Growing up and up and up ... 1,085 metres high.

For a person with itchy feet like mine, there’s nothing better than seeing an adventurous guy who likes taking me on unplanned journeys out of the city. Ssshhhhh, don’t tell anyone, but I think I might have found one.

Him, me, the motorway ... weekends, freedom, breathing space. We have this real adult co-operation going on. I pull my weight and he pulls his. He drives. I navigate him to the wrong places and keep asking, “Are we there yet?” in the voice of a six-year-old kid. I nag him about the mess in his car. He nags me about my poor map-reading skills. We both know we don’t mean it. I’m so proud of us being all grown up, passing time arguing about the rules of punctuation and snacking on Haribo Golden Bears. And when the weekend is over and I get back to London, to my life all alone, he always texts me just to say it was great seeing you.

He doesn’t need me and I don’t need him, but we quite enjoy each other’s company anyway. No drama. No games. No labels. No butterflies in the stomach. Instead, I came to realize that the root of the word boyfriend really is just friend. Not being in love means there is no sense of entitlement. And when you expect nothing, then everything you get is a bonus.

... and in between all that, we climb mountains, inhale fresh air and discover that the grass is greener in Wales. (Because it rains all the time.)

-- photos taken in Snowdonia --