Goa, Going, Gone

While the world is in lockdown, thoughts of visiting far-flung places seem almost trivial. Yet I'm reminded that this time last year I was enjoying poolside shandies, thirty-degree sunshine and strolls along a sandy shoreline. It's fair to say I'd rather be reliving 2019 than social-distancing, but at the very least I've had ample time to finish this long-overdue blog post about said holiday - a week beneath the Indian sun with one of my best friends, and a chance to revisit my origins.

I had visited Goa three times as a child, from which my memories of those holidays intertwine with one another - crashing waves, bustling streets, my grandma's apartment, dinners beside the ocean with my mum and aunties, collecting shells from the beach. In the twenty years since, I have been privileged to visit many other amazing destinations with family, friends, and once with a fashion label, but none have held a place in my heart like Goa.

Perhaps it was nostalgia or the connection to my heritage that yearned me to return. Maybe I just really enjoyed the combination of sun, sea and Goan curries. (I wasn't wrong.) But when the opportunity arose to go on my first long-haul holiday in some years, many an evening was soon spent trawling the internet for travel tips, flights and hotels, day excursions - anything and everything Maddy and I might possibly need to know ahead of travelling nearly 5,000 miles around the globe.

We settled on seven nights towards the end of the peak season, when costs are lower and the resort towns aren't nearly as busy. The concession is that temperatures are closer to thirty degrees celcius in March than a more comfortable twenty-five in December/January, but it was nothing a parasol and a round of cold drinks wouldn't fix. Among the perks of holidaying in Goa is that the best time to visit is during our autumn and winter months; why face sleet and gales at home when you could savour sunny days and mild evenings beside the Arabian sea? Although any later, temperatures soar beyond forty degrees, followed by months of monsoon, therefore it pays to book dates wisely.

To ensure our stay was as comfortable as possible (and remembering that many of Goa's hotels were dated even when I was seven years old), I offered we book a room at bloomSuites, easily one of the most contemporary and eye-catching hotels in Calangute, North Goa, featuring super king size beds, a courtyard pool, and all the modern holiday essentials in a sunflower yellow colour scheme. The hotel's location is more than ideal too, less than fifteen minutes' walk from the beach, and half an hour from the centre of Baga, the heart of Goa's nightlife.

With regret, however, it did take a mission to travel there. Much of our first day was spent flying, followed by an infuriatingly slow queue at immigration control. (If there's one downside to Goa, it's the distinct absence of speed or organisation at Dabolim Airport.) Tired and confused, the culture shock knocked us sideways as soon as we exited the airport, as we struggled to locate the coach that would transport us to Calangute. It would remain parked for another hour - without air conditioning - while we waited for the rest of our fellow holidaymakers. When we eventually arrived outside the hotel, it was in the early hours of the morning, and Maddy had begun to wonder if the sudden sound of mooing was a sign of delirium. Turning to see stray cows roaming freely across the road, we were both thankful it wasn't.

After a good night's sleep, we sought to forget about the previous day's drama and began our holiday in earnest. In my typical overly-organised fashion, I had an entire itinerary of things to do and places to see. But when we realised that everything we could possibly want was within walking distance, it hardly mattered if we weren't exploring a dozen different beaches, however picturesque they may have been.

It was on our second full day in Goa that we inadvertently walked three miles along the length of the local beach, where - having ignored perhaps a hundred beach bars - we chanced upon a solitary shack set apart from the rest. After a much deserved round of fresh pineapple juice and learning they had satisfactory toilet facilities (never to be taken as a given in Goa), Fisherman's Hut Beach Shack became our go-to spot for the remainder of the week, even if it were an hour’s stroll from our hotel.

Although much of our holiday was spent on the sand, Maddy and I did book one excursion with our holiday rep, comprising a trip to the famous Dudhsagar Falls, a tour of a local spice plantation, and a stroll around the historic Basilica in Old Goa, the former capital of Portuguese India. The latter were enjoyably educational, but the waterfall was a tragic disappointment in spite of its beauty, having required a forty-minute drive along a rocky jungle road that churned everyone's stomachs, only to find the pool at the base of the falls was packed with people. Whiling away our days on sun loungers seemed even more inviting after that.

However we spent our day, a late afternoon dip in the hotel pool was guaranteed bliss. Afterwards, a well-needed shower and change of clean clothes, and we would head out again to explore North Goa's nightlife. It's true enough to say Calangute and Baga are very much catered for tourists, but the local cuisine and hospitality were exceptional everywhere we went. In one memorable instance, Goa's infamy for unpredictable power cuts left Maddy and I dining in the dark, yet the restaurant staff cooked our dishes perfectly, while a gaggle of Russian women serenaded all the diners with a tipsy singalong.

Another evening, we took a taxi north to visit Arpora's famous Saturday night markets - note there are two: the busier and more traditional market in the south of the town, and the hippier artisinal market fifteen minutes' walk to the north, where you might find European tourists drinking cashew feni (Goa's local spirit) and dancing to live music. As I enjoyed that night a warm breeze and a plate of chicken Xacuti, I was suddenly so at ease in my surroundings that I felt as if I might actually belong in Goa - not altogether surprising, considering its history is in my blood.

As wonderful a time we had, our seven days flew by too quickly. Part of me wished I could have stayed longer, to bask in the Indian sunshine for a few more days, to continue to breathe the sea air, and to dine out on more of that fine Goan cuisine. (Not to mention any chance of delaying a second visit to Dabolim Airport was fine by me.) It was clear I had acclimatised to the culture as much as the climate, nevertheless home beckoned, and - from a practical perspective - I had run out of clean underwear.

One year later, I still miss Goa. And with all that's going on in the world, it's even tougher knowing I couldn't go back even if I wanted to. But if and when I do return, whenever that might be, perhaps I'll pick up that itinerary I discarded so hastily. Or perhaps I'll make a beeline for the beach shack and order another round of drinks. Who knows? I wouldn't describe Goa as paradise, but when I'm three shandies deep and watching the sun sink into sea, it certainly feels like the next best thing.

Nine

And just like that, we arrive nine years later. When I first posted to this blog in November 2010, it began as a little something to complement my journalism degree, to produce my name in Google searches, and to explore my love for street style photography - as featured in my then-favourite blog, The Sartorialist. I'm very proud of how far I've come since then, from teaching myself photography to realising a sense of self-confidence I wouldn't have imagined at the age of eighteen.

But I must confess, I haven't been the most dedicated blogger since leaving university. I'd say my blog peaked in the spring of 2015, when I visited Paris Fashion Week for a second time and took my favourite photos to date. Later that year I moved to London and my focus shifted to enjoying other aspects of life. And while I should never disparage myself for wanting a more genuine social life outside press events (there is only so much small talk and canapés a person can live on), or for focusing on a separate full-time career, I wish I had worked harder to find a balance that didn't leave me feeling guilty about posting infrequently, or feeling lost in the expanding bubble of social media.

My favourite period of blogging was definitely the earlier years, circa 2012, when I had an astonishing amount of free time to potter about with my camera, and a steady stream of event invitations and review opportunities to supplement my street style content. But there was considerably less pressure to be an "influencer", and for many bloggers, our individual online platforms were just a hobby. Instagram was in its formative years, and there wasn't the same emphasis as today to make it big on social media; the quality of our original content was the greatest indicator of our talent, not the number of followers we had. Blogger meets, too, were predominantly social events, where we would make new friends over a burger or a drink (a chilli-flavoured vodka shot in the case of Paige and I), then take each other's pictures in cute alleyways. I can't help but wonder, are blogger meets even a thing any more?

Indeed much has changed since. Blogging has become a competitive industry, in which many of the individuals I befriended all those years ago now enjoy a full-time position creating content for the same websites they would post their musings and outfits-of-the-day. I can't deny I'm jealous at times; I plateaued some years ago at seven-hundred-and-something Instagram followers, and if I want to stay in this game, which I do, that figure simply doesn't reflect a blogger of nine years' experience. I'm having to accept that quantity is equally as important as quality, if not on my blog then certainly on my social channels, which serve as the face for the main product.

Because truthfully, I do miss the press invitations and review opportunities, even if my time is more constrained these days. There was a lifestyle I relished from being an active blogger, and it provided me with so much to shoot and to write about. The content that has continued successfully are my London Fashion Week features, as a consequence of having attended every season for seventeen seasons. Nevertheless I don't what that to be what this blog is only about, especially when you can see runway looks from hundreds of other media sources. (On a more personal level, London Fashion Week has lost its magic, and I'm contemplating whether I even attend next year.) I know I can write well and I know I can take great photos, but clearly what I've been lacking is motivation and - more importantly - direction.

Hence going forward, my new objective - unsurprisingly - is to achieve a more substantial readership and social following by my blog's tenth anniversary. Ten-thousand Instagram followers for ten years has a nice ring to it, but realistically, I'd be chuffed to reach one-thousand, provided I apply myself and post content that you, my readers, find the most engaging. I'm hesistant to say what that might be, because having written similar thoughts before, I know I tend to be overly ambitious and promise content I never get around to creating - YouTube series, say what? Yet if all goes swimmingly, I should like to post more about food, drink and travel, further explore my love for drag artistry, and hopefully I'll even find the time to return to street style photography.

In the meantime, I would like to thank my friends for supporting me and occasionally taking my picture where required (I may be asking more often from hereon), my mum for continually reminding me not to stress so much over a website that didn't make me any money (I often didn't listen, but she was always right), and every person who has read even one of my blog posts for making these past nine years all the worthwhile. Here's to one more, certainly not the last.

Photos taken at Polesden Lacey, Surrey, by Paige Joanna Watts

Spring in my Step

Ray Ban sunglasses | Hawes & Curtis shirt | ASOS jeans | Arkk Copenhagen Asymtrix Mesh F-PRO90 [gifted]

I used to be hesitant of wearing white trainers. The thought that I might potentially tarnish their pristine glow with even the smallest of smudges would set me on edge. But they've become a staple accessory for many of my spring/summer ensembles - a flash of tasteful streetwear that completes a coloured suit or, as in this instance, complements a floral shirt.

After putting my all-white ASOS hi-tops through their paces, I thought it was time for another style to join the ranks, and I couldn't help falling for these Asymtrix sneakers from Arkk Copenhagen's newest collection. As is typical of Scandinavian design, there is cleanness and simplicity in their neutral colourway, combined with the comfort and utility of the mesh and leather upper with a chunky F-PRO90 sole. Arkk describe them as a "90s-inspired reinterpretation of the dad shoe", yet I think the minimalist design is almost futuristic in appearance.

I chose to wear my sneakers as part of a smart-casual look over the recent Easter weekend, teamed with black skinny jeans, statement socks to make my ankles pop, and one of my favourite Hawes & Curtis patterned shirts that superbly mirrors the blossom and spring blooms. There's a distinct spring in my step as I amble along my sister and brother-in-law's street in Royston, Hertfordshire - it may be my soaking up the sunshine and readying myself for summer to officially commence (that February heatwave was a right tease), or perhaps it's the simple truth that my new sneakers are terrifically comfortable?

Shoes courtesy of Arkk Copenhagen, however all views are my own | Photos shot lovingly by Leanne Kent

Life After London: Moving Back in with my Parents

(And Other Real Life Quandaries of a Single Twenty-Something)

It's been five months since I moved out of the Zone 2 flat I had been sharing with my friends. Although returning to live with my parents - to quote Valentina from RuPaul's Drag Race - didn't make sense with my fantasy. I had envisioned the latter half of my twenties living with a best friend or significant other, but my friends have their own lives to pursue, and there's no significant other to speak of. Moreover, the fact of the matter is I couldn't afford to rent in London by myself, mentally speaking as much as financially.

In 2017, the Office of National Statistics revealed that more than a quarter of young adults (aged 20-34) still live with their parents, due in part to the rising costs of renting or buying a home. It's clear therefore I'm not alone in my predicament, albeit that doesn't necessarily make it easier. After a period of independence, there was always going to be a certain reluctance in moving back to my childhood home.

Of course, this isn't the first time I've been met with this particular situation. Following three unforgettable years at university, my very first taste of independence, I was faced with the bleak reality that I had to come home and figure out my direction in life. Within days of returning to Woking, I felt like a teenage boy again, stripped of my freedom and bound by the rules of my parents, whose primary mission, it seemed, was to harass me into finding a full-time job. In hindsight, they only sought to ensure I didn't become lazy and complacent, but there was a discernible tension between us that I couldn't shake. At least I could take solace in my situation being only temporary, because I would soon find my dream media job and move to London.

Except I didn't. When an internship at the Daily Express ended abruptly after just two weeks, my parents did not delight in my sudden unemployment. I was promptly ordered to work at my stepdad's architectural practice until I found myself an alternative position, which - given I had no prior experience in architecture besides building virtual houses in The Sims - served only to deepen my reliance (and resentment) for living at home. Without any immediate prospect of moving to the capital, I took up driving lessons in the hope that having a car would perhaps offer me some form of escape.

More than a year passed; my friends had migrated to London, I had a tally of unsuccessful job applications, and I was still living with my parents. Yet in an unexpected twist for all parties, I found I had come to enjoy my "temporary" appointment at Amasia Architects Ltd, and all thoughts of a future in journalism - with exception for this blog - began to drift away. Of course, this made my masterplan of leaving home for London all the more difficult, for what other reason did I have to abandon my cushy set-up besides seeing my friends?

It turned out they were enough. When Maddy and Georgia invited me to join them in a new flatshare, it took me all of two minutes to say yes. We brought Lizzie into the fold, and there we were, an awesome foursome living in South London. At long last, I was living in London with my best friends, reclaiming my social life, and relishing my independence. (Even if said independence cost myself £700 per month in rent, plus bills.)

Fast forward three and a half years to the present day, and I have no regrets about my London life. However, where mine greatly differed to my friends' - and that of nearly everybody who moves into the capital - is I held onto a career outside London, and therefore was committed to enduring an hour-long drive at silly o'clock each morning to avoid the worst of the outgoing traffic. Suffice it to say the daily commute took its toll on me, which made the decision to return to Surrey somewhat easier to bear.

Nevertheless, I was reluctant to move back in with my parents. If anything, I would have preferred to rent or buy my own place, thereby maintaining my sense of independence. But while my savings were substantial, the tough reality was I couldn't afford to live somewhere by myself. A modest one-bedroom flat in Woking or Guildford costs £100-£200 more per month than I was paying for a share of a four-bedroom flat in Kennington, and would have cancelled out any savings I might have made on fuel and everyday living costs. And it's a widely accepted truth that a mortgage is difficult to apply for without the benefit of a second salary.

So I swallowed my pride and moved back in with my parents, who were surprisingly very encouraging about the whole affair. All they asked for in return was £200 in monthly rent (a bargain by any standards), to assist with the housework and cooking (which I'd have happily done anyway), and to look after the cats whenever they went on holiday (a task which I was already accustomed to performing). In fact, it was while looking after the cats for a fortnight last year that I finally appreciated how stress-free my life would be if I came back to Surrey on a more permanent basis.

As with any move, it took a few weeks to settle in and realise that living out of boxes isn't the most convenient way to live, not helped in this instance by the astonishing amount of junk I had been hoarding in my bedroom, virtually untouched while I resided in London. Not that my parents or any house guests would have noticed during my three-year absence, as it was all roughly hidden away in the wardrobe and within the concealed storage compartment beneath my bed. As an emphatically organised individual, I was dismayed by the apparent disregard exhibited by post-uni Joe, something I conceded must have been evident in other aspects of my behaviour (hence the aforementioned tension).

It took me the best part of September to sort through all my belongings; donating unwanted clothes and knick-knacks to charity, shredding piles of bank statements, and cringing at soppy love letters from my first girlfriend. The process was hugely therapeutic, not only providing much needed space for my current possessions, but also removing traces of a past self with whom I no longer connected. I did keep the love letters, though, as a reminder that - while my first relationship ended in disaster and guilt - I was very much loved even as a socially awkward teenager, and I hope I can one day show someone just as much devotion as was undeservedly given to me.

And as have my attitudes to romantic relations changed, so has my relationship with my mum and stepdad. As much as post-uni Joe would have liked to have thought he was a mature and responsible adult, it's clear now he wasn't. Three years away have done me a world of good, and it shows in how much respect my parents now show me, and in turn how much respect I show them. In the past five months, we haven't had a single argument, compared to the numerous, avoidable confrontations we had following my return from university.

In likeness to that time, however, I do on occasion still feel like a child, albeit more so in the sense that living in the family home reminds me I am my parents' child, and that I am dependent on them for my temporary living arrangement. Which, understandably, compels me sometimes to ask for permission whenever I make plans for myself. My mum then helpfully reminds me I'm my own person and that I don't require their consent. All I ever really need to let her know is when I will and won't be home for dinner, and if I'm doing my own food shopping when it's my turn to cook. My parents are even repurposing the garage conversion into a private a space for me to escape, blog, and watch my choice of television series in peace.

In short, life feels as normal as it can be. I have a regular working day, I sleep well, I have a healthy relationship with my parents, my stress levels have never been lower, and let's not forget about the 24-hour access to cats. It's true also to say that moving back in with my parents isn't the course I had planned on taking, but I'm very much content, and isn't that what matters most? To top it all off, I'm saving more money than I would have ever done had I stayed in London, which means I'll have the funds to buy somewhere for myself in the next two years. While my mum has said she loves having me back, let's not get too comfortable.

Medusa

As part of my ongoing exploration into drag and make-up artistry, I like to add a little pizzazz to my fancy dress ensembles. As I have endeavoured to achieve every year, I should add. Although the creativity displayed lately by many amazing Instagram accounts has inspired me to be ever more ambitious with my chosen themes. Among my current favourites are @artbeautychaos from Bournemouth, and @ben.seagren from Colorado, both of whom go above and beyond the normal realms of make-up.

For this year's Halloween look, I'm fusing horror with gilded glamour, as I re-imagine the mythical Medusa with a gaze that turns enemies to gold. I must confess I'm not adept at constructing fully-fledged costumes, therefore I focus more so on face, face, face! This particular look is inspired by my growing obsession with gold make-up, and an especially snazzy pair of Twisted Tailor snake-print trousers. If Versace made monsters for Buffy The Vampire Slayer, I'd like to think this wouldn't be far from the final cut.

Visit my Instagram for a full list of products used in my Medusa look

Vintage Pink

It should come as no surprise I have a penchant for pink. The precise moment it became my new favourite colour eludes me, although at some point last summer, I had definitely decided it would be a fabulous idea to purchase a pale pink suit, then take photographs of said suit in an über-trendy, pink basement bar.

So when I stumbled upon a pair of opal pink Ray-Ban sunglasses on EyeWearThese, it made perfect sense that they should complete my flamingo-inspired ensemble. Although the online eyewear retailer had plenty of other popular brands and designs to choose from (especially since I fancied a very different style to my existing Ray-Ban Clubmasters), there had been little doubt my passion for pink would be upstaged by anything else.

I was made doubly happy knowing EyeWearThese also provided prescription lenses, which, given the company's history as working opticians, I had hoped would be the case. Nonetheless, it's too often a shame I come across a pair of super-snazzy sunglasses, only to then learn the brand or retailer in question doesn't offer the option of a prescription. I think we can all agree it's much more pleasant to see the world in HD quality. In the case of my new sunglasses, the world also comes with a rose-tinted filter.

Soon after my sunglasses arrived, I was eager to take my pink outfit for a spin. When Lizzie kindly invited me to Goodwood Revival earlier this month (where guests are encouraged to dress in vintage attire), I knew I had all the necessary pieces for a 70s-inspired ensemble - pink River Island suit, pink sunglasses, and a blue floral shirt from Hawes & Curtis. Yet nothing prepared me for the excitement of discovering the All Things Hair pop-up salon would match my outfit flawlessly. Please don't mind me, ladies, while I set up my self-timer and perch nonchalantly beneath this hair-dryer. It was style blogger serendipity.

 
Ray-Ban sunglasses courtesy of EyeWearThese.com, however all views are my own

Budapest

After passing through Vienna and Bratislava, the Danube meanders lazily through the Hungarian capital, dividing what had famously been two separate cities - Buda on the western shore, and Pest on the east. Although seemingly small, Budapest is a truly handsome city, rich in architecture, history and culture. It's the kind you can lose yourself in, without much chance of physically getting lost.

Mine and Lizzie's Airbnb accommodation was conveniently located off the UNESCO listed Andrássy Avenue in District VI, which connects Erzsébet Square in the inner city with the Városliget (City Park). As such, it provided easy walking distance to many of Budapest's landmarks, as well as the fabled ruin bars of District VII.

Crossing the Széchenyi Chain Bridge into Buda, our first full day was spent exploring the historic Castle District, which overlooks the rest of the city from its hilltop perch. North of Buda Castle, cobbled streets lined with pastel townhouses lead us to the magnificent Matthias Church, splendorously adorned with brightly coloured roof tiles. A stroll southward then takes us back past the Castle and down into its formal gardens, eventually returning to the western bank of the Danube. 

After descending Castle Hill, I then decided the next best thing would be to climb another, because I apparently enjoy punishing my friends with exercise. In all seriousness, I do forget that not everyone posesses the same grace of a mountain goat as myself, nor my mad inclinations to overexert oneself in the name of exploration. That all being said, Lizzie did admit the stunning views of Budapest from atop Gellért Hill were very much worth the gruelling 235m ascent in thirty-degree heat.

As we ventured back to our apartment for a well-deserved shower and rest, we paused en-route to explore Budapest's Great Market Hall, sited on the Pest end of the Liberty Bridge. If you enjoy pottering about Borough Market in South London, or The Covered Market in Oxford, you will find yourself immersed in this maze of stalls selling fresh produce, pastries, spirits, spices and souvenirs.

Later on, we took to the inner city in search of dinner. Aided by TripAdvisor recommendations, Lizzie and I were quick to discover that great food isn't difficult to come by in Budapest, and much of it is reasonably priced. A generous serving of tiger prawns - flambéed in Blood Orange Cointreau, might I add - at Bottega di Brontolo was swiftly followed by a cheese board and Hungarian wine tasting at Doblo wine bar.

Day Two was significantly more relaxed - at least to the point that we avoided any more hills. Lizzie and I walked the opposite direction along Andrássy Avenue, past palatial Neo-Renaissance houses towards the City Park and Széchenyi Thermal Baths, hoping its temperate waters would alleviate the aches and stiffness we had earned from yesterday's inadvertent workout. Naturally, we failed to appreciate that Andrássy Avenue is a fairly long and straight street, therefore we were doubly in need of recuperation upon changing into our respective bathing suit and swim shorts.

The outdoor lagoon was indeed a welcome retreat from the hubbub beyond its walls, even with dark clouds threatening to break above us. After a couple of hours to warm our bones (and turn our fingertips to the likeness of sultanas), we then wandered across the park to Vajdahunyad Castle, which - although only built in 1896 - could have been lifted from the pages of a fairytale. Given I work at an architectural practice, I ought to have acknowledged the purposeful mix of classical styles used in its construction, but to tell the truth, my mind was filled with Tale As Old As Time when wandering below its spired turrets. Let's face it, English castles simply don't have the same romantic qualities as their European equivalents.

In the evening, Lizzie and I boarded a river boat to explore the remainder of Budapest from the water. Before grey clouds finally drew across the sky, we were fortunate enough to witness the Hungarian Parliament Building bathed in gold from the setting sun. A marvel of the Gothic Revival movement, it stands proudly and elegantly on the eastern bank of the Danube. Catching the last of the sunlight, it was a beautiful moment to conclude our short break in this charming city.