Life has a funny way of throwing surprises at you. It can be a sudden change, a lifelong achievement coming to pass or a turn of events that, in the moment, you don’t realise was pivotal in your life.

In my case, as you may know from my stories, leaving Australia felt like a stab to the heart. It still stings, and I do still miss it. Yet, if I were still in Australia and I never got to stand outside Emirates Stadium with 100,000 Arsenal fans as we won the Premier League for the first time in 22 years, I don’t think I’d have ever got over it.

Sports have a way of impacting your daily mood, I’d say, more than anything else in life. A win, you feel on top of the world; a loss, you’re angry for hours, if not days. As an Arsenal fan, I've felt that anger and disappointment for 22 years since our last Premier League trophy.

That is why when we finally achieved it on Tuesday, May 19, and wild celebrations began, I felt a joy that is honestly indescribable. It was so unique. If I could bottle up that feeling, I would.

When we won the league, I jumped on a train to Highbury and Islington at 10pm. Chaos ensued. The London Overground was manic; fans were chanting, but it was only going to get better. As fans left the stadium, chanting ‘campeones’ and cars beeping, I’ve never seen anything like it.

As I stood outside the Emirates, surrounded by nothing but happiness and joy, among people of all races, ethnicities, and religions, the sense of togetherness was incomparable. It showed me exactly what London is: a multicultural city full of different people who, at their best, embody happiness, joy, and positivity.

The unity, the happiness and the unbridled joy on the faces of people from all different walks of life; it’s what football is all about.

The fanbase has suffered through the “banter years”, where mockery was rife. But as I told my friends, this has shown we are the biggest club in the city, if not the country. The scenes outside the Emirates throughout Islington, with fans lining the streets, have honestly been some of the best of my life.

I attended the parade where I saw a Premier League trophy with my own eyes (even if only for a fleeting moment, as the bus zoomed past). Yet, it made everything feel worth it. These last two weeks have honestly been the best moments, apart from the Champions League loss, but you can’t have everything in life.

So the reason I wrote this is: what would I have felt like if I weren’t in London? Missing out on these celebrations would have been a new level of FOMO. Thankfully, I don’t have to think about it. I’ve had friends from Australia who replied to my stories saying, ‘I wish I were there’.

And that is life in a nutshell. As much as my heart wanted to be in Australia and still travelling, another side of me would have felt complete dejection if I had missed out on being here for this title win. In a way, I got the best of both worlds.

So maybe this was the reason all along that I had to come back.

I will never forget the image of people scaling lampposts and traffic lights, flares and fireworks being set off, bellowing chants, and the pure excitement I have been lucky to experience since May 19.

I’ve also got to write and cover more football-related content, which has always been the dream.

Life is truly funny in a way, and I hope I’ll get to travel again, but now I’ve got to experience a Premier League trophy live in the flesh. And that is priceless

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Share Between Journeys

When it comes to travelling, change is inevitable. You grow, your perspective shifts, and the people you meet quietly reshape how you think and behave.

I don’t think that is a particularly unique experience, and that is not what this entry is about. This entry is about codeswitching and what happens when you do it too much that you eventually lose your voice.

I was on the phone the other day, speaking to a customer service representative who turned out to be Nigerian. We were laughing and gisting when he said, ‘So, where in America are you from?’

I paused. I was perplexed. American? Now that was certainly a first. I chuckled and told him that I was born and raised in Hackney. Yet, somehow, this man thought I was American.

To me, that says more about him, but it’s also not the first time I’ve been told I don’t sound like I’m from London.

I was in the office a few months ago, speaking with people from another team, and they said the same thing. You don’t sound like you’re from Hackney.

Again, I smiled on the outside and felt anger and shame on the inside.

Because I like that I’m from London. It’s part of me. And if I don’t sound like it… Then what does that make me?

For a while, I couldn’t quite place it. Then it clicked.

Travel. Travel changed me.

When I was living in Australia, the way I naturally speak—a deeper tone, quick pace, a London twang—didn’t always land. Conversations needed to be slowed down. Words needed softening. I adjusted without thinking.

I had to switch things up, and I think I may have gone too far subconsciously.

Being an East Londoner comes with its own identity - think Danny Dyer, for example. The cockney twang is synonymous with being from the East End. However, as a Black East Londoner, you blend the East End with your ethnicity, culture, and surroundings.

As a Black person, code-switching is something we all know about, and I’d hazard a guess that it is something we’ve all had to do. Black British English (BBE) doesn’t always fit into office spaces or professional environments, so you adapt. You learn to shift depending on the room you’re in, so we naturally change the way we speak. It’s standard practice.

But I’ve realised I haven’t just been doing it at work. It’s crept into everything—meeting new people, travelling, everyday conversations. And now I feel I can’t get back the original voice I grew up with.

I know when I’m around my boys, I’d say I sound similar, but I can definitely sense a difference. Our upbringing was the same, but the only difference is that I’ve travelled.

As good as travelling is, I never expected a change in my voice to be one of the things that happened. I don’t think code-switching is a bad thing. In many ways, it’s a skill. A way of navigating different worlds.

It’s interesting to see it play out in the way I speak to people in everyday life.

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I was on a beach, watching endless sunrises and crystal waters. I was sure it was my time.

I was wrong. It didn’t pan out.

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I’ve started 2026 still longing for travel, but with a quiet acceptance that it might have to wait. Life clearly has other ideas right now.

You learn that everything comes in seasons. A season of joy. A season of struggle. A season of hope. Looking back, 2025 — for all the good sprinkled in — mainly was a season of struggle.

I faced countless job rejections in both Australia and London. I had a full-blown crisis of confidence about nearly every decision I’d made up to this point. I questioned my skills and convinced myself that maybe I was the problem. The doubt felt endless, and the dread wasn’t far behind.

Comparison, as they say, really is the thief of joy. And when joy is already in short supply, comparison feels more like a vampire — ready to drain whatever little you have left. I’d scroll through Instagram and see friends celebrating visa sponsorships and permanent residency.

How did it keep working out for them, and not for me? That question greeted me most mornings.

Now it’s 2026, and I’m looking at the year with cautious optimism. What do you have in store? How do I stay positive? The truth is, nobody really knows. You figure it out as you go.

A line from Will Smith’s autobiography has stuck with me:
“Life is like school, with one key difference — in school, you get the lesson, then you take the test. In life, you get the test, and it’s your job to find the lesson.”

That feels accurate. Life keeps testing you, through rejection, uncertainty, setbacks, and moments when you feel completely lost. But the real question is what you take from it.

Does it build resilience? Does it give you the mental strength to wake up and try again? That’s what I’ve chosen to focus on during this season.

And slowly, things are shifting. 2026 has started on a better note. I’ve stepped back into an old job in journalism, I’m studying to become a personal trainer, and I’ve made a conscious effort to be more positive. The grey hairs popping up in my beard are getting slightly out of hand, and I’d rather not speed that process up with stress.

Travel is still on the list. I’m hoping to visit a few places this year. And Australia? Accept defeat? Never. I’m too competitive for that. I’ll figure that part out later.

For now, this is the season of rebuilding; the season of positivity.

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I knew travelling would change me. I just didn’t expect it to end the same way a skydive does. One minute you’re soaring, the next minute you’re in the sand, wondering how it went by so quickly.

When I first told my mum that I jumped out of a plane for fun, she looked at me like I’d lost the plot.
Her response:
“You pay to get on a plane, so why would you pay to jump out of one?”

A fair question. I didn’t have a great answer — I just told her it was fun.
I never labelled myself as a thrill seeker, but travelling to Australia in 2018 on a Working Holiday Visa changed that fast.

Backpacking up the East Coast in 2019 pushed me into all sorts of uncomfortable situations. Skydiving and scuba diving were the two things I was desperate to try, and they delivered. The views, the adrenaline, the anticipation — all of it made me feel alive in a way I didn’t know I was missing.

Heading up into the clouds in a rickety old plane being held together by duct tape didn’t fill me with confidence. Any doubts I had about doing the jump were swiftly put to the side when my instructor said, “Once you’re up, the only way you’re coming down is by jumping out of the plane”. Brilliant, I thought.

Seeing Fraser Island and Rainbow Beach from above, as my instructor shouted “3, 2, 1—” and then jumped on three without warning, sent a bolt of electricity through my whole body.

Once my stomach figured out where it belonged and I stopped screaming, I finally took in the view beneath me. The serenity of the water, endless greenery — it didn’t feel real. For those few minutes, that felt like forever, everything was peaceful. Soaring through the clouds, I felt as if life were magical in this moment. The parachute came out, and I scanned the land. Everything was perfect.

And then we hit the sand.

That’s exactly how it felt coming back to my reality after travelling.
The freedom in the sky, the constant rush of doing something new, the feeling of your body bracing for the next adventure — that’s what travelling is.

Landing back in the sand is what coming home feels like.

A dopamine dump. A sharp ending. A reminder that even the best experiences don’t last forever.

I’ve been home in London for five months now, and time has flown. I still cling to the memories of Australia, not just the places, but the version of myself I was when I lived there. The independence, the lifestyle, the sunrises by the beach; it was the kind of life I could genuinely see myself living.

But I couldn’t find a way to stay longer, and eventually the clock ran out.

Home has its positives: family, friends, not standing out in every room; I do appreciate that.
Five months on, I still miss Australia in a way I can’t shake off. Even when I didn’t have the perfect job there, I still had the sun. I still had the ocean. And the impact that has on your well-being is no joke.

Meanwhile, London’s cold cuts through six layers and straight into your bones. The job hunt is draining. It’s a never-ending test of your will.

I remember how gutted I felt when my feet slammed into the sand after skydiving, wishing the cruising through the sky had lasted longer.

That’s exactly how I feel about my time in Australia.

Australia gave me a taste of the sky, and London is the sand I’ve had to land on. I’m still figuring out what comes next, but I know I’m not done jumping.

And honestly? I miss the sky.
At least I know what it feels like now.

Let me take you back to 2019.
I was 25, travelling Australia’s East Coast. After 25 days on the road, I’d reached Cairns in Far North Queensland — the final stop. A place of picture-perfect backdrops: the Great Barrier Reef, the Daintree Rainforest, and wondrous waterfalls.

It’s those waterfalls that nearly brought my time on Earth to an end.

One of the activities was a waterfall tour through the Atherton Tablelands. Within the first stop, you realise how vast this land is. Trees stretch to the sky, the sound of rushing water fills your ears, and your eyes dart through the forest, trying to spot flashes of wildlife.

The Curtain Fig Tree is menacing but awe-inspiring. Branches cascade down like curtains, thick and tangled, swallowing the remains of the host tree that it came from ages ago. Standing beneath it, you feel small and insignificant.

The waterfalls were breathtaking — a welcome change after days spent on Greyhound buses (for my UK followers, think National Express, but 8+ hours a day every few days).

Back to my near-death.

First thing to know: I can’t swim. I’m 6’5, and I’ve relied on that height in more bodies of water than I care to admit. It’s been a surprisingly effective method — until that day.

To clarify, it’s not that I can’t swim. My problem is that I can’t float or tread water. Keep that in mind.

As we weaved through the Tablelands, stopping at one waterfall after another, I kept my distance. I knew my limits.

At the iconic Milla Milla Falls, everyone else plunged in confidently. I stayed at knee height, quietly proud of my restraint. It’s a sublime sight as you watch the water rush down as the sun shines, illuminating frolicking travellers.

Still, I couldn’t shake the itch. I wanted to experience the water over my head. It looked beautiful, somewhat freeing. My confidence built.
What a mistake that would become.

Our next stop: Josephine Falls. A calming name, but, as a sign warned, dangerously misleading. A noticeboard spelt it out clearly: strong currents, slippery rocks, enter at your own risk.

I watched as people sped down the natural rock slide. The air was alive with laughter and adrenaline, as the roar of water took them on a journey. I couldn’t take it any longer.

That’s when things went wrong.

After fifteen minutes of watching in envy, I psyched myself up. I saw people swim over to the rocks and climb to the top. “How hard could it really be?” I thought. I studied how others dove in, how they fought the current — I took mental notes like a fool who theorised observation equalled experience.

I’m confident enough to make it from A to B.
The problem comes when I need to stop between A and B.

And, as you can guess, that’s exactly what happened.

My mate, Guy, didn’t want to go in. He was adamant; he pleaded with me to stop; I egged him on. Hindsight is certainly 20/20 in this case because I should have stopped.
“Come on, we’ve got this. It’ll be fine!” I shouted with the vigour of an experienced swimmer.
He jumped in, swam over, and made it. My confidence skyrocketed.
If he could do it, so could I.

False bravado, 1. Common sense, 0.

I took a deep breath, counted down, and channelled my inner Michael Phelps.
I hit the water — 10 metres of swimming was all that was required, if that — and for a brief, glorious moment, I felt majestic.

By the time I knew it, I had made it. Light work indeed, I smugly thought to myself.

Then my foot hit the rocks.
No grip.
Interesting. I tried again.
Still no grip.

That’s when the panic set in.

Turns out there was a specific section of rocks with grip, creating a safe route up. I had, of course, missed that detail. I’d swum straight for the nearest rock, like an amateur auditioning for Darwin Awards: The Aquatic Edition.

Then I started to feel it—the current. Within seconds, I was moving backwards. I needed to jump off the bottom to stay above water. And as I’ve mentioned, I’m 6’5, so this was bad.

As I flailed, Guy looked down from above, half laughing, half horrified. He didn’t jump in; still smiling, mind you. And honestly, I can’t even be mad. I’d probably have done the same.

In his own words, “I thought I’d make space for you to get up. By the time I got to the top, you were back in the middle and drowning like the little b**** you are.” (As you can see, our friendship is one based on love and care.)

Each time I surfaced, I managed one word:
“Help.”
Then I’d disappear.
Back up again. “Me.”
Repeat five times. Not my finest performance.

Then, out of nowhere, a French guy, Alex, whom I’d befriended on the tour, tried to save me. He grabbed my arm, but I was exhausted. I kept dragging him under.
“Go on without me!” I told him, dramatic as ever. I’d accepted my fate. My ego had finally met its match.

Just as the light began to dim (okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration), a figure appeared: snorkel mask, steady arms, intentional movements.
He grabbed me and pulled hard.
Was this God?
No.
It was our tour driver.

He’d been snorkelling nearby, saw me thrashing about, and knew he was needed. Without him, I wouldn’t be writing this story.

He hauled me back to the rocks, to safety. He saved me.
And yet, I was annoyed. How was this man so comfortable to be snorkelling in those currents? Talk about showing off.

When the group finished, people came over and asked if I was okay; I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to vanish into the forest, wishing to be swept up by the fig tree branches. Unfortunately, that was impossible; instead, cue the most awkward, silent coach ride of my life.

My mate still had a smirk on his face. I didn’t blame him. I’d have done the same. I had gone from the most confident person on the way to the waterfall to a meek and mellow boy sulking in the corner.

Dejected, drenched, and defeated.

I asked him back at the hostel why he didn’t jump in; his response: “Well, if Alex couldn’t save you, then I definitely had no chance”. Again, fair enough.

And that, dear readers, was the day I nearly died.

Would I recommend visiting Josephine Falls? 100%. Even in the face of near-death experiences, witnessing nature’s beauty at its fiercest was worth it.

I even went back in 2023 to pay respects to my pride that was left there. This time, I stayed up on the viewing platform with no desire to get back in. Fool me once….

Hopefully, this serves as a lesson in knowing your limits and actually listening to instructions. Just take this as a reminder that taking risks (even stupid ones) sometimes leads to the best stories.

For miles, there’s nothing but the hum of tyres on gravel and the shimmer of heat rising from the road. Roadkill dots the highway, the trees look as though they’ve given up on life, and the red dusty dirt stretches endlessly in every direction. After leaving the winding waterfalls and picturesque gorges of Karijini, it’s a confronting kind of beauty — stripped bare and unapologetic.

Your next stop is probably Exmouth. It’s the obvious choice: turquoise water (a visit to the aptly named Turquoise Bay is high on the list), whale sharks, and everything Instagram has shown you. But this isn’t a story about Exmouth. It’s about what comes before it.

Bullara Station Stay — a name that sounds simple enough — turns out to be the kind of place you don’t forget.

From the moment you roll in, exhausted, drained and sun-tired, you feel something different. A bloke named Dave rides up on a pushbike to check you in, dust trailing behind him like smoke.

“G’day, mate! Where you guys from? This is your space over here?” he calls out, pointing towards a patch with a grin that tells us we’ve arrived somewhere good.

Goats wander past without a care, Brahman bulls watch lazily, waiting for you to pat them, and sheep stroll around without a care in the world. Kids race each other between caravans while their parents clink beers and debate who’s in charge of the BBQ. The smell of grilled meat drifts through the air as families get the ‘barbie on’.

This caravan park hums with an easy, communal energy. By evening, the fire pit becomes the heart of it all with travellers gathered around, swapping stories about broken air-cons, rogue kangaroos, and favourite spots. The workers are upbeat; they actually want to be there.

The open-air kitchen is the kind of space that makes you linger longer than you planned. A group of students are arguing over how to cook their steaks; a couple from Perth offers you a beer; everyone’s road-weary, sunburnt, but most importantly, happy. Uno is played on one table, a guitar strums in the distance, all while the night sky is littered with stars above.

The next morning, we went on a sunrise walk through one of the station’s walking trails. Within minutes, I spotted kangaroos grazing, their heads snapping as they heard me step on a tree trunk; then they hopped away quickly as I took a step closer. Perhaps it was for the best, as watching them disappear into the wilderness as the sun rose was a beautiful sight. There’s a peace here that sinks in deep — the kind that only exists far from phone reception and city noise.

Even the showers are memorable. They’re open-air, framed by corrugated tin and desert trees. Water trickles out of an old can, warm from the sun and somehow, with excellent pressure. There’s no roof, no enclosure — just you, the breeze, and the sky. It feels raw and refreshing, a little absurd, and absolutely perfect. I found myself thinking Who have I become?

By the kitchen stands a bottle tree: filled with trinkets, handwritten notes, and leftover bottles left by travellers as memorabilia. It feels like a living guestbook, each offering a small story of who passed through Bullara on their journey.

I heard the dinners at the station’s restaurant are exceptional: a rotating roster of dishes, from chicken parmigiana to succulent steaks, fresh bread, and proper outback hospitality. Unfortunately, our budget didn’t stretch that far. “Next time,” I told myself.

Bullara Station sits between Coral Bay and Exmouth, and if you’re driving this route, it’s a must-stop. It was so good, we ended up staying again after leaving Exmouth to get to our next stop in Monkey Mia.

And thank God we did — because that’s when we discovered the scones.

“Make sure you try one,” the receptionists told us as we checked back in. “They’re famous for a reason.”

They weren’t wrong.

Warm, buttery, topped with a generous swirl of cream and jam, they’re a perfect pastry. I sat there, took a bite, sipped tea, and let the morning sun soak in.

It was the perfect way to start a new day; a relaxing reminder that the best moments on the road are often the ones you never planned.

I visited Kakadu during a month-long journey through Western Australia. Choosing it came down to a last-minute decision between Kakadu and nearby Litchfield National Park. Both are stunning in their own ways, but something pulled me toward Kakadu. I still can’t explain why, l but it turned out to be the right choice.

The freshness of the air hits you the moment you enter. With every deep breath, your airways clear, and a calmness settles in. The only unexpected smell is smoke — something I’ll come back to later.

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Wildlife Encounters

Kakadu is alive in every sense. The saltwater crocodiles are the stars of the show (and a very real reminder to respect the waterways). At Cahills Crossing — a road leading into Arnhem Land — you can see them gliding through the current, waiting for their prey to be delivered almost straight to them.

At low tide, Cahills becomes a fishing spot for the bold (or the reckless). At high tide, the crocodiles take over completely.

I’d spent weeks watching videos of feeding frenzies on Instagram, so I arrived buzzing with excitement. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch a high-tide frenzy. I did see crocodiles cruising through the water — a mesmerising sight, but part of me was still craving the chaos.

Beyond crocodiles, wallabies bounce along the roadside, wild brumbies graze in the distance, and birdlife fills the sky. As much as you’ll want to keep exploring, it’s worth stopping, pulling over, and taking it all in.

Tip: Always check safety signage before going near water. Swimming spots open only when rangers confirm they’re crocodile-free. Viewing platforms are there for a reason — use them.

Fire on the Landscape

Driving through Kakadu, you can’t miss the smell of burning bushes or the plumes of smoke rising across the horizon. At first, I thought we were driving into a wildfire, a slightly terrifying thought. I soon learned that this is part of traditional burning practices.

For thousands of years, Kakadu’s traditional owners, the Bininj/Mungguy, have used controlled burns to clear old growth, promote new vegetation, and reduce the risk of large, destructive fires. It’s called backburning, a living example of how Indigenous knowledge continues to shape and sustain the land.

Ubirr at Sunset

If you only do one thing in Kakadu — though you absolutely shouldn’t — watching the sunset at Ubirr is the one. The climb up the rock formations is easy enough, and from the top, the view stretches endlessly over floodplains into Arnhem Land. As the sun sinks, the sky turns shades of orange and pink, and the vastness feels almost unreal. Despite the crowds, the rock is spacious enough for everyone to take a moment to watch and wonder. In these fleeting moments, everybody is together yet going through their own experience.

It was one of those rare, grounding moments—when you’re reminded of how small you are, and how extraordinary the world can be.

Tip: Arrive at least an hour before sunset to explore the Aboriginal rock art sites at the base of Ubirr before making the climb.

Swimming Spots: Maguk Gorge

The Northern Territory heat is relentless, and Maguk Gorge is the perfect remedy. After a short walk, you’re greeted with rock pools, waterfalls, and still water surrounded by rugged cliffs. The water is freezing — truly freezing — but the peace is unmatched.

I fell in love with Maguk the second I climbed up and witnessed it in all its glory. We were able to access it thanks to some friendly Aussies at a campsite we stayed at who gave us a lift in their four-wheel drive the following morning. The sand is soft, and roads are corrugated, meaning you need a vehicle capable of navigating those terrains. I was eternally grateful for that offer because there would have been no chance I’d have got to see Maguk without their help.

Tip: Access to Maguk Gorge is only possible by 4WD. The sand is soft, and we saw a few cars bogged down, a reminder of the perils of driving up to it. Bring plenty of water, and don’t underestimate the heat.

Getting Around Kakadu

Kakadu isn’t the easiest destination. Roads can be corrugated, leading to bumpy rides that are stressful. Many sites are only accessible with a 4WD, especially during the dry season when most attractions are open. Distances are big, and fuel stops are limited. Be prepared with the essentials needed, such as petrol, tissues and water. I stayed for three nights, but could easily have done more.

Practical notes:

• Best time to visit: The dry season (May to October) offers better access to iconic spots. The tropical summer (Nov–Apr) brings lush greenery and powerful waterfalls.

• Transport: A four-wheel drive is highly recommended for access to all sites.

• Passes: You’ll need a park pass, available online or at the entry points.

• Respect the land: Many areas in the park have cultural significance. Always follow signage and stay on marked paths.

Kakadu is more than a destination; it’s an experience that blends natural beauty and culture with endless adventure and wonder. From sunsets at Ubirr to crocodiles cruising, the park leaves a deep impression on you. As you drive away, you know you’ve been somewhere special. The fact is, two years since I first set foot in Kakadu, I still wake up thinking about its beauty and majesty.

It was a privilege to walk on that land. It remains one of the most memorable parts of my journey through Australia.

London and Sydney are both global metropolises — buzzing with energy, diverse cultures, and, for lack of a better phrase, unreal vibes.

It’s no surprise, then, that in London you’ll find clusters of Australians in Clapham, Battersea, and now Hackney. Meanwhile, in Sydney, Brits gather around the ever-popular Bondi Beach. A win-win cultural exchange.

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As someone who grew up in Hackney, East London and has spent three years living in Sydney, I’ve had a taste of both worlds. Here’s what I think each city does well — and why one recommendation in particular should be adopted.

Pay: Why Weekly Wages Matter

This is the big one. In Australia, pay tends to be better overall (depending on your industry, of course — events, hospitality, and recruitment all seem to pay more).

But the real game-changer is how you get paid. Weekly wages are the norm in Australia, and honestly, it’s brilliant. You can budget more effectively, cover unexpected expenses, and generally feel like you have more financial breathing room.

Big weekend? No problem. Instead of waiting three weeks for your next paycheck (hello, England), you’re only waiting until Wednesday. That kind of security makes a massive difference.

Weekly pay makes holidays easier to plan, saving more achievable, and stressing about money less of a constant worry. Compare that with the painful monthly cycle in England — especially during Christmas, when December’s early pay means you’re stretching your salary across six long weeks. Brutal.

Sure, monthly payroll is simpler for employers. But let’s be real: the UK is missing a trick here.

Social Life Without Spending a Fortune

London’s social scene is legendary. Especially in summer, there’s always something happening. Here’s the catch: it all costs money. Drinks, dinners, tickets, even casual catch-ups — it adds up fast.

Sydney can’t compete with London nightlife (let’s be honest, the DJs are still stuck in 2015 and finding a decent spot can feel impossible). But here’s where Sydney shines: you don’t have to spend to have a good time.

The beaches and parks are free — and incredible.

Meeting friends often means grabbing some snacks from Woolies, hopping on the bus, and spending the afternoon swimming, sunbathing, or just hanging out. In the moment, you don’t even realise how much you’re saving.

And then there’s the natural beauty. Sydney’s coastline rivals European holiday spots — except it’s just a 30-minute bus ride away. From Maroubra to Coogee to Manly, the beaches are world-class. The Bondi-to-Coogee walk never gets old, and the Manly-to-Spit trail rewards you with sweeping views (and if you’re lucky, whales or dolphins).

The morning culture is one I valued highly. Waking up at 5/6 am, going to the beach for a swim and being greeted by hundreds of people who had the same idea. That early-riser culture was something I enjoyed greatly and is hard to replicate in London.

Given the choice between a sunset swim after work or squeezing into a London pub for a £7 pint, I know which one I’d pick.

The People: Same Same, But Different

In both cities, you’ll find the usual suspects: the chilled ones, the hipsters (Sydney’s Newtown is basically Hackney Wick or pre-2020 Shoreditch), the finance bros, and yes, the influencers.

But overall, I’d say Sydney feels happier — sunshine and sea will do that to people. It’s not unusual for strangers to smile or toss out a casual “G’day mate.” I never felt unsafe at any point.

That said, I stood out. At 6’5, Black, and with dreadlocks, I was a walking unicorn. The constant staring wore me down at times.

In London, it’s different. Summer brings out the best — pub gardens overflowing, music blasting, and a sense of shared joy in the rare sunshine. And I can blend in more easily, which is its own kind of comfort.

Notting Hill Carnival is always an experience. Overall, I think there’s a different level of happiness between the cities. It’s not unsurprising considering people are paying £1000+ for rooms, and the sense of impending doom you get in London, I wouldn’t be smiling every day.

The Grass Is Always Greener

Whenever I meet Australians in London, I always ask: Why trade Sydney for here? Their answers are usually the same — London’s excitement, diversity and its proximity to Europe.

I obviously understand, but growing up in London, I can’t help but see it differently.

To me, Sydney has the better deal. I’ll never get bored of watching a sunset over the city or sitting at the beach as water crashes around me. The work-life balance feels better.

Maybe that’s the point; the grass is always greener on the other side.

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Sadly, my time in Australia has come to an end, and I’ve now returned to London. One emotion has quietly taken over: the feeling of failure.

Not because I regret leaving home or choosing to travel — but because I couldn’t achieve what I set out to do in Sydney. I dreamt of becoming a journalist in Australia. I built my portfolio, earned my degree; I thought I did everything “right.”

Yet, after months of applications and multiple variations of cover letters, I only secured one interview. Reality hit hard.

Booking my flight home was something I kept putting off in the hope a job would magically materialise. Once I confirmed my flight, that sense of defeat was confirmed.

Comparisons, Doubts, and the Weight of Expectations

Watching friends thrive, land job sponsorships, and chase their dreams brings joy for them — and envy for me. It’s hard not to compare; hard not to wonder if I made the right decisions over the past two years. I constantly questioned my worth, my career, even my faith.

Everyone’s journey is different; I am not blind to that. The journey isn’t easy. Even those who seem to have things going well on the outside are going through their challenges.

Despite the encouragement from friends: “You’ve not failed, Ayo”; “It’s not you, it’s the job market”; it’s hard to believe it.

Australia gave me so much: personal growth, opportunities to travel, and wonderful friends. Yet, I still carry the weight of dreams left unfulfilled.

Gratitude feels out of reach when all you see are closed doors.

Maybe that’s why the return to London felt so daunting.

What Adversity Can Teach Us

A few months ago, Australian UFC champion Alexander Volkanovski reclaimed his Featherweight belt. In his post-fight interview, he said something that stuck with me: “Adversity is a privilege.”

That line hit home. It reminded me that setbacks can shape us, even when they hurt in the moment.

I’m not there yet, but I hope to look back at this season and see the positives; see resilience; see purpose. Right now, though, it’s just hard.

Still, coming back to London is a blessing — one I don’t take for granted. My journey wasn’t wasted. I created memories I’ll carry forever.

I’ve had incredible moments: I've travelled the West Coast, woke up to sunrises, seen whales in the wild, and healed in ways I never thought possible. My psoriasis cleared up within weeks of arriving (thank you, sun and salt water).

I learnt to appreciate nature, stillness, and the joy of simply being present.

One day, I do hope to work abroad as a journalist — that dream is not dead; it’s on hold.

And maybe, just maybe, sharing this part of the story — the messy, uncertain part — is just as important as any success that is on the horizon.

Have you ever returned home with unfinished dreams? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

Australia is blessed with a wealth of stunning national parks. We were lucky enough to visit three of them, and if I had to rank them, I'd say it goes: Kakadu, Kalbarri, and Karijini. They are all magical in their own way, all providing scenery and landscapes you never thought imaginable.

The standouts

Kakadu stood out for its incredible Maguk Waterfall and the unforgettable Ubirr sunset — both genuinely breathtaking.

Karijini might have ranked higher for me, but we were limited by our 2WD vehicle — a lot of the park’s best sights are only accessible via 4WD tracks. That said, we still managed to see gems like Dales Gorge and Fortescue Falls, which were more than worth the trip.

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Kalbarri wowed us with its dramatic gorges and scenic viewpoints. Nature’s Window was a personal favourite; it offered a view that felt like looking back in time.

Exmouth was a highlight too, especially for snorkelling along the reef. I’m not the strongest swimmer, but hand me a pair of flippers and suddenly I’m gliding like a pro.

One of the most valuable skills I picked up? Learning how to make a fire — something that came in handy more times than expected. It may look fairly simple on TV, but actually maintaining and starting a fire is a skill.

A Few Lessons from the Road

Here are a few things I wish I’d known before setting off — hopefully, they’ll help someone else planning a similar trip.

1. The Distances Are No Joke
We underestimated the sheer scale of the journey. We drove from Cairns to Perth — covering somewhere between 6,000 to 8,000 km. The number of Aussies who were shocked by this plan should have been a clue that we had overestimated our abilities. Lesson learned.

2. Budget More Than You Think
I’m not even ready to share how much we spent. If possible, consider working at cattle stations or roadhouses along the way to help fund the trip — we didn’t have the time due to our tight rental car schedule. We met many couples, from backpackers to grey nomads, who decided to stay at campsites to save a bit of money.

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3. Campsite Roulette: Fun but Risky
Booking campsites last minute adds spontaneity, and sometimes that leads to unexpected gems — like Bullara Station, which we loved. A rustic and iconic campground that is a destination in itself. When it comes to places like Exmouth, Coral Bay, and Monkey Mia, not booking ahead is a mistake. Some spots were booked out six months in advance, leaving us to set up in the dark and cold, with the added stress of being spotted by rangers.

That does remind me of a funny situation when a ranger spotted us at a campsite in Exmouth that we “forgot” to book. This campsite was along the beach, and it is actually laughable that we needed to book it in the first place. He was lovely, originally from Wales, and shared some life stories with us about his youth and drugs. I thought this was a bonding moment, and maybe we had dodged the fine that came along — sadly, that was not the case this time around. He lulled us into a false sense of security; bravo, bravo.

4. Petrol Prices Are Wild
Petrol in remote areas is expensive — like, absurdly expensive. If you’ve got space, bring a jerry can and fill up when prices are reasonable. It’ll save you serious money (and stress).

The stress of watching the fuel gauge dwindle as you have no idea how close you are to the next petrol pump provides a sense of fear. One experience driving towards Port Hedland lives long in the mind. The gauge hit red, and we were still around 30 minutes away from Port Hedland, cue the ensuing panic. Air con off; driving at 70; being overtaken at will; as panicked as we were, it’s a fond memory in my mind.

5. Be Aware of Casual Racism
One of the harder parts of the trip was hearing casual xenophobia on the road. More than once, a conversation with fellow travellers would take a turn: “Be careful when you fill up there... they’re a bit rough.”
“They,” of course, referring to Aboriginal people in their towns.
As a Black man, these comments hit hard. I often pointed out that systemic issues like poverty and lack of support could be behind what they were describing, but more often than not, my words fell on deaf ears. What struck me was that they didn’t even seem to realise what they were saying was offensive.

In reality, those towns were full of people simply going about their day. Yes, it wasn't all glitz and glamour, but why would it be? Halls Creek and Fitzroy Crossing are not exactly tourist destinations, and petrol pumps behind cages were strange sights at first; obviously, you could tell that anti-social behaviour was commonplace, but nothing for us to worry about. These towns weren’t much different to the one we had found travelling through the outback.

It was clearly a sense of fear of the ‘other’.

6. Plan (and Save) for Big Activities
Swimming with whale sharks is one of the highlights of the West Coast. It’s a chance of a lifetime and one you shouldn’t miss out on. Sadly, it is expensive. These kinds of once-in-a-lifetime experiences are worth saving up for in advance. Don't leave it to chance if it’s high on your list.

Thankfully, there’s still a lot you can do for relatively cheap or nothing at all. National Parks cost around $10-$20 to get into, and hiking became something to look forward to, instead of dread. Hiking through national parks, going swimming in hot springs or watching a sunset at the beach, not everything costs a pretty penny.

Hiking up Mt Bruce in Karijini was a breathtaking moment. The views at each major point before the summit kept you on your toes while building up suspense for the pinnacle. Again, plan. We stupidly decided that a 5L water bottle would be enough for two people, hiking up Australia’s second largest mountain – we were mistaken. The sweat was immense, the breathing was laboured, and the sadness was immeasurable as we decided we couldn’t make it to the summit and back with such a small amount of water left.

7. Podcasts and Games Are Your Friend
Driving for hours through dust and endless stretches of trees can be exhausting. Having a bank of good podcasts — we loved everything from true crime to relationship shows — helped us pass the time (and kept us sane).

Finding interesting games to come up with to pass the time helps with the mundanity of long stretches. It’s all worth it, though, for the destinations you come upon.

The People You Meet and Animals That Bring Nothing But Joy

You’ll come across a lot of older Aussies with incredible campervan setups — some even have washing machines inside. Most were friendly, helpful, and full of great advice. One group of Aussie lads even gave us a lift to a waterfall we wouldn’t have reached otherwise and taught us how to build a proper campfire.

Others offered lifts to remote spots only accessible by 4WD. Driving a 2WD came with its limitations, so without the generous help of people with 4WD, we would not have been able to see so many beautiful spots. It showed the good nature of Australians.

Many retirees we met were kind, welcoming, and even invited us to visit their homes if we were ever in their area. The kindness of strangers was a beautiful part of the journey.

As you venture on the trip, you will come across a wave of animals. From Emus to dolphins, to kangaroos and cows (living and dead), the roads keep you on your toes. My highlight was spotting an Echidna — a truly unique animal that I had always wanted to see after reading about it in a book. It felt like my Australia journey had led to this moment.

Final Thoughts

Travelling through this part of the world was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If you’ve got the time, the money, and a bit of patience, do it. You won’t regret it.

Would I do it again? Definitely. Maybe when I’m 60, with more money saved and a vehicle of my own. For now, it’s back to reality — and to rebuilding the bank account.

Honestly, it was all worth it. Untouched beauty and unrivalled serenity await you.

I’ve always seen Substack around, yet I had never thought to use it myself. I’ve used traditional blog sites for my posts before, but never Substack. Then a friend asked why I hadn’t got one; I said I had no idea — how foolish of me, she implied.

Now I do. My timing could have been better, but better late than never. I’ve recently returned home to London after living in Australia for the last few years. Many experiences were had; many memories were made.

Now, I want to share those experiences with all of you new subscribers.

Whether it’s the best beaches in Sydney, places to visit on the West Coast, how East London has changed or my experience navigating Beijing as a 6’5 Black man (promise, it’s worth a story), I’ve got a lot to talk about.

I always want people to be engaged with my reading and hopefully feel like they are in the places I’m writing about.

I look forward to sharing my experiences with you.

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Two weeks before my 30th birthday in August 2024, I received a text informing me that my father had passed away in Nigeria. Anger, shock, and regret engulfed me like waves crashing over rocks. It’s a strange feeling to know your dad is no longer here, but memories bring me comfort.

I remember waking up on Sunday nights to the sound of the TV as he watched WWE. I would quietly come down, hoping he would let me watch, though I doubted it was possible on a school night. Then he would say, “It’s okay, come down.”

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In February 2024 (before his passing), the WWE came to Perth, and I felt compelled to go for my dad. I’m glad I did, though I wish we could have watched it together. I had planned a trip to Bali for my 30th and questioned whether to go, but my family encouraged me.

On my birthday, I climbed Mount Batur for a sunrise hike. Witnessing the clouds part as the sun rose left me in awe. At the top, I took a moment to look up and speak to my dad. I had always planned to visit Nigeria but kept putting it off.

People say to live life with no regrets; that is certainly one of mine.

Life in Perth

Navigating my loss while away from family made it even harder. Although I achieved my dream of becoming a journalist in London, I always knew Australia was where I wanted to be. I naively thought this experience would help me find a role in Perth, but I was wrong.

Perth is known as one of the most isolated cities in the world, and once you get there, you understand why. With its picturesque beaches and stunning landscapes, you never tire of the sunsets. However, it is not a bustling city like London, so journalism took a backseat.

It was demoralising. Job descriptions matched my experience, yet I faced constant rejection. Countless applications led nowhere, forcing me back into the hospitality sector to pay the bills.

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Despite the challenges, the past few months in Perth gave me a new outlook on life. I navigated major events: separation, loss, and not being in my ideal job. This period allowed me to reflect on myself and learn to appreciate every moment, no matter how fleeting.

I travelled to Thailand, China, and Bali over six months. The memories, experiences, and even the scars from falling off a scooter in Bali were among the best days of my life.

Temple hopping in Thailand, scuba diving and snorkelling around Gili Trawangan and Nusa Penida, and walking along the Great Wall of China are moments I’ll never forget.

My housemates and the friends I made at work sustained me when I felt my personal life could break me. A camping trip to Margaret River turned into one of the funniest days, complete with rushed packing and a rainstorm at 3 a.m.

It would have been easy to succumb to despair and wallow in sadness. I simply told myself that it’s okay to be vulnerable, feel sad, and cry if needed.

Grief isn’t linear; it can hit you unexpectedly. Then, there are days I feel guilty for not being as sad as others might expect.

Ultimately, I believe being happy is what my dad would want.

Regrets and What’s Next

As I left in 2023, I pondered whether it was the right decision. Realistically, I can only look forward—there’s no point in looking back.

When you travel, you accept that there are major life events you will miss out on. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but life must go on.

I went to Nigeria for the first time in 22 years and gave my dad a proper send-off. It was also a chance to reconnect with family I hadn’t seen in years, and alleviated some of the regret I had for not visiting my dad when I could.

When I came back to London, I felt disconnected from the place I was born and raised, confirming how determined I am to make it in Australia. I hope to return to Sydney and finally secure a role as a journalist in the place I’ve missed the most.

How do you go about not feeling guilty about missing out on life events while travelling? Let me know in the comments.