There's a question we all feel rising inside — subtle at first, then restless, aching. You can bury it with whisky and work, or let it bury you. Or you can face it, knowing the cost might be your marriage, your friendships and your career.
I chose the latter. A callusing journey through the churn of modern absurdities — ambition without meaning, connection without depth, progress without peace. The search for a more grounded and authentic life beyond the simple formulas, methods and sticking plasters.
I sought the answers in athletic discipline, in meditation, on mountain peaks, and within ancient wisdom. Intelligent authors and grand philosophies whirled around my mind. Over the years my journals brimmed with scribbled analysis and commentary. They chronicled what seemed to be an endless pursuit — their worn pages, a map of scratched-out threads — wearily traced many times over for clues. The struggle left its mark, and my resolve was questioned by even those closest.
Like when I decided to head off around the European Alps on my motorbike one summer. Jeff said to me, "You're not Che Guevara. You're a bloody strategist in leather pants."
The laughter stung — calling me no better than an idle dreamer. But the hum of the road and the open doors that awaited me strengthened the yearning and leathered my resolve. But even leather stretches under strain.
A year later I was in Buti, a small mediaeval village in Italy, sitting in a piazza having a coffee. I was talking to a sculptor and restorer of ancient churches in the region. A man whose callused hands disguised the delicacy and beauty of his work. Once again I could see it — a life with purpose and rhythm. But again, the ache returned — that sense of being just outside, always looking in.
My bones became tired from travelling and I started to feel that maybe they were right — that the whole plight was for nothing. You either are, or you are not. You're the frog or the scorpion. And the river is just the river. That's all. It was pointless to carry on searching for a more meaningful life. Recede and accept, withdraw. Feeling the weight of all the sacrifices for naught, I stopped looking. The long journey home was strangely relieving.
I hadn't written anything in over a month. Nor thought about any noble quest, nor any future adventure. But today, soaking in the mist-filled green vista — it would be one that would change my life forever.
I had climbed this Welsh mountain many times before, eagerly searching for the answer that would slake my thirst. But each time I was continually hampered and swallowed up by the pursuit. Getting faster, becoming more fluent, more in rhythm with the contours of the earth, pushing my body, defeating my mind, sweating and pushing to find the answer to my calling.
Today, my steps were slow. My heart — steady. My mind — clear. I approached the same jagged rock clinging to the side of the bone-chilling void below. Instead of fear, my hand absorbed the contours, the tiny abrasions, the smooth flecks of stone ground out by the ages — and listened. The glacial erosion, the shaping from the rain and snow and frost and the heat of a thousand summers now gone.
The air was resonant to the tune of birds and busy insects fetching, carrying and building their homes. Wild animals were working for food and family. The ancient echoes of mountain people, children's voices, footsteps and laughter. I was alone, yet not alone. At that moment, there was no difference between the rock and I — we were the same. It could feel my breath, my heartbeat and my feet connected to the ground.
Time stood still and yet everything moved. I was awake and alive. I felt it all then — all the years of searching, of posturing, of wearing the manufactured self. I had never been free, not truly. And now — freedom wasn't about being free at all — this kind of freedom was about an awareness, an acceptance — it was about living.
Before my brain could make sense of it, I was flooded with a tidal wave of emotion. Joy, ecstasy, fulfilment — the same feeling I knew as a boy. Building my first snowman. Jumping from an exhilarating height without fear. Riding my bike through the whoosh of a deep puddle.
And then, without any warning, came the grief — that a life might go unlived, its music never played.
On the hike up I had ascended through the dark grey clouds and drizzle of the valley floor and slowly met the top of the blanket, nestling below a blue sky and fresh autumn sun. I sat down and surveyed the cloud inversion. And then cast my mind back over the signs, the triggers and all the searching over the wilderness years.
One significant sign that stayed with me was a time when I returned to my father's home in Manchester. Broken by divorce and adrift in a sea of lost and shallow connections, I drank too much, grew bitter and stewed in my own cynicism. One day, on a typical gloomy March afternoon, I wandered the bleak industrial city in my car. I stared blankly ahead into the mottled grey abyss, when all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, a single cherry blossom just appeared. Bright white and pink jutting proudly from the concrete. It was a living brushstroke, a painter's single, perfect dab of impossible beauty that defied the grim backdrop. It had no right to be there. But it was. And I saw it — for a brief moment, I was with it — connected.
I didn't really know what that moment meant deep down. But it left a permanent mark on my soul — a calling, a persistent ache deep in the bones. And now, perched on the side of this mountain, I was finally starting to understand.
I took a lungful of the glorious moment and decided to make my way back down. As I picked my foot holds with a new, assured confidence, I recounted some of those times — the many challenging, searching wilderness years — the lost loves, abandoned careers, the loneliness of the search — it all fell away. The question wasn't answered, but it was home now.
I saddled up my Triumph and was hit by a dose of reality — I would soon be back in the noise again. The damned inbox, financial bullshit, clients, relationships, targets, incessant media with their own convoluted and manipulating narratives and the machinations of admen.
And then, in true Welsh fashion, the heavens opened. The rain began to bounce off the road. I went through a little village that had a good post-climb chip shop and decided to get out of the rain.
The young girl at the counter, chipped nails and slightly damp raven hair, smiled — and for a second, I was back again, sailing in her youthful, untamed optimism.
The sweet sting of vinegar from a chip sizzled on my tongue. And then I let go and I stopped thinking. I revelled in the moment, under that lean-to outside the chip shop in the middle of a rain-soaked Welsh village. Steam rising from the bike. Rain hitting the pipes with resonant dings. And everything was good — simple, knowing. Everything was the same — but I was different. And then it hit me — the rock — it was the damned rock!
I knew then that this wasn't the final answer, but a door that opened and beckoned me to a new journey. I hurried home. I resolved to clear my clients as quickly as possible. All except one.
Jeff's life was cracking at the seams. I could see the weight of the same questions I'd once carried. He asked how I stayed calm when everything was either burning, broken or pointless. I said I wasn't sure, but I knew the ground I stood on — I had fought hard through the years of loss and learning.
I didn't have all the answers. But I knew what needed to happen. This clarity — this connection — couldn't remain a memory. It had to live and prosper within the chaos. It needed structure. Methods. Foundation. Otherwise, it would be lost — a pearl dropped in a turbulent ocean. That's when I began shaping something new. Not just for me. For anyone reaching above the noise. Above the waves. Toward something real.