J.R.R. Tolkien’s famous line, “Not all those who wander are lost,” resonates deeply with a specific kind of wanderer: the camper. While modern life often equates wandering with aimlessness or confusion, those who seek the embrace of the woods know a different truth. Venturing beyond the pavement, pitching a tent under the stars, and trading screen glow for firelight isn’t about losing your way. It’s a deliberate pilgrimage towards finding something essential: profound peace and the fertile ground for genuine self-discovery. In a world saturated with notifications, deadlines, and the relentless hum of the digital, the woods offer a sanctuary of silence that isn’t empty, but full. It’s the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze, the crackle of your campfire, the distant call of an owl, the rhythmic lap of water on a lakeshore.  This is the soundtrack of peace.  Away from the manufactured urgency, the mind, often frazzled and fragmented, begins to settle. The constant “doing” gives ...

Remember that? Remember when two people could hold wildly different opinions on… well,  anything … and still share a pint, pass the salt, or discuss the weather without descending into apocalyptic screaming or icy, soul-crushing silence? Seems like a quaint relic from a black-and-white sitcom, doesn’t it? Because somewhere along the line – probably around the time social media became our primary personality – we collectively decided that disagreeing wasn’t just a difference of perspective; it was a declaration of war. A moral failing. Proof positive the other person is either a monster, an idiot, or both. It’s exhausting. Utterly, bone-achingly exhausting. You can’t mention  anything  anymore without triggering the Spanish Inquisition of Opinions. Pineapple on pizza? That’s not a harmless topping preference, sunshine, that’s a character assassination! You either  get it  (and are therefore enlightened) or you’re a culinary Neanderthal whose taste buds deserve ex...

Let’s cut the corporate gaslighting and call it what it is: the daily commute is a soul-sucking, time-vampire, masquerading as a necessary evil. It’s not just “getting to work.” It’s an unpaid, mandatory purgatory wedged between our beds and our desks, stealing our lives hour by agonizing hour, and frankly, we’re all being taken for absolute mugs. Think about it. You roll out of bed, bleary-eyed, already dreading the gauntlet ahead. Is it the bumper-to-bumper crawl on the motorway, where you spend more time staring at the same brake lights than your own family photos? Is it the sweaty, armpit-adjacent hellscape of the 7:45am cattle car… sorry,  train ? Or perhaps the bus journey where every pothole feels like a personal insult to your spine? Whatever your flavour of torture, the result is the same: you arrive at work already knackered, stressed, and harbouring a simmering rage usually reserved for arch-villains. And you haven’t even logged on yet! They talk about the “work-life bal...