My Perfect Day Alone: Reykjavik

 
This is as close to perfection as its gets. I know this because I did not once feel lonely or bored - a massive feat in an insecure life. The exact date escapes me, but it was in September 2010. My first full day in Reykjavik. I woke up in my B&B room that was cosy in the eaves of the building and had Icelandic Ceefax for a retro wake-up. Ate my complimentary breakfast, which was delicious. I took some glorious photos of the rocket-shaped church on my B&B's doorstep. 

I wandered up and down the length and breadth of this tiny city, loving the bleached wood houses and shops. The beautiful, often hilarious murals proving that art on buildings doesn't have to be political to have merit. One wall was dedicated to "Free Stof!" - where locals and tourists alike had left belongings they no longer wanted that anyone could take to their good home. At the bottom of the hill, Reykjavik is not flat, yet not Haworth gradients either, the expanse of water was glass smooth and so beautiful, it made you want to be quiet, so you could soak it in more. A delicate bronze viking-esque boat sculpture nearby. The weather was eczema perfect - cold, but not face-achingly so. 

Next to the pavement on the coast would be lumps of volcanic rock that anyone could pick up and marvel at. I walked past the Hotel Borg and literally laughed out loud! Next to take in the solemn grandeur of the cemetery. As I crossed over the road to go in, a black and white cat went in ahead. I followed it round the cemetery, paying attention to its route - it seemed to have favourite graves and that tickled me. I left it soaking up the cool sun rays on its favourite branch on a tree in the middle of the cemetery. I booked some excursions for the following day, happy with the price and happy to have new adventures to look forward to when the sun rose again.

Kelly Etherington.

Ben Nairn: My Perfect day alone

It was my thirty-sixth birthday, July 2011. I spent most of the day alone at my dining room table, typing up a report on a laptop computer, and apart from one person in the morning, spoke to no-one all day.

I had ended a troublesome relationship not long before; she was difficult and the relationship was corrosive, but many good things came of it. Not least of which was that I had, with her encouragement, set up my own business as a Chartered Building Surveyor in Mat 2011. Whilst I am suspicious of her motives in encouraging me to do so, in fairness she may only have had good intentions – she too was self-employed. That she was also impossible to live with is another story.

Suffice it to say that by mid-July, just two and a half months after quitting my job and becoming self-employed, I was alone. Gloriously, wonderfully alone, not having to apologise for existing or failing to read the thoughts of another. Able to see who I wanted to see, and generally do as I pleased.
Of course, there was the small issue of money. I had none coming in, and my savings were dwindling fast. The thing about setting up any kind of consultancy is that it takes three to five years to really get established – and that’s in good economic times. This was during the crash, and establishing a property based consultancy was either brave or foolhardy, I don’t know which. I still don’t know, for what it’s worth, but I seem to be making a living.

My previous contracts of employment expressly forbade me from contacting clients of my former employers, and so I had to start from scratch. May and June had both come and gone with not a sniff of work, and I was starting to worry; I had contacted a recruitment agency in the hope of getting contract work, so that I could operate as a freelance as well as for myself, and was offered an interview at their nearby offices, an offer that I accepted. I had also approached the various estate agents in my town, although I’ve never had much joy from them – they are too concerned that I might find something wrong with a property they are trying to sell, so they don’t like to encourage purchasers to get a full structural survey carried out.

That said, I had also contacted Peter, the mortgage broker who had helped me get my own mortgage three years previously. He was a genial man, and had said that, should I ever decide to go it alone, he might be able to help - and so he was one of the first people I contacted. And in early July, I received a phone call, and had my first instruction – a structural survey for a terraced house in North London.

I arranged to visit the house, and went and carried out my inspection the day before my birthday. The following day, I woke early, walked into town and bought myself a comb-binder – possibly the most mundane birthday present I have ever bought myself. I then went home, and spent the rest of the day, until about 8pm, writing up my report, printing it out and binding it.

Now, I’ll grant that this wasn’t exactly thrilling; sat at home at my dining room table, writing a rather dull survey report – and on my birthday, to boot. It wasn’t the day or that activity that mattered – it was what it meant. Because it meant was that I was underway; a new life in which I would be beholden to none but myself lay ahead of me. It meant that I was self-employed, not unemployed. It meant that I would no longer have office politics to contend with – something that had caused me problems in previous employment. It meant that I would now have more freedom than I had had before – and more responsibility. It meant that I was as independent as a working man can be.

I’m still self-employed; and I really do not think that I could stand to go back to working for someone else.

Ben Nairn.

A very special day

My fiftieth birthday - unusually for November it wasn't too grey a day but instead was dry, with blue skies and just the merest hint of sunshine trying to break through. No trip to New York or Paris for me, no cruise or fancy jewellery to celebrate living on this earth for half a century, instead a trip to the seaside on my own with two Manchester Terriers and three ETT brats [dogs to those who don't know their English breeds]. A trip in my lovely old BMW - Thunderbird One - just me, the dogs and my music. For one whole day I wasnt someone's mum, daughter, sister, ex, I wasn't sat behind a desk at work, I was just me pleasing myself, no ties, no clock watching. The music was loud, I sang along badly but was word perfect and I probably drove a tad too fast had I had passengers, the dogs didn't complain. They were just pleased to be with me in the car going somewhere, anywhere.

The drive to Swanage via the back roads was uneventful, and despite not driving that route for eight years, I didnt take the wrong road once. I went past the aerial disguised as a tree and bounced along tummy tickle road, all the things the boys used to look out for when they were young. Dropping down the hill and seeing Corfe Castle brought back memories of school trips, always to Swanage and Corfe Castle, and holding hands and stolen kisses with boyfriend of the time. Wonder what happened to him?

I parked Thunderbird up on the beach exactly as I used to do when I had the boys but no bucket or spades or blow up dolphins or picnics to unload, just the dogs who went off along the beach at warp factor nine telling everyone how happy they were to be in Dorset. I spotted a sad looking man sad on the beach staring out to sea but, as is usual being English, felt it wasn't polite to intrude so made sure not to catch his glance and instead chased after the dogs. Having walked round nearly as far as Studland, and sat and watched the ferries take passengers to Jersey, Guernsey and France, I made my way back towards the car and fish and chips for lunch.

Walking back to the car I noticed the same sad man still sat in the same spot. I had been gone for three plus hours and he hadn't moved. The dogs decided that he had to be investigated which meant that I had to speak if only to apologise for their behaviour. His face was just etched in sadness, a very heavy aura of misery surrounded him. Being who I am, I cheekily asked if he could keep an eye on the dogs if I left them in the car and I went and bought two portions of fish and chips and a very large, sweet coffee. Returning to the car, I let the dogs run out again and invited the man to join me and sit in the boot of my estate car and share the fish and chips, I persuaded him by telling him it was my birthday. I handed him the sweet coffee and we ate our meal in silence.

We both saved bits of fish for the dogs, he was obviously an animal person and I commented on it. It then that he told me why he was on the beach. The day before he had buried his wife who had lost her life to breast cancer. She was only 41 years old. They didn't have children and both were only children who didn't have any surviving parents. He was totally alone. We talked for a couple of hours, of life, of school, of funny memories, sad memories, our music tastes, first dates, we talked about everything and anything. At one point, we even walked the dogs along the sea front, bought postcards and rock for my sons and sat on the pier people watching.

As it started to get dark, I had to go home. My elder son [a chef] was cooking a special meal for me, younger son was helping. We returned to my car and I drove him back to his. In convoy, we returned back to where I come from and where he could pick up the M4 motorway - he came from Suffolk and had got in his car that morning sans SatNav or map and ended up at Swanage with no idea how he got there. I waved him goodbye once I had taken him up to the motorway junction and returned home.
 
Unloading the car, I noticed a postcard in the boot. Written on the back was *Thank you for sharing your birthday with me. I wish you many, many more. X * To this day I have no idea what his name is/was. I spent four hours in his company, I know who he worked for, where he lived, lots of intimate things but not his name.
 
Why was this day particularly special? Driving home I realised how precious life is, how quickly it can change and how much we take it for granted. I wasn't in a particularly good place in my personal life but that day taught me that only I could change things. No one was going to change it for me. It has taken a while but I am slowly finding myself, doing things for myself and taking responsibility for myself. I have done things I would never have been brave enough to and met some wonderful people along the way.

Friends I went to school with who also turned 50, were taken on expensive holidays or shopping trips or received new cars, expensive jewellery, etc to commemorate their day, I have a very special postcard to remind me of my special day. 

Sarah Lawrence

My perfect day alone: Meetings with History

Seattle, Washington State, USA – January 19, 2014

Take any combination of blue, green and gray, favourite colours of mine. This day has them all.
Alone in a hotel room, I awaken before daybreak to the sound of staff preparing breakfasts, and, on the TV, to reporters talking over the one story that dominates this Sunday like no other in this city’s history.

I arise to pack, unwilling to complete the chore. Ten days have gone so quickly! Yet pack I must, there’s a flight home to end my day. I dress for warmth, layer upon layer to combat near freezing temperatures outside. One item covers all the others – the beloved blue football jersey.

Most of the hotel staff – and many guests - are wearing this jersey too, for today is the most important sports event in the history of Seattle … and I have a ticket to the game! Breakfast is consumed with hurried relish, many things to do and see even before arriving in the stadium this afternoon.

First stop is a treat. Air and Space Museum. They have a Concorde! The original 747. And an old Air Force One! It’s so small, but I manage to find JFK’s seat … And there’s a Blackbird … and so many others. I spend hours looking over the history of how local timber merchant William Boeing founded his aircraft company here.

Downtown Seattle is heaving with cold, but excited people. Blue jerseys and flags everywhere, one subject on everyone’s lips in the queues for Starbucks coffee (free today to customers wearing the blue jersey, of course!)

I visit Pike Place Market. It’s one of the world’s best for arts, crafts and – of less interest to the departing visitor – fresh produce. Peppers in perfect condition are laid out on the stalls looking as if they have been individually polished. It’s a market and a tourist attraction and a viewpoint, for, from one it’s many restaurants overlooking the harbour, I enjoy the sights and sounds of the waterway watching ships and ferries making their way on a calm sea. I contemplate gray clouds, green forests and the sharp blue colour of the water – these are the everyday colours of Seattle that so define it.
 
South of downtown, located amongst warehouses and railway sidings, is my objective. The beloved stadium. It will be a full house - tickets sold out in 10 seconds flat. Fans expectant of victory, ready to roar their support for their (American) football team, their Seattle Seahawks. It’s what they call a Championship game – win and they will advance to play in the final, the Superbowl. Lose, and they will go … no, they won’t lose. Not going to happen today, not in my mind.

Upon entry, do check the strength of your vocal chords (and protect your ears) they say. That’s not idle talk. They have just set a Guinness world record for loudest sports fans here – twice in a matter of weeks – and they are very proud of it!

It’s 3.30pm. Kickoff time. I’ve supported this team for 32 years, attended many games flying across from Europe, but have never experienced an atmosphere quite like this. Electrifying. They choose a local dignitary or former player to raise the blue flag before kickoff, this time it’s the team owner who steps up. Paul Allen - of Microsoft fame - he built the Stadium, he kept the team in Seattle when others wanted it to leave, he chose the current management. It’s his moment, and over 67,000 people scream their appreciation for him and his achievements.

The opponents strike first, Seattle is rocked back on its heels. Slowly, oh so slowly, game balance is restored, but the opponents keep putting themselves in front. Halftime. They have a rapper on stage, I can’t understand a word of his singing, but the locals love it. I go to find a food stall on a concourse and look out across the motorways surrounding the Stadium. No traffic. All of Seattle is either here, or glued to their TVs.

The second half starts, and out of the blue, Seattle strike to equalize. For me, it’s a moment to “go crazy”, to run through the concourse, arms outstretched like an airplane, to have to freedom to jump for joy (and to not worry about bumping other people in their seats!). I make my way back to my seat, adrenalin is getting the better of me … it’s a long climb.

Back and forth, ebb and flow, the game becomes a battle, the battle becomes a war of attrition between two very similar teams. Seattle edge ahead. Time is running out. The opponents have one last chance to score, they march their team down the field to 18 yards from the endzone. If they can get the football into that endzone, they will win. 30 seconds left.

6.46pm. I can think of nothing but prayer. I don’t belong here, I think to myself. I have no connections to Seattle, except for a few acquaintances, fellow fans, whom I’ve met over my years of travel here. Please God, let them win. Let them win -not for me- but for these fans, for the people of Seattle … they are good people and they deserve this!

Fans are screaming support for the defense, it’s a cauldron of noise.

The enemy attempt a pass to the corner of the endzone. The football is arching through the air, and suddenly in a game with 22 players, only two matter: The enemy’s receiver will try to catch the ball in the endzone and score. The Seattle defender, the “cornerback”, will attempt to prevent the catch. They are both running at full speed, looking back towards the football, determining the best moment to strike.

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, USA – September 2013

It’s a battlefield, a monument, a cemetery and a place of history. America was saved here, at the cost of tens of thousands of lives. Every square inch is historic, and revered as such. I’m touring the area, leaving the museum, when an elderly Park Ranger approaches me. “Sir”, he asks politely, “what’s the name of that cornerback?” He’s seen the team colours I’m wearing, and I know the answer … I know his name … “Richard Sherman”. To which the Ranger replies with sadness in his voice “he cost me all my fantasy points”.

Indeed, Richard Sherman from California, brash graduate of Stanford University, is having a stellar season in the Seattle Seahawks defense and making sure that all of the sports fans of the USA know about it.

Seattle, Washington State, USA – January 19, 2014

Four months later, I’m watching that cornerback Richard Sherman running two steps behind the enemy’s receiver, and as they enter the endzone, they both leap. Two hands up for the receiver, to best catch the ball. A leap in vain. There’s no football. For Sherman has timed his own leap to perfection, deflecting the ball away with one hand, tipping it up into the air, on an arc away from the receiver, and into the grateful grasp of another Seattle defender, Malcolm Smith. Game over. A Stadium, the city of Seattle, the state of Washington, erupt with ecstatic joy.

One quiet fan is running away from the bedlam. Down the stadium stairs, into the streets. I’m happily escaping Seattle as all others are celebrating, onto the rail link, down to the airport … I have a plane to catch, a 10 hour flight home … my day is complete, an ambition as a sports fan fulfilled. I’ve seen the Seattle Seahawks win a Championship.

And Richard Sherman, man of the moment, is climbing onto the fans in the stands, over a Union Jack painted in green and blue Seahawks colours, the flag of the UK Seahawks fan club, celebrating his meeting with history.

Nicholas Catephores

Freedom

After a long relationship that failed, resulting in several complications in my life, and major hits to my wallet, I found myself in Bristol, far from anywhere I would call home. I was very alone.

I'd been banned form driving a year earlier and had just re-passed my test. Shortly afterward I spent all my savings on a Land Rover Freelander.  It wasn't a new one but it was a nice one - and it was significant nonetheless. It was the first car I had ever owned where the choice had been mine alone, and was purchased solely for my own amusement.

The following Saturday I went down to Yeovilton air show, in what was perfect flying weather. What greeted me was Team Swift, an aerobatic glider outfit, performing stunts I'd never thought survivable in a glider. It was this that actually inspired me to fly them. It was a funny sort of day. A typical British summer: a warm blue sky with a pleasant breeze and glorious white clouds in the sky. No better weather to witness an Avro Vulcan doing what they do.

Entertaining though the show was, I was more imbued with the notion of being a driver again and departed halfway through the show. I set Sally (yes, I named my Land Rover) in the direction of Weymouth. The reason being, I had never been to Weymouth, or indeed the South Coast.

It was an instant love affair. Weymouth is my surrogate Whitby; the seaside resort of choice back home in Yorkshire.

I parked Sally on double yellows on the harbour and bought a large portion of fish and chips to share with the seagulls. I was feeling generous. But there was no time to waste - and no reason to stop. I must press on!!

So I hit the coast road between Weymouth and Exmouth, calling in at Lyme Regis, Seaton and Sidmouth. Somewhere along the route I traversed over the brow of a hill to see the full shoreline of the bay open up before me. By this time the weather had changed and you could tell there was a storm on the way. There were huge low lying clouds falling off the cliffs of the Jurrassic Coast like a giant waterfall. I don't know if this phenomenon happens often but I was there! A perfect moment.

I have never seen anything like it before or since. I have taken people on that road ever since hoping for a repeat view, but it seems like, if there is a god, he made that day for me.

Because I am a disorganized cluster-fuck of a human being I don't get to go abroad, even though I can notionally afford it. So that day, God brought New Zealand to me, to save me the trip. Somewhere, nested deep on my hard drive is a photo, that I will publish another time, but it doesn't do it justice. What I saw was nothing less than magic. And only I saw it.

Somewhere near Exmouth, I found a way to navigate my clumsy Land Rover down onto the beach. I'd never done any proper off-roading so enjoyed a bit beach joyriding and waded Sally in the sea.  On reflection, it probably wasn't a good idea and probably pretty dangerous, but holy shit, that was fun!

Because the odds were on my side I made it to Exeter services on fumes. It was touch and go, but that set me up for the drive back up the M5, to a blinding sunset, while listening to Carcass. Sally was the first car I had ever owned with a CD player, which for reasons known only to them, was located in the boot.

To some, that's a pretty geeky day out. But for me, even though it had taken me to the age of 29, I finally had a day that was all about me, inspired by me, and lived to the absolute maximum. It was my first true taste of absolute, unfettered liberty. And since then, I have taken every opportunity to try and better it. I have not yet managed it, but I will continue to try.

About this blog...

The internet is pretty miserable at the moment. Airliners shot down, the Middle East is on fire, and politics is going all to hell. But we must never forget that while we have interesting differences as people, what is more interesting is what we share in common. All of us have had days where where everything has been right. A day made for just you.

So my friends. Here is your homework assignment. You have to write an article for me (and send it to me), entitled "My perfect day alone" with a sub-title.  Preferably under 800 words, and with one or two pictures with it if possible. Let's cheer up this miserable internet.

Here is mine...

http://myperfectdayalone.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/freedom.html

MrNorth303 @ Gmail.com

Resist your urge to be a boring miserablist. Let the world know about the day that made you feel like life was worth living.