nearly-nomadic

Six things I thought about during my first marathon.

This year [I like to think that] I completed app dating, in the name of social science. As a precursor, this is all tongue-in-cheek, and I'm not really an arsehole.

Returning from a brief hiatus with a blogging smash-and-grab: the race recap.

Six months after moving into my van, my mental wellbeing was at an all time low and I started to contemplate the point of my own existence. Strap in for a light-hearted, jovial blog entry from ya boy.

I took a 37 hour ferry across the Bay of Biscay during a lethal storm, to come face to face with my own mediocrity in a cold, muddy field. If you're questioning my sanity don't worry, I certainly am.

There are worse places to be marooned for 3 weeks than Alicante. If however you are residing in a metal box with, as of yet, no air conditioning, you’d be hard pressed to find them.

Why the city break is overrated, and motorhome owners are parasites that must be stopped.

Mediterranean dreams of tapas and tan lines don't happen overnight, you have to work for them.

Making my most exorbitant purchase to date in a 'bold' political statement.

Middle class, middle management, the Midlands: none of these things inspire the imagination or are particularly appealing. I’ve been brewing a philosophy for a while now, that is that life is best lived on the extreme ends of the spectrum, never in between.

My perfect day, starting with the Waterford Half Marathon, and why it doesn't get any better than this.

I over-exercise to ward off stress, anxiety, depression - whatever debilitating emotion you can think of. Here I propose a more sustainable method; spend a night alone under the stars in deepest darkest Wexford.

My perfect day would inevitably include a post race endorphin rush, but that unfortunately goes hand in hand with pre race dread. I guess this speaks to the relative nature of happiness and achievement, and is far too existential for a post about a 5 miler in Ardmore.

Previously I recounted my initial shaky start to life in a fishing village in deepest Ireland. Here are some disjointed thoughts on how it seduced me.

In my 28 years pre-Ireland, not even a twelve euro Ryanair flight was enough to lure me across the Celtic Sea. Six months later however, I can't bring myself to leave.

A running challenge that encapsulates type-2 fun. It kicks your arse every time, and then has you coming back for more, tail between your legs, like the most dysfunctional of relationships.