We’re often taught that ambition looks like leaving. For those of us from small towns, the goal is usually to get out, to something bigger, faster, and shinier. For me, that story began in Ramsgate, the harbor town where I grew up on the Isle of Thanet—the eastern tip of Britain’s south coast, which also comprises the seaside resorts of Margate and Broadstairs.
When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to escape. Ramsgate could feel small: the same faces in the same places, and where a new café or gallery was often met with suspicion, or sometimes worse, criticized as unnecessary or pretentious. There was this apparent insistence that life was fine as it was. But for a teenager itching to see more of Britain—and eventually the world—that lack of curiosity was disheartening.
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So I left. I headed north for four years, trading beaches and promenades for castles and cobblestone streets—first in York for my bachelor’s degree, then in Durham for my master’s. After university, having played at newspapers, I made the move to London to do it for real. I freelanced at various dailies before spells on staff at both magazines and newspapers.
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In my twenties, I wasn’t so anchored by responsibilities. I was just in the city: sampling Mediterranean restaurants, going to gigs, grabbing last-minute theatre tickets, zipping around on the Tube, and staying out late with friends even when there was work the next day.
For a while, it was enough. Then it became too much. In and among the sharing plates, I found myself on a relentless treadmill of moving faster and needing to earn more—just to keep up. Rents in London were oppressive, apartments were tiny, yet the dream of owning one felt like a cruel joke. Life in the city was thrilling, but it was also exhausting.
As I got older, trips back to Thanet—for Christmas, birthdays, or other family…
