Field Notes

Muddy Feet, Wild Hearts | Field Notes, No. 2 | Aberdeen, Scotland, June 2026 Dear reader, I can't believe it's been a month since the last letter. Coming back to Scotland always seems to warp time and space in my head. I leave Africa with the very best intentions — bring the calm with you, keep the slow rhythm, stop chasing the clock — and within a fortnight, the city has done its quiet work and I'm back to running after minutes rather than walking towards experiences. I do try. I don't always succeed. There is something about a city, I think, that turns life into a transaction with the day rather than a conversation with it. The past month has felt like six already, and Nakuru has slipped into that soft, gilded place where particularly good memories go to live. So I am, as ever, attempting slowness in small ways. The sourdough starter is back up and bubbling on the kitchen counter, and this morning I mixed my first loaf since we got home. There is something genuinely useful about bread for re-calibrating a head that has gone too fast. You can't hurry it. The dough decides what it wants, and you are at best a careful, attentive partner in the project. It rises when it rises. It is ready when it is ready. Three days back into the rhythm and my shoulders have already dropped half an inch. I've also still to properly sit with the Nakuru photographs. There's a kind of quiet guilt to having frames I haven't yet looked at properly — a sense that they're waiting patiently in a folder, and I owe them the time. Soon, I promise them. Soon. In the meantime, I've redesigned my office to look like a slightly haunted bookshop, which has done wonders for reading. The total book count for the year is now sitting at fifty-six, and a friend leaving for Abu Dhabi has bequeathed me her variegated monstera, which has taken up residence by the window and looks, frankly, ridiculously beautiful and pleased with itself. The best day in October We've booked the wedding. The 13th of October, 2027. The best month, and the best day. It will mark two years of owning the bookshop, almost five years of being a couple, and — with any luck — one very large garden party that just happens to begin with a wedding. I had been planning the day in my head for so long that booking it felt slightly anticlimactic. The 13th appeared on a calendar, a few people said yes, that works, sign here, and that was that. Now, in theory, I sit back and relax. In practice, I have already started a spreadsheet, and my Pinterest account is full of decorating ideas. Relaxation, it turns out, is a long-term goal. The P&J, and other small surprises I was featured in The Press and Journal this past month. There were one or two inconsistencies in the final piece that I noticed and quietly winced at, but it was an exciting thing all the same. The best part was sitting down with the journalist in person — a lovely expat, just like me, with that easy understanding of what it means to live somewhere you didn't quite grow up. We talked for far longer than the article required. Sometimes that's the whole point of these things: the conversations around the edges, not the words on the page. On creativity, and other ways out of the day I picked up my paintbrushes again this month. Small things at first, the way you do when a thing has been put down for too long and you're nervous of it. But it's reminded me of something I keep needing to relearn: creativity stops time. A painting, or a chapter, or a really good photograph — any of them can lift you out of your own day and set you down somewhere else for an hour. A few artist friends and I have started talking about a project together, and I'm absurdly excited. I wonder, sometimes, if this is really what I love most in life — the sheer number of ways there are to step into a different world for a while. Travel. A conversation with a stranger. A book. A painting. A long lens at first light. They're not, when you look at them properly, separate hobbies. They're all the same essentially generous act: noticing the world from a slightly different angle, and letting it change you a little. One of the greatest gifts my parents gave me, I think, is the thrill of adventure and the habit of curiosity. Pack the bag. Go and see. Ask the question. Read the book. It is, I'm only just starting to understand, the kind of inheritance that quietly keeps giving. The crow situation Before we left for Kenya, we'd had a small crew of crows beginning to visit the garden for dog treats. I was genuinely worried, the whole flight home, that they'd have forgotten us. The morning after we got back, there they were, waiting on the wall in their usual spot, looking mildly insulted by how long we'd kept them. This week I mounted a bird feeder on the window. Partly for the smaller birds, but mostly — let's be honest — in the hope that the crows will figure out there are treats up there too. The ambition of becoming a fully accredited Crazy Crow Lady is, I think, well on track. A thing I noticed this week I realised something, one slow grey afternoon. I am living the life that fifteen-year-old me could only dream of. The bookshop. The fiancé. The mornings in the African bush with a camera around my neck. The bread on the counter, the monstera on the windowsill, the spooky office, the crows on the fence. Even the variegated, untidy, sometimes-too-busy shape of it all. She would be — and I think this is the important bit — so deeply proud of who we've become. I don't say it often enough, even to myself. It feels almost indulgent. But I want to leave it here in this letter, in case any of you needs to hear it about your own life: somewhere behind us, there is a younger version of ourselves quietly cheering. Whatever we're getting wrong this week, however warped our sense of time is, however far we still feel from the lives we want — there is also, almost certainly, a fifteen-year-old version of us looking at where we are and being completely amazed. Worth a thought, I think. Worth a quiet moment with a cup of tea. The dough should be ready for its next fold soon. The crows are doing rounds on the wall again. I'll write again next month. Stay wild, Marlene

Muddy Feet, Wild Hearts | Field Notes, No. 1 | Nakuru, Kenya, May 2026 There's a gecko chasing bugs across the verandah floor. The sun is high. The river is roaring somewhere behind the house, the way it always does this time of year. A small family of vervet monkeys is climbing down a tree at the edge of the garden, watching, walking slowly along the boundary. Three days have passed and I still don't quite believe it. I've always said that coming to Kenya feels like coming back to myself. This is the place I feel closest to my childhood — the one we left behind years ago — and the place where, somewhere amongst the dust and the thorn trees, parts of my soul quietly knit themselves back together. It is, I'll admit, an airy-fairy thing to say. But it's also true, and it's the reason I'm writing this from the verandah and not, say, sitting at my kitchen table in Aberdeen drinking lukewarm tea. How we got here I wasn't sure we'd come back this year. Then, at the end of my first visit to Sweden in January, mum asked — almost casually — shall we go to Kenya? And so the planning began, along with some very last-minute passport updates. Dad insisted, at first, that he wasn't coming. By the time I saw him again in Sweden, I was on the verge of tears begging him to please, please come and have a family holiday with us. He relented, looked very pleased with himself, and informed me I'd ruined the surprise — he had been coming all along. What I didn't know, of course, was why he was so keen. Nakuru We spent a day in Nairobi getting our bearings before heading up to Nakuru. The first night was lovely. Dad had dressed up for the occasion. The rest of us had not. The first proper game drive was just my brother, the mountain man and me — looking, as we always do, for the elusive leopard and for the lions of Nakuru, who have evolved to climb trees. We didn't find either. We did find fish eagles, storks, a whole cacophony of birds, and the kind of quiet you forget exists when you live in a city. The next day, two cars went out. I'd brought my first proper telephoto lens with me and was determined to put it to use: rhino, giraffe, hippo, zebra, hyena, waterbuck, buffalo. Birds I couldn't always name. The kind of day that makes a photographer's heart do something embarrassing. The evening of the 2nd of May We got back from the game drive in the late afternoon. The mountain man kindly took my very heavy bag — because what's the point of travelling light — and carted it back to the room while I went to find my parents for sundowners. Thunder was already cracking somewhere in the distance, that low rolling African thunder that is honestly one of the things I miss most when I'm away. There's nothing quite like it. The lightning streaks the whole sky and the rain, when it arrives, arrives properly. We ordered drinks. The whole family was gathered around the table, talking about what we'd seen. And then the mountain man walked back across the lawn with a book in his hands. It was a Sally Mann memoir — my favourite photographer, signed by her — and he held it out to me and said, very casually, I guess this is as good a time as any to give you this. But you can only have it if you agree to marry me. Reader, I did not leap up and shout yes. What I actually said, with tears already in my eyes, was: are you joking? He shook his head, asked again, and only then did I jump up and properly burst into tears in front of my entire family in the middle of the Rift Valley while the sky did its thing overhead. He knows me well. The place I love photographing more than anywhere. My favourite inanimate object — a book — signed by the photographer whose work makes me want to keep chasing wild places. My whole family there to witness it. Even now, three days later, it doesn't quite feel real. The ring (or: where is my ring?) You might be wondering about the ring. Who proposes with a book? The mountain man does, as it turns out — though not entirely by choice. He had ordered a ring, which the sellers cancelled. He then couldn't find the ring I'd been telling him, for two solid years, that I planned to use as my engagement ring: my mum's rugby ring, which she had already passed down to me. All of this came out only after I laughed and asked, so where is my ring, then? Honestly, I'm glad. Being proposed to with a signed Sally Mann is a story I'll tell for the rest of my life. Two hundred cows For anyone who knows my dad, and the culture I come from, you'll know that lobola negotiations have been ongoing for years. The agreed figure, last I checked, was 700 cows. Not just any cows — pregnant Boran cows. On a farm in Kenya. The mountain man has been on the hook for some time. So once I'd said yes, he reached for two small boxes, handed them solemnly to my father, and said, a down payment on the lobola. Inside were 200 toy cows. There are many reasons this man is perfect. Knowing exactly how to take the mickey out of my father is high on the list. Respecting the timeline of the wild A small thing from earlier in the safari that I want to write down before I forget. On our second evening, on the way back to the resort before the 6:30 cut-off, we came across a hyena padding along the road, lake on one side, forest on the other, clearly looking for somewhere to slip away. We followed at a distance for about a kilometre until he found a gap and disappeared. That morning we'd also passed a hippo out of the water, and quietly backed away to give him his space. Part of the privilege of being here — and it is a privilege I never want to grow used to — is being allowed to move at the animals' pace, not ours. To watch from a respectful distance and let them decide how the encounter goes. We were lucky enough to be almost alone in the park for long stretches. That kind of quiet is rarer every year, and I'm grateful for it.   Mornings on the farm We're at the farm now, wedding plans already creeping in around the edges of everything. We may have found our celebrant. The date is locked in (and pleasingly spooky). We're working on a venue that means the world to both of us, and we've started a guest list. The mornings here are easy. The warmth means my otherwise sore body feels almost normal, which is no small thing. I get up early without protest and watch the sun come up over the trees while the geckoes go about their business, the butterflies do theirs, and someone, somewhere, starts a kettle. A paw print appeared in the mud near the boundary on our walk yesterday. Almost certainly a dog. I'm choosing to believe it was a big cat, frozen by drying mud until the next rain comes and softens everything again — making the soil malleable, ready to be shaped by whatever walks across it next. Mum and the snake On one of our last nights, mum gave me a very large fright. There had been a blind snake in the living room earlier in the day, which I missed. The second — a dead boomslang — mum had found out on the compound, which I also missed. So when we were walking back to the house from my brother's place that evening and a toad leapt across the path, she shrieked. I love toads. I still jumped a foot in the air. It could have been the head of a snake, she said, and I couldn't argue with that. This is part of the deal here. You never quite know who you'll cross paths with — a baboon deciding to strip the fig tree, a snake using the living room as a thoroughfare, a paw print that might or might not belong to a leopard. The wild isn't somewhere you visit. It's somewhere you live alongside. Leaving Leaving Africa is always hard. I say, only half-joking, that there's a piece of my soul that stays here permanently — roaming the land, sending me reminders that home is still here, waiting, even if I'm old by the time I get back to it. It is a slightly maudlin thing to say in a piece that's mostly about getting engaged. But the truth is that Africa was the place I felt most at peace until the mountain man came along and quietly gave me some of that peace back. I still can't quite believe how lucky I am to have a fiancé — a word I'm very much still getting used to — who understood, without needing it explained, why the milestone needed to happen here. My three-year-old nephew, by the way, is rapidly turning into a small gentleman with perfect manners, an enviable accent and some genuinely funny one-liners. He's giving his dad a serious run for the family-comedian title. I'll miss him very much when we go. The gecko is still on the verandah. The river is still loud. Soon enough I'll be back in Aberdeen, rain on the window, planning a wedding. But for now, this — and a yes I'm still getting used to saying out loud.   Stay wild, Marlene

In June 2025, I was featured in a BBC article about a research breakthrough at the University of Aberdeen — one that identified chronic pain as physiologically different from other types of pain. I was asked to share my story alongside the research, and I said yes, even though saying yes meant being publicly visible about something I'd often kept quiet. I've lived with chronic pain for over a decade. Chronic fatigue syndrome came first, in my early twenties, and fibromyalgia followed about five years ago. If you've never experienced either, it's hard to describe — but the closest I can get is that ordinary things, the things most people don't think twice about, become difficult. A clothing tag. A brush against the skin. Standing up to cook a meal. Painkillers don't touch it. And for a long time, the hardest part wasn't even the pain — it was the invisibility of it. You don't look sick. You start to wonder whether it really is all in your head. What struck me most about Dr Bewick's research wasn't just the science, although that's remarkable in its own right. It was the validation. For years, chronic pain has been treated as something you should be able to push through, manage, or simply put up with. To have researchers say clearly and publicly that this kind of pain has its own physiological pathway — that it isn't imagined, isn't exaggerated, isn't a failure of mindset — felt like being seen. I don't know what treatments will come of the discovery, or when. But the research itself, and the conversation it opens, matters now. It tells anyone living with chronic pain that they aren't making it up. That's not a small thing. Being featured was strange, in much the same way the IoD feature earlier in the year was strange. There's always a moment of "why me?" — followed by the realisation that if my story can sit alongside the research and help even one person feel less alone, then it's worth saying out loud. For now, I carry on as I always have. I run the agency, I work from wherever I happen to be — Aberdeen, a farm in Kenya, the sofa with Spock and Cheese — and I keep a sunny disposition on the days when the pain is loudest. It's not mind over matter. It never has been. But it is, every day, a choice to keep going. Read the article

When I was asked to feature in the IoD Direction Magazine in the Spring of 2025, my immediate reaction was "why?" — followed by an intense wave of imposter syndrome. I've never seen my journey as particularly important or different, although looking back, I realise it perhaps is. But when you live in your own skin, it's hard to imagine anyone else finding it fascinating — and I suppose that's the crux of what imposter syndrome is. I've been lucky to only have sparing moments of it over the past few years, since starting the agency. Doing something I love means I take my work with me wherever I go. Don't get me wrong — some days can be tough — but on the whole, it's rewarding to know I can work from a farm in Kenya or from the middle of Aberdeen. Nonetheless, I was grateful to be featured and to have a chance to reflect on my journey so far. I still feel very young in the business world, but I hope my story can help inspire someone else to realise that a career doesn't have to be a straight line. All you need to do is follow your passions, and eventually you'll find something that inspires you to stay — and to do something you love. Read the Issue

Welcome back to the Wild Adventures Podcast. In this episode of the Wild Adventures podcast, Marlene Lowe interviews Charline Ribotta, a passionate adventurer who shares her incredible journey of travelling through Africa and the Middle East. Charline discusses her early influences, the decision to embrace a nomadic lifestyle, and the challenges and rewards of travelling as a woman in regions often perceived as dangerous. She highlights the importance of respecting local cultures and wildlife, recounts memorable experiences, and reflects on the lessons learned throughout her travels. In this conversation, Charline and Marlene explore the profound connection to Africa, discussing the unique way of life, the heartbreak of leaving, and the desire to return. They delve into the concept of alignment and purpose, the plans for a nomadic lifestyle, and the countries that hold a special place in their hearts. The discussion also touches on the illusion of problems faced in the West compared to the simplicity of life in Africa, as well as the aspirations for the future, including the desire to influence the next generation. Connect with Charline on: ⁠Instagram⁠ | ⁠Website⁠ | ⁠Patreon⁠

When I encountered my mountain man in the brisk chill of January 2023, little did I know it would shepherd me into the warm embrace of a close-knit group of artists for weekly painting sessions. This serendipitous meeting didn't just reintroduce painting into my life; it brought with it the tranquil and restorative embrace that only art can provide. Amidst the whirlwind of establishing my own marketing agency, navigating the waters of a new relationship, relocating, and the joyful chaos of new canine companions, I found myself in dire need of a sanctuary - painting swiftly became that sacred retreat. In a year brimming with wondrous, transformative change, painting emerged as my serene haven, allowing me precious hours to delve into my inner world and momentarily cast aside the hustle and bustle of life. Enveloped by the countryside's embrace in The Shire, we gather around a grand table, bathed in the soft caress of morning light that pours through expansive windows. The gentle patter of three to five dogs frolicking around the house and into the garden accompanies our creative symphony. As the sunlight kisses my face, urging me to inhale deeply, I bask in its warmth, allowing a profound calm to wash over me. Surrounded by nature's majesty, with minimal human intrusion, a unique sense of peace envelops us, a testament to nature's healing powers. Three seasons have passed with me at that table, and now, as I stand on the cusp of my fourth, with steaming cups of tea and delectable pastries for companionship, a profound sense of gratitude envelops me. To merely say I am lucky feels like an understatement - there are no words to fully encapsulate the tranquillity and belonging that seep into my soul with that first sip of tea, the ambient chatter about our weeks, my nascent painting before me, and the vibrant dabs of fresh paint adorning my canvas. This moment of absolute stillness is my prelude to weekly therapy, a deeply therapeutic ritual that has taught me the art of deceleration, the importance of truly SEEING my subject, and the joy of leaving a piece of my essence on every canvas. The Gifts of Artistic Fellowship Beyond providing a haven for my spirit, this assembly of men and women has instilled in me the courage to venture beyond my comfort zone. It's illuminated the paradox that by slowing down, one can indeed traverse greater distances. In our nurturing space, we don't just share techniques and insights; we share our very canvases, allowing our comrades to contribute strokes as we learn and grow together. Discussions meander from paint selections to colour theories, from the nuances of framing to the profound impact of a well-placed brushstroke. Each gathering is an opportunity to absorb a new facet of this incredible art form that I've committed to mastering for life. I've discovered my affinity for Winsor & Newton's Indian Yellow, my palette's natural inclination towards earthy tones like Sap Green and Burnt Umber, and the intriguing technique of creating black without using the colour itself. I've explored the strength and adaptability of a limited palette and found joy in its simplicity and challenge. As I anticipate the onset of this fourth season, with Scottish winter storms orchestrating a dramatic backdrop and fleeting moments of deep pink sunsets, my excitement for the artistic journey ahead is palpable. I'm eager to interpret and recreate the dynamic hues of the sea's fury against the shore, to capture the subtle dance of green and gold in my dogs' eyes. This is more than a hobby; it's a lifelong odyssey in colour, light, and expression, and I stand ready, brush in hand, for wherever this journey takes me next.