about finding purpose.

It is about making memories, even when remembering them becomes harder.

So, knowing what I know now, would I still pursue my diagnosis?

My answer has changed.

Yes.

Not because the diagnosis made life easier…it didn’t.

Not because it took away the fear…it couldn’t.

But because it gave me understanding.

It gave me choices.

It gave me a voice.

Most importantly, it reminded me that a diagnosis does not change who you are.

It simply gives a name to the condition I’m living with.

Im still the person i have always been with my silly ways, my talents, my love, my experiences…those things still remain because they are part of me.

Dementia may become part of your story.

Dementia never becomes the whole story.

Monday 27th July 2026

People often think the hardest part of living with dementia happens behind closed doors, but for me, some of the greatest challenges begin the moment I step outside my front door.

To many people, it’s simply popping to the shops, catching a bus, attending an appointment or meeting a friend for coffee. For me, each of those everyday activities can involve careful planning, quiet determination, anxiety and courage.

The outside world moves quickly. People are in a hurry. Conversations happen at speed. Instructions are often given once and expected to be remembered. Signs can be confusing, unfamiliar places overwhelming and unexpected changes enough to leave my brainfeeling completely overloaded.

There are days when I stand in a supermarket aisle unable to remember what I needed. A loud tannoy announcement to make me jump and loose my train of thought. Bright lighting or busy crowds can make my thoughts disappear in an instant. I may smile, but inside I’m desperately trying to make sense of everything around me.

Travelling can be another hurdle. Even somewhere I’ve visited before can suddenly feel unfamiliar. Road diversions, cancelled trains or a last-minute change of plans may seem like a small inconvenience to someone else, but to me a person living with dementia it can completely unravel the anxiety that sits within.

Then there are the invisible hurdles.

Trying to follow conversations when several people are talking at once.

Remembering names while concentrating on where I’m walking.

Finding the right words when my brain knows what I want to say but simply can’t retrieve them.

Feeling embarrassed when I need someone to repeat themselves because my brain couldn’t process what they said quickly enough.

These aren’t signs that I’m not listening or not trying. My brain is simply working much harder than it used to.

One of the biggest misconceptions is that because I can still do something one day, I should be able to do it the next.

Dementia doesn’t work like that. My abilities can change from hour to hour depending on how tired I am, how anxious I’m feeling or how much information my brain has already processed that day.

Sometimes people become impatient. They step in thinking that they are being kind and finish my sentences, speak over me or just assume I don’t understand. The truth is, I usually understand far more than people realise. I simply just need a little more time.

Kindness costs nothing.

A little patience can preserve someone’s confidence.

A smile can ease anxiety.

Waiting an extra few seconds before repeating a question or rushing to help can make all the difference.

Living with dementia doesn’t mean I want to stop living. I still want to explore nature, enjoy days out, meet people and make memories. It simply means I may need to do those things a little differently.

The world doesn’t have to change completely for people like me whom live with dementia. What we really need is more education and understanding because the biggest difference comes from the smallest acts of giving time, being patient and listening.

When we make our communities more dementia-friendly, we don’t just help people living with dementia. We create an easier kinder world for everyone.

Despite the challenges the outside world can bring, I still choose to step outside. Because beyond the noise, the crowds and the confusion, there is birdsong waiting to be heard, fresh air waiting to be breathed, and moments of peace that remind me life with dementia is still a life worth living.

Friday 24th July 2026

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Living with dementia and going away on holiday doesn’t mean I come home feeling fully recharged. In fact, sometimes it has the opposite effect. While a holiday can be enjoyable and give me precious moments away from everyday life, returning home means having to adjust all over again.

Routine is incredibly important when you live with dementia. Being away from home can disrupt my routine, and once I’m back it can take days, sometimes even longer, for my brain to settle. I can feel confused, agitated and completely drained of energy. Simple things that were second nature before we went away suddenly need more thought, which can be frustrating.

People often assume a holiday is time to relax and recharge, but for someone with dementia there is so much extra processing involved. New places, different surroundings, unfamiliar sounds, changes in routine and constantly adapting all take a great deal of mental effort. Even if I’ve had a wonderful time, my brain has been working overtime.

People might say, “You’ve just had a holiday, you must feel great!” But the reality can be very different. The holiday itself may have been wonderful, but the change in routine, unfamiliar surroundings, travelling, and then having to readjusting afterwards can leave your brain feeling as it’s just run a marathon…exhausted.

So, when I return home, I don’t bounce straight back into normal life. I need time. Time to find my rhythm again, time to reconnect with those familiar surroundings that make me feel safe, and time to let my brain recover from all the extra demands that come with taking a holiday.

It’s a reminder that living with dementia isn’t just about managing while you’re away on holiday. Coming home can be just as challenging, as it brings its own adjustments. You have to be patient with yourself and accept that it takes time to settle back into familiar routines.

Monday 20th July 2026

Before I share today’s blog, I want to say something that I don’t think is spoken about enough. Speaking out about dementia comes with a price. Most people are wonderfully kind and supportive, but every now and then there are comments that stop you in your tracks.

There is something people often forget when they leave a comment online or make a passing remark after hearing someone on the radio or seeing them on television.

There is a real person on the receiving end.

Over the last couple of days, following my radio and television appearances, I have been overwhelmed by the kindness of so many people. Your messages of support, encouragement and understanding have meant more than you could ever know.

But mixed amongst those messages have been comments that were hurtful, dismissive and, at times, quite insulting.

I have learned over the years that not everyone will understand dementia. Some people still believe there is only one way it should look, one way it should sound, and one way a person should behave. If you don’t fit into that picture, your diagnosis is questioned, your abilities are criticised, or your honesty is doubted.

Those words hurt!

Not because they change the reality of living with dementia, but because they ignore the courage it takes to speak publicly in the first place.

Every interview I agree to is accompanied by anxiety. I worry about remembering my words, losing my train of thought, saying the wrong thing or simply becoming overwhelmed. I don’t do interviews because I enjoy being in the spotlight. I do them because if sharing my life helps just one person feel less alone, or helps one family understand dementia a little better, then it is worth it.

What people see on a television screen or hear during a short radio interview is just a snapshot of my life. They don’t see the exhaustion afterwards. They don’t see the notes I rely on, the moments when my brain becomes foggy, or the emotional toll that comes with putting yourself out there for public judgement.

Words have power.

They can encourage someone to keep going, or they can make them question whether they should ever speak again.

Before pressing ‘send’ on a comment, perhaps ask yourself one simple question: Would I say this if that person was standing in front of me?

Kindness costs nothing, but it can mean everything.

I won’t stop talking about dementia because a handful of people choose to be unkind. In fact, comments like these remind me why these conversations are still so important. There is still so much misunderstanding, and while I have the voice to do so, I will continue to use it.

If my journey helps challenge just one misconception, gives one newly diagnosed person hope, or helps one family feel understood, then every interview, every blog and every difficult comment has served a purpose.

Dementia doesn’t take away our feelings.

It doesn’t make us immune to hurt.

If anything, it reminds us just how much compassion matters.

So, if there is one thing I would ask, it is this: choose your words carefully. You never truly know what someone is carrying, and your words may stay with them long after you’ve forgotten you ever wrote them, or in some cases said them.

Friday 17th July 2026

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I wake with a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, wondering what today will bring. Holidays and living with dementia can mean change, sometimes lots of change. With good planning, a holiday with dementia can absolutely work, but this trip has certainly had its ups and downs. It has been a real mixture of positives and negatives.

By 6.30am, I was out and about with every intention of walking all the way around the pond. It was a little cooler this morning, with a fresh breeze blowing, but the sun was beginning to break through the clouds, making it feel quite pleasant.

We followed the gravel path as far as the last lodge before stepping onto the grassy area at the far end of the large pond. I remembered from a previous walk that the gravel path continued somewhere ahead, so I made my way across the grass until I caught sight of it.

I hadn’t been walking long before I began to feel uncomfortable. I couldn’t work out where to go next. Suddenly, I didn’t know where I was. Not wanting to become lost, I stopped and stood still, slowly looking around in every direction. Then I spotted the lakeside lodges. They looked familiar, so I decided to turn around and head back towards them.

It was as though my brain had experienced a brief glitch. I don’t have moments like this very often, but when I do, they can be quite unsettling. Seeing that last lodge brought an overwhelming sense of comfort because, in that instant, I knew exactly where I was again.

Back at the lodge, there was only one thing for it…it was definitely time for a cup of tea!

After breakfast, I could only manage half a croissant as my stomach was still feeling a little unsettled. With the dogs in tow, we set off for a walk along the River Annan, just a couple of miles from where we were staying. Before long, we reached a small car park that marked the entrance to the riverside pathway.

It was a little breezier this morning as we wandered beneath the tree-lined path, watching leaves dance through the air before gently falling to the ground. There were plenty of other dog walkers about, so we kept a respectful distance. Sooty can be a real handful whenever he spots another dog. He likes to think he’s top dog and believes no other dogs should come anywhere near his space.

The river itself was wonderfully peaceful. There weren’t many birds around, just a lone heron patiently searching for breakfast and the occasional duck drifting quietly with the current. We found a bench and sat for a while, soaking up the views and enjoying the tranquillity of our surroundings.

Then, in an instant, the calm was broken. A sheepdog appeared, off its lead, staring intently at Sooty, who immediately transformed into the red-eyed monster, growling and barking as he defended what he believed was his territory. The sheepdog’s owners seemed completely oblivious until they got closer. Their only response was, “Move on.” Thankfully, the dog did, although not before throwing a few aggressive barks over its shoulder as it glared at Sooty.

With the peace disturbed, we decided we had walked far enough. It was time to turn around and retrace our steps back to the car. After all that excitement, it was definitely time to refuel. Lunch was calling.

After lunch, we decided on a road trip to Dumfries. Unfortunately, roadworks seemed to be everywhere, making the journey far more stressful and much longer than we had expected. I don’t know what it is about this holiday, but my anxiety has felt heightened and my usual sense of comfort has been all over the place.

Once we arrived, we parked the car and enjoyed a gentle walk alongside the river before wandering into the town centre, stopping every now and then to take a few photographs.

After a while, we decided it was time for refreshments. Hubby went inside the café to order tea and cake while I found us a table outside, sitting quietly and watching the world go by. When he returned, he carefully placed our teas and cakes on the table. I had just reached for the sugar when, out of nowhere, I felt what seemed like a slap across my face. It made me jump. To our amazement, a seagull had swooped down in a split second flown off with our cakes! We couldn’t believe how quickly it had happened, and neither could the gentleman sitting at the next table.

He turned out to be quite a character. Within minutes, we knew all about his family, where they lived, the jobs he’d had over the years and plenty more besides. In fact, we got his entire life story in about fifteen minutes! We barely managed to get a word in edgeways. After several polite attempts to leave, we finally managed to make our escape, wished him a good day, and headed back to the car.

The drive back to the lodge would be our last, as tomorrow morning we would be setting off for home in Lancashire. Back at the lodge, it was time to pack our belongings, enjoy our evening meal and simply relax for the rest of the evening.

It’s certainly been an interesting break. Although I’ve made some lovely memories, it’s not somewhere I would choose to visit again. Sometimes a place just doesn’t feel quite right, and for me, this was one of those places.