Travel never unfolds the way we plan it. Flights run late, luggage disappears, and sometimes you end up stranded in an airport trading phone calls and laughter with strangers who feel like old friends by the end of it. But somewhere between the chaos and the clouds over England, with a full moon glinting off the wing, I remembered why I love the journey as much as the destination.

Amsterdam welcomed us with drizzle and charm, Bruges dazzled with cobbled lanes and stories of long-dead royals, and Paris… oh, Paris was a heart-stealer. I climbed Montmartre at sunset, wandered the mirrored halls of Versailles, and sat on the Basilica steps of Saint-Denis beside the tombs of Fredegund, Dagobert, and Clovis…
Surrounded by the tombs of the Merovingian kings, I felt the world of my current Novel-in-progress stirring to life around me.

Then came London, all gleaming bridges and ghostly towers, where Anne Boleyn’s shadow lingers and Big Ben still keeps his promise to the city. We got lost more than once, but always found something better than what we were looking for.

In the end, travel reminds me of writing. It’s messy, unpredictable, and utterly transformative. You start one place and end up somewhere entirely unexpected… but that’s where the story lives.

📸 From Amsterdam’s canals to London’s skyline, every step was a chapter–each delay, detour, and dazzling moment another line between the lines.