Well, it’s a lonely road that you have chosen.
Keane
The Sound of Holidays
There are two things that don’t believe in holidays — donkeys and church bells.
At exactly seven o’clock, both begin their performance. The church bell starts like it’s been waiting all night to remind everyone about guilt and punctuality. The donkeys join in a few beats later, braying from the field like a gospel choir that never agreed on a key. Together they create a symphony of holy and wholly unnecessary noise.
I came here to rest. To find peace, perspective, or at least a nap longer than seven hours. My holidays are always about hiking — long walks through valleys, chasing horizons, pretending to find myself while secretly hoping I don’t lose mobile reception. The idea is to silence the inner chaos, to let my inner Jacques Cousteau finally meet calm waters.
Cousteau was the underwater poet of exploration — the man who made curiosity look like faith itself.
Instead, it feels like he’s installed a KITT engine in my brain — the talking car from Knight Rider — revving louder every time I try to meditate.
Yes, that one — the dramatic ’80s car who thought in sarcasm and saved the day at 200 km/h.
Now I’m captured by another sound: heavy rain and thunder rolling across the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, here in the Azores. The KITT engine is running at full speed, and writing with a glass of wine and coffee feels like just the right fuel mix to keep it going.
And somewhere between the braying, the bells, and the storm, I realise peace might not be silent after all.
Life Among Donkeys
The donkeys live next door — literally. Their stable is about five steps from my front door, which means I’ve technically moved in with neighbours who never stop talking about breakfast. They are slow, stubborn, and unapologetically loud. I admire that. There’s something impressive about an animal that refuses to hurry for anyone.
Before this trip, my daughter and I agreed she would stay with my mother. It wasn’t a negotiation; it was survival. At the moment, she can’t quite take care of herself. Without me, her life becomes a buffet of frozen pizza, nicotine, energy drinks, TikTok, and marinating in her own odours and make-up. So, just a regular teenager.
And to be fair, her menu isn’t that different from mine at her age — just more vintage. Fries from the freezer, cigarettes, coffee, and beer. My teenage years were illuminated by disco lights instead of a phone screen, and my make-up was never washed off because of late-night moves. Different lighting, same story.
After booking three unused bus tickets, juggling a few international phone calls about her creative interpretation of responsibility, and trying to locate her father, I finally accepted that help was unlikely to arrive — because it was moose-hunting season. Apparently, moose wait for no man. Or rather, no man waits for a teenager in crisis when there’s a four-legged trophy in sight.
That was the exact moment I remembered why I made him exit my life.
Once she arrived safely — to my mother’s immense joy and my mild disbelief — I could finally stop being irritated at her and start focusing on being irritated about something else.
The Uphill Department
On paper, renting a mountain bike seemed like a healthy coping mechanism. Fresh air, freedom, movement — all those words people use right before they regret leaving the sofa.
The island is made of hills. Not gentle, cinematic slopes, but volcanic walls pretending to be roads. Every ascent feels like an accusation. The locals pass me in small trucks, carrying hay and dignity. I carry shame, sweat, and an unreasonable belief that I’m having fun.
Downhills, though — they’re pure joy. I fly past hydrangeas, stone walls, and cows that look surprised to see enthusiasm at this altitude. Wind in my hair, brakes squealing, I’m suddenly convinced life is easy again. But it never lasts. Because every downhill, like every good moment, ends with the sight of another hill waiting patiently to ruin it.
I start pondering which I actually prefer — the climbs or the falls. On the top, the view is magnificent; on the bottom, the air smells like relief. Maybe happiness is just the brief gasp in between.
Somewhere between the fourth and fifth hill, I notice I’m bargaining with myself: one more climb, one more push, one more metaphor for life. The KITT engine in my head is roaring with motivational nonsense — “You can do this! You are the mountain!” Meanwhile, my actual lungs are filing for divorce.
When I finally stop, I lean the bike against a stone wall and laugh out loud. The donkeys in the next field stare at me like I’ve joined their religion. Maybe I have. They move slowly, eat steadily, and never sign up for mountain biking.
The Pleasures of Going Solo
The best part of travelling alone is that no one’s around to question your schedule — or your pleasures. Solitude comes with a surprising number of them, in all possible meanings of the word. Let’s just say I’ve learned to keep myself entertained, both mentally and geographically, solo.
Cousteau curiosity is a dangerous thing on land. It makes you wander off-trail “just for a quick look” and return three hours later with muddy shoes, wet hair, and the kind of grin that belongs to people who’ve discovered something they can’t quite explain.
Proof that exploration rarely goes as planned — above or below water.
In the Azores, that curiosity has led me to waterfall ponds so clear they look photoshopped and to an abandoned factory swallowed by ivy, its rusted machines now garden ornaments for ghosts.
Each discovery feels intimate, like a secret you share only with yourself. There’s no one to hurry you, no one to comment, no one to turn the moment into a selfie. Just you, the smell of damp stone, and the sound of water dripping through time.
And maybe that’s why I sometimes prefer fantasy to reality — not because I’m afraid of people, but because imagination doesn’t interrupt. In my head, conversations flow, timing is perfect, and no one forgets to text back. It’s a world where affection doesn’t expire, and silence isn’t rejection but peace.
Maybe that’s the true pleasure of travelling solo — you learn that some of the best company exists in the quiet spaces you make for yourself.
The Budget MasterChef
Back at the farm, my luxury is found in the kitchen. It’s not much — a small stove, two pans that have seen better decades, and a knife that would fail any health inspection. But give me fresh ingredients from the farm owner and I’ll turn it into a five-star moment.
There’s a small, almost indecent joy in finding a bottle of red wine for € 1.69 — with a discount. It tastes exactly how life feels right now: a bit rough around the edges, slightly acidic, but honest. I pour a glass, call it a culinary decision, and decide I’m winning at adulthood.
Mornings here move slowly, the kind of slow that gives meaning to brunch. Coffee in a pan — the old-school kind that tastes like determination — and a plate that looks like effort disguised as leisure. It’s the art of pretending to relax while secretly congratulating yourself for being productive about it.
My days follow a rhythm of reading, walking, cooking, and occasional tapas with naps — or naps with cramps, depending on how ambitious the hiking was. Every sore muscle reminds me of the uphills, every glass of wine makes peace with them.
Tonight’s menu: tomatoes that taste like actual sun, goat cheese so local the supplier keeps interrupting me with brays, and herbs I can’t pronounce but pretend I can. Add a drizzle of olive oil that smells like summer, and suddenly my budget trip feels like a Mediterranean cooking show where the host is slightly unhinged but deeply committed to flavour.
I chop, stir, taste, and pretend there’s an invisible camera crew documenting this triumph of simplicity. Somewhere, in another version of my life, I’m probably the companion everyone wants on a trip like this — cooking, laughing, pouring wine, turning disasters into recipes.
But here, it’s just me. And maybe that’s enough. Because in a world obsessed with sharing plates, I find something beautiful about cooking for one. You don’t have to impress anyone — just feed yourself well and keep the donkeys from stealing the garnish.
The Ride Home (or How to Keep Going)
The last day always arrives disguised as ordinary. Same church bell, same donkeys, same stubborn hills pretending not to care that I’m leaving.
I take the mountain bike out one more time, just to say goodbye to the climbs that nearly killed me. The wind is softer today, or maybe I am. Going uphill feels less like punishment, more like punctuation — a pause before the next paragraph of ordinary life.
From the top, the view stretches like a deep breath. Below me, the fields fold into the ocean, a patchwork of green and silver. I remember the downhills, the crashes, the cramps, the discount wine, the slow mornings that somehow became the most meaningful ones. All those little things that don’t make sense until you’re already halfway down the next slope.
Maybe that’s what peace actually is — not the absence of noise or effort, but the ability to keep pedalling while the donkeys, the bells, and your own thoughts perform their morning concert.
When I get back to the farm, I pour the last of the € 1.69 wine, raise it to the Atlantic, and think about the road waiting back home — the one filled with bus tickets, exes, teenagers, and unfinished stories. And of course, my flock of little heads waiting for their head of heads to return — demanding solutions and answers to life I still haven’t found.
Life, I realise, isn’t uphill or downhill. It’s a loop. You pedal, you curse, you laugh, you stop to take a photo, and then you do it all again.
The church bell strikes seven. The donkeys answer.
I smile. Apparently, I’ve joined the choir.
Let me tell you a story 
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