There’s something about doing something for the first time that feels equal parts brave and slightly unhinged. This was mine.
Day one, it was just me and Grace heading to Winkworth Arboretum. Not just for the walk, but so she could settle into the idea of a longer drive. Ease her in gently… and, if I’m honest, ease myself in too.
The bluebells stopped me in my tracks. Not in a dramatic way, just… quietly. The smell was so clean, so soft, it caught me off guard. It reminded me of my nanny straight away. Her perfume, that same pure feeling. And then that strange, comforting sense that she was there with me. I saw a robin — I always take that as my sign — and then, as if that wasn’t enough, a white feather landed on my bonnet. You can call it coincidence if you want. I didn’t. I felt completely safe. Completely held. And for a first solo trip with my dog, that mattered more than anything.
We carried on to Petworth Park and I don’t think I’ve ever felt air like it. Proper wind, the kind that hits your face and wakes something up in you. It felt like everything was speaking at once — not loud, just… present. I felt safe, warm, and oddly free all at the same time.
Grace was beside herself. Ears flapping, running like she’d just been handed the keys to the entire park. Deer gathered together in the distance, ducks scattered across the water, swans gliding like they owned the place. Everything felt wide open. Vast. The kind of space that makes your problems feel a little bit smaller without asking them to leave completely. The trees arched over us like they were keeping watch. It was one of those moments where you think, I wish I could bottle this.
Then we drove down to Woodmancote. I’ll be honest, I had a wobble. A proper one. That little moment where your chest tightens and you think, what am I doing? I nearly cried. I’ve never done anything like this before, not on my own, not with the responsibility of my dog and my own mind to manage at the same time. Driving isn’t easy for me. Anxiety and PTSD don’t just take a day off because you’ve decided to be adventurous. But I wanted this. I really wanted this.
We arrived at the cottage and, thankfully, it was simple. Key code, in, done. No faff. That matters more than people realise when your brain gets overwhelmed easily. There were a couple of dogs barking nearby which set Grace off, and for a moment I had that familiar panic about neighbours and noise and being “too much”… but actually, it was fine. It’s the countryside. Things bark. Things creak. Nothing fell apart.
We had the quietest evening. No rush, no pressure. Just the two of us settling in. It felt like a small win, but a big one at the same time.
The next day we headed to Emsworth to meet a friend, and it was exactly what I needed. Soft, pretty, easy. A little harbour where dogs can paddle and people sit with cups of tea like time isn’t chasing them. Grace had her first proper dip. I don’t think she fully appreciated how deep it was going to get, but she gave it a good go and came out proud of herself, which is all that matters.
We sat, had tea, chatted, and it just felt… normal. In the best way.
Back at the cottage that evening, we wandered through the fields again. More bluebells, more quiet, more of that feeling that I didn’t need to be anywhere else. I slept so well. Proper, deep sleep. The bed helped — it was ridiculously comfortable — but I think it was more than that. My nervous system had finally exhaled.
I will say this though, if you’re not used to country life, bring a fan or some white noise. It creaks. It moves. It has its own personality at night.
The next day we went to Bosham, and I don’t say this lightly — it might be one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Proper postcard. The kind of place that doesn’t feel real until you’re standing in it.
There was a man selling ice cream, not the usual kind. Proper homemade, made that morning, sold that afternoon. One of the last of his kind, he said. I told him I’d put him in my column, so I am. Because places like that deserve to be remembered.
The church was stunning. The little tea rooms, the benches, the water running through the village… and that famous quay that floods if you leave your car too long. A gentle warning wrapped up as a local story. I loved it. All of it.
Grace was in her element again. Confident, happy, completely herself.
We stopped for lunch at the local pub back near the cottage. A ploughman’s, a shandy, dogs playing under the table like they’d known each other for years. It felt simple. Easy. Like life stripped back to the good bits.
The drive home was… an experience. Proper rural roads. The kind where you question your life choices when another car appears and there is absolutely nowhere to go. So maybe don’t take that route unless you’re feeling bold.
But I did it. That’s the thing I keep coming back to.
I actually did it.
If you’re thinking about doing a solo trip with your dog, just go. Take more treats than you think you need. Water, a bowl, stop every 30 minutes so they can stretch and have a wander. Wear proper shoes. Take a charger for the car. And don’t overthink it.
There’s something waiting for you in the quiet. And sometimes, it looks like bluebells, a wagging tail, and a version of you that feels just a little bit freer than before.
