Day 5 & 6 Deserted beaches, Green beans and ghostly presence

Hello my lovelies,

I went quiet after Day 5. Despite promising myself I’d find something fun to write about, I was completely drained after the deep shadow work around my mum and the ghostly happenings in the night. I felt mentally and physically spent.

And then came the familiar wave that hits whenever I share something personal: I press “publish,” re-read it, and think “oh my god, what have you done? Nobody wants to read this, you oversharing idiot.” The anxiety floors me—yet still, I write. Because even though it’s complicated, it helps me. We human beans really are curious creatures.

Healing—whether emotional, spiritual, or physical—requires rest. When we release something heavy, it’s a bit like undergoing surgery: the harmful bit removed, but leaving us tender, tired, and needing care.

So on Day 5 I listened to my soul. I felt lightheaded and wiped out, so I kept things gentle: breakfast, coffee, writing, yoga, a little pottering, lunch with Anja and Storm, and later a swim before heading home by early evening.

One thing I’m learning here is to enjoy my own company. At home, I always need background noise to drown out the chatter in my head. Here, I’m learning to sit in silence—uncomfortable as it is—and let thoughts drift through. The air feels magical, the warm evening breeze sweeping away the cobwebs in my mind. I’m working on balancing the Element of Air.

That Thursday evening, sitting on the terrace, I had a video call with my beloved soul sister, Ginette. She has an incredible intuition and had sensed I was feeling low. Almost as soon as we connected, she said: “You’re not alone—there’s a woman standing behind you.” No human was there, of course, but perhaps a spirit—the same presence responsible for the footsteps and flickering lights the night before. Was it my mum? Thelma, whose house this is? I don’t know. But I felt reassured, not afraid. Spirits don’t scare me; the living can be far more dangerous.

Day 6 began with an early start: house cleaned, yoga done, and a sense of strength. Anja and Storm picked me up for a road trip through the mountains to a secluded beach.

Girls Road Trip

Please excuse my finger in the video below—I don’t know how to remove it, but I wanted to show you just how untouched this part of Greece really is.

The beach was practically deserted: turquoise water, great company, and the kind of peace you can only find in hidden places.

Afterwards, we lunched at a quiet little taverna in Tavari before stopping at a small chapel. There, I lit candles for my mum, my son Benjamin—whose anniversary is next week—my Aunt Kath and Uncle Reg, and my dear friend Pete who's birthday is today.

Back home, after a siesta, I finally indulged in something I’d been longing to do: cook. I learnt to cook in Greece over 40 years ago, and so many of my family’s favourite dishes come from here. That night I made fasolakia, a green bean dish I adore—tomatoes grated by hand, herbs and garlic from Anja’s garden, prepared with love and intention. Cooking is one of my love languages, and although I often only cook for others, I’m learning it can be an act of self-love too. With Northern Soul blasting and a solo kitchen disco, it felt grounding and joyful.

Later, determined not to hide away, I scrubbed up, threw on a bit of slap, and headed out. Isla Bonita at the far end of Scala beach was perfect—chilled vibe, gorgeous décor, and mojitos that were frankly too good.

From there, I wandered back to Rock Ink, Stacey’s bar (where my workshops will be held) for a few more mojitos.

Sadly, Stacey and her girlfriend have recently been subjected to bullying and threats from a homophobic, misogynistic neighbour. The night before had seen things escalate, and tonight many of us women will stand with them if needed. Hopefully it won’t come to a fight, but in a place that celebrates diversity and equality, this man’s behaviour is disgraceful.

Still, I actually stayed out until 1:30am—like a proper grown-up—and slept blissfully until mid-morning. I’m still in my pyjamas as I type this at 1pm, and I’m not remotely bothered. Writing this makes me feel a slight pressure to be more “interesting,” but honestly, I’ve still got three weeks here. There’s plenty of time for that.

Writing is cathartic. I hope that by sharing openly about my healing journey, it resonates with some of you—or at least doesn’t put too many to sleep!

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Bright blessings and much love,

Bex xx

Day 4 Listening, Healing and Letting go

Day 4 – Listening, Healing, and Letting Go

Good morning, lovelies,

I’d promised myself that Day 4 would be a gentle one. Part of being here is about listening to both my body and my mind — resting when I need to, giving myself quality time, and doing the shadow work that I never seem to make space for at home.

I woke around 8, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the patio while writing, and then had a lovely visit from Anja. The day before I’d treated myself to a yoga mat, determined to bring back some healthy habits that I’ve let slip over the past year. Between lack of energy, time, and a habit of not prioritising self-care, it had all gone missing. But that morning, I unrolled the mat and managed 30 minutes of very hot yoga. It felt amazing, and I’ve promised myself at least 20 minutes of practice every day while I’m here.

The rest of the morning was slow — a little meditation, a little pottering — before I finally headed out around 4:30.

Now, Wednesdays here are tricky for taxis because most of them are at the airport, so I decided to be brave. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and tried something I haven’t done since I was 19 and wearing Daisy Dukes… (See video below!)

It went surprisingly well. A kind German lady took me halfway, and then a wonderful Greek woman called Aphrodite picked me up and carried me the rest of the way into Scala. I was honestly quite proud of myself for doing something that made me nervous.

By the time I reached the beach it was still scorchio, so I dived straight into the sea. The water here feels so magical — like slipping into the arms of the Element of the West itself. I felt it washing away old blocks and rigidity, guiding me gently back into the flow of life.

Although I’m an earth sign with hardly any water in my chart, I’ve always felt water is my element. I’m happiest by the sea or on the canal in my beloved narrowboat. It’s where peace finds me.

After my swim, I stopped by to see Dimitri, a jeweller I met last year who makes the most beautiful pieces. Last summer, I bought a silver bow-and-arrow necklace from him, a symbol of Artemis, one of my go-to Goddesses. This time, my eyes went straight to his cowrie shell jewellery.

The cowrie is sacred to Yemaya, Mother of the Ocean, and symbolises divine femininity, protection, and abundance. Naturally, I came home with some — we witches do love our talismans, and these are not only powerful but very pretty.

The evening was spent with my new friend Storm over a delicious Greek dinner by the sea, followed by a wander through Scala. I caught up with Stacey, whose bar will host my workshops this year, and BeRn, a fabulous Irish singer and poet who splits her time between Lesvos and Ireland. Scala is full of characters, the kind of place where you can be completely yourself. These two women are shining examples of that.

Stacey and BeRn

But this trip isn’t just about sea swims and jewellery — it’s also about healing.

As many of you know, I didn’t have the safest of childhoods. My mum struggled with addiction, and my brother and I grew up in neglect and abuse. The deepest wound of all has always been the “mother wound.” My mum died suddenly in 1999 at just 51. For too many years I’ve carried anger and disappointment that she couldn’t care for or protect us the way a mother should. But at nearly 60, I no longer want to carry that weight.

I brought a photo of my mum and me to Greece, and I’ve been spending time talking to her — through my cards, through the evening breeze. I’ve asked my Patron Goddesses to open my heart to forgiveness and understanding.

Here’s what I’ve realised: My mum, Jennifer, was magical once. She was beautiful, artistic, always painting, always dancing with music playing. She had her scars though — her own painful childhood, then postnatal depression after my brother’s birth. In the 1970s, the mental health system’s “solution” was electric shock therapy and handfuls of pills. Slowly, addiction stole the vibrant woman she was. Alcohol followed, and we lost her bit by bit.

One memory that still haunts me is from when I was about 14. We were living in some holiday flats we’d managed to secure just for the winter months, off-season. At the time, my mum was with a cruel man named Geoff, who had taken it upon himself to “cure” her addictions by flushing all her tablets down the toilet. One afternoon, as usual, she was in bed. I popped my head around the door, expecting to see her sleeping, when something caught my eye — the bedding looked darker than I’d ever seen it. At first I thought it was new sheets, but when I looked closer, I realised the truth: it wasn’t fabric at all, it was blood. My mum had cut her arms and wrists.

By some miracle, an ambulance arrived in time and she survived. But nothing was ever said afterwards. It was brushed under the carpet, as though it hadn’t happened. That image of her, lying in that bed, is seared into my memory and still visits me in my dreams.

I won’t rewrite every detail here, but I’ll share this: my mum was failed. By the doctors, by the system, by so-called friends. It wasn’t that she didn’t love us — she simply couldn’t care for us anymore because she was broken and lost.

If I had a TARDIS, I’d go back and simply be her friend.

Here in Greece, I’ve found a new level of forgiveness. I see her now not just as “my mum who failed,” but as Jennifer — a young woman who struggled, who was vulnerable, who didn’t get the help she deserved. I’m grateful for what she did give me: creativity, intelligence, humour, a love of music, and a big heart.

And I can finally admit something I haven’t said in decades: I miss her, and I love her very much. Writing that brought tears — my first in 26 years for my mum — and it feels like a release I’ve been waiting for.

Me and Jennifer, my beautiful Mama 1970

So, apologies if you came here for lighthearted holiday antics — but this is my truth. I’m here to heal, to let go of what no longer serves me. If you too carry wounds like this, know that release is possible. Peace is possible.

Thank you for reading my deepest thoughts. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll do something fun to make you smile.

Brightest blessings,

Bex ✨

Day 2 and 3 Getting lost uphill, I’m a Lesbian get me out of here, and things that go bump in the night.

Hello again lovelies,

Monday started peacefully enough. Breakfast at the house, a gentle potter about, and then the decision to head down to Scala to put some flyers and posters out for my workshops.

The plan was simple: walk into the old village, find a taxi, and glide effortlessly down to the coast. Reality? Not so simple.

Eressos Village

This year’s house is a little further from the centre, but Anja had explained to me several times how to get there. To be fair, she could have explained it a thousand times—my sense of direction is practically non-existent. Eressos is stunning, but with its winding lanes and many identical houses, it’s also a labyrinth. I wandered happily at first, snapping photos, enjoying the sunshine… until I realised I’d been walking uphill in every direction for half an hour. By this time i was as we say in Lancashire T'wot (too hot,) too lost, too done.

Eventually, I stumbled back to the house and abandoned my mission. The stress of the previous day—almost missing my flight, terrifying landings, everything—hit me like a brick. Anxiety has been a huge shadow over the past year, making me withdrawn, cancelling plans at the last moment and avoiding people I care about. it's really affected my confidence. For a moment I was full of self-doubt, wondering what on earth I was doing here.

But no. Not this time. Not here, not now.

I did some breathing exercises, gave myself a mental shake, and texted Anja. She swooped in like the goddess she is, gave me a lift to Scala, and we spent a lazy afternoon with Storm and some new friends. Beer, laughter, sunshine. When one of them asked if I’d help with gift shopping the next day, I agreed immediately—gift shopping is my jam.

That night I retreated early, cooked myself dinner, and sat on the patio under a waxing gibbous Moon in Sagittarius. A perfect moon for adventure, optimism, and focusing on goals. I let her light soak into me, set intentions for healing and growth, and once again I slept like a baby.

Tuesday began with coffee, breakfast, and watering the plants. Then came Mission Impossible: finding the village square.

This time I succeeded! With a few wrong turns (naturally) and the help of a kind elderly lady with groceries, I finally made it. Feeling triumphant, I rewarded myself with a peach tea before grabbing a taxi to Scala.

My buddy Storm joined me in handing out flyers and even a spot of fly posting down the back streets—she’s been coming here for 14 years and knows everyone. Then it was shopping time with my new acquaintance, rounded off with a mojito by the sea. Bliss.

Sellotape Ninja Storm

Until.

My shopping pal suddenly confessed they’d been thinking about me all night and felt we had “relationship potential., despite certain obstacles......

The biggest obstacle being that he’s a 44-year-old male man from Preston.

Only me. Honestly. I could come to a place with more lesbians per square metre than anywhere else on the planet and attract a straight bloke.

For a short moment it was an “I’m a Lesbian Get Me Out of Here” situation. But I had to admire his openness and honesty. I explained gently that, as a lesbian, I couldn’t return his feelings—and even if I was straight, dating someone who was eight when my eldest daughter was born was not on the cards. He took it graciously, and we parted on good terms. A sweet man, and I hope he finds someone perfect for him.

My evening ended watching the sunset. Perfect. Until bedtime.

As I drifted off, I heard a loud bang upstairs. Then footsteps. My heart stopped. I shot up like a scalded cat, switched the light on, and sat there plotting my escape. Silence. Lights off… footsteps again.

Now, I watch far too much true crime, so my brain immediately jumped to “Dexter-style kill room being prepared upstairs.” Eventually, I braved it—keys in hand like some makeshift weapon—and searched every room. Nothing. No open shutters, no windows banging, no lurking murderer. Just me and my overactive imagination.

I went back to bed, leaving a light on in the dining room for safety. Just as my heart rate calmed, the lights began flicking on and off by themselves. On. Off. On. Off. Every time I moved, it stopped. Every time I settled, it started again.

In the end, I pulled out my tarot cards—always my grounding tool—and convinced myself it was either residual energy (which often feels like a haunting) or perhaps the spirit of Thelma, Anja’s dear friend who owned the house before passing. Comforted by that thought, I finally drifted off.

Today’s plan? A full sage smudging, top to bottom. Just in case.

Thanks for reading, my loves. It means the world. Tomorrow I’ll share more escapades and a deeper dive into one of my biggest intentions for this trip: healing the most complicated wound of all—the mother wound.

Much love and bright blessings,

Bex ✨