a very cornish eid and epic english escapade.

Hello peeps,

It all began last week with me hopping on a flight from Amsterdam to London Gatwick, armed with a backpack, blind optimism, and not nearly enough layers. The moment I landed, my best friend Azree greeted me at arrivals with the energy of a Eurovision final—hugs, squeals, and enough side-eye at British airport prices to last us the whole trip. 

From there, we made a train journey to Brighton to celebrate Eid with my aunt, my uncle Daud, and my cheeky little niece Alfie - not so little now he is sitting for a-levels. And guess who got promoted (without pay or proper consent) to Head Chef of the Eid Kitchen? That’s right—me. The moment I walked through the door, I was handed a chopping board and a prayer. I barked orders like Gordon Ramsay if he’d been raised in a Southeast Asian kitchen. “Slice the onions thin, not emotionally!” I shouted, while Auntie pretended not to hear me.

We whipped up nasi tomato so fragrant it could solve global conflicts, dalca thick enough to build a house with, and ayam masak merah that made Uncle Daud do a little happy dance after the first bite. Azree tried to help, but spent most of his time stirring things unnecessarily and pretending to taste-test for quality (he had four pieces of ayam goreng kunyit before I caught on). The kitchen was chaos, my apron was stained like a battle flag, and I almost burned a pot of dalca—but hey, every general has a casualty.

Fuelled by sambal and pure adrenaline, we headed to Gatwick airport and rented a car—where I promptly forgot which side of the road I was supposed to be on—and launched a spontaneous road trip across the wild southwest of England. Our first real stop was Durdle Door, where dramatic cliffs met my dramatic breathing after hiking back up. The views were stunning, windswept, and also nearly swept me off the edge. After that cardio assault, we spent the night in the delightfully quaint Tavistock, which smelled like marmalade and safety. The morning market there had scones that smelled so good I almost cried into my sour coffee. But onward! 

The next morning, we aimed for the legendary Tintagel Castle, full of King Arthur lore and windswept cliffs. But alas, the English weather had other plans. Rain didn’t just fall—it attacked. We sat in the Penggena Pasties famously known for their Cornish Pasties for 45 minutes watching the trail flood, as brave tourists in ponchos slid past us like soggy penguins. Eventually we accepted that the only thing we’d be conquering was a plate of cornish pasties and a moody coastal view from the safety of the cafe. It was dramatic, it was wet, and it was wildly disappointing.

We shook off the castle blues and made our way to sunny, artsy St Ives, where the pastel buildings restored our will to live. We wandered through galleries, pretending we understood strokes and had Cornish Ice Cream that healed emotional wounds. Feeling whimsical (and slightly car-sick from the winding roads), we rolled into Penzance, where pirates were allegedly once a thing but now it’s mostly cafés, boats, and charming shops that sell mugs with passive-aggressive quotes. We stretched our legs, hunted down place to go, and had a brief existential crisis over a windchime shaped like a narwhal. Typical Saturday.

Then, onward to Marazion Beach, where we gazed at the majestic St Michael’s Mount. I briefly lived my royal fantasy—until a seagull dive-bombed my hand and stole my chips like it was trained by MI5. Azree was away paying car park ticket and I am glad he doesn’t see the horror upon me. From there we hit Land’s End, where the wind nearly carried us to Portugal and I found a new religion in the form of Cornish fudge. That night we stayed in Penberth with our host Tony, who was a total gem and might be part-druid. 

The morning after, we had a divine breakfast at Duke Street Café in Newlyn (10/10 would sell my soul for their sourdough),  Then came the jaw-dropping Minack Theatre—an open-air marvel carved into the cliffside. There were no shows that day, but I did dramatically quote Shakespeare to the Atlantic while Azree pretended not to know me. 

We made a short-lived stop at The Lost Gardens of Heligan, took one look at the ticket price, and decided we’d “spiritually experienced” it enough from the car park. 

Let’s take a moment for Looe, the town with a name that sounds like something you politely avoid discussing in public. Every time we saw a “Welcome to Looe” sign, I laughed like a child. Azree rolled his eyes so hard they almost got stuck. We wandered the adorable harbour area and tried the local fish and chips—which were delicious, though slightly less.

Then came Hound Tor—our final hike and our most unexpectedly dramatic moment. Unlike the rest of Dartmoor, the weather was actually perfect: cloudy blue skies, sunshine, and just enough wind to make my jacket do that cool dramatic flappy thing. The landscape looked like something out of a fantasy novel, but with more sheep poop.

The rocks at the top were glorious—rugged, ancient, and Instagram-ready. Naturally, I tried to climb them for the perfect victory photo, immediately got stuck halfway up, and had to do an awkward crab-scoot back down while a couple of local hikers watched in polite horror. Azree was too busy taking photos. “For the memories!” he said, mid-screenshot of my dignity falling apart in 4K.

Car returned at Gatwick. Hearts full of inside jokes. Our bodies were exhausted, our playlists overplayed, and the car still smelled faintly of ayam masak merah. I looked at Azree and said, “We’ve seen cliffs, castles, and cornish chaos. What did we learn?” He thought deeply and replied, “I am going there again.”

From kitchen conquests and monsoon-level castle fails to seagull theft and that one traumatising public toilet in Looe—we lived, we laughed, we wildly mispronounced Cornish town names. Would I do it all again? Absolutely. Would I let Azree near the spice cabinet next Eid? Only under strict supervision and a signed waiver.

And as we rolled our suitcases through Gatwick one last time before heading to London, Azree turned to me and said, “Next time, shall we do Scotland?” I paused dramatically, turned my head slowly, and whispered, “Only if I’m not the head chef.”

Spoiler alert: I’ll still be the head chef. And he’ll still be stirring the wrong pot.

The end.
(Or as the sheep at Hound Tor said: "Baa.")

Till the next adventure!

Emir xx