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6 July 2023

6 min read

Letter from a digital nomad

The real gift of the digital tools we now have access to is to make the world both bigger and smaller at the same time, writes Lianne Howard-Dace.

Lianne Howard-Dace

Lianne Howard-Dace is a writer and trainer, with a background in church and community fundraising.

Photo by Chenspec on Pixabay.

The air in the carriage is still and stifling. I’m sat near the border of Romania and Bulgaria, waiting for the Poliția to return my passport, and I tot up that I’ve spent over 100 hours on trains in the last two months. But, despite my large suitcase and brightly coloured bum-bag, I’m not strictly on holiday. I am – for now at least – a digital nomad.

Even before Covid-19 hit, the number of people combining work and travel in this way was growing. The increasing openness to remote working which the pandemic catalysed means this has only continued to explode.

Some countries, like Portugal and Italy, are even trying to incentivise people to work there to aid their economies, or repopulate declining areas.

Exactly what constitutes being a digital nomad is a little fluid, but essentially it is working remotely, in different places, for a prolonged period of time. You could certainly be a digital nomad moving around your home country, but there is a strong trend of people exploring places where their salary goes further.

If you’re stuck renting and you work remotely anyway, why not add some adventure to the mix?

It’s not hard to see why nearly half the people pursuing this lifestyle are in their 30s. Many of us have not been able to “settle down” in the ways we anticipated growing up. If you’re stuck renting and you work remotely anyway, why not add some adventure to the mix?

Often, this means rocking up to a new city for a month or two, maybe as long as a year. Having bought a three-month interrail pass on a bit of a whim, I’ve taken a slightly different approach. Having already established myself in a new city a couple of years ago, I wasn’t looking to do that over again. But, working on the road is allowing me to scratch the wanderlust itch without eating into my savings.

Making the most of my all-inclusive travel, I’m spending the week in one city and moving on to another for the weekend. I’ve been blessed to experience some of the best art, culture and food that Europe has to offer. Galleries in Dresden, a piano trio in Venice, and pierogies in Warsaw have been just a few of the highlights.

I have also had to hold onto my job, of course, and getting used to balancing work and sightseeing was a steep learning curve for the first couple of weeks. My employer has not only allowed, but encouraged, me to make the most of their flexible working policy. This has made keeping the FOMO at bay easier, as I can always take a break to visit a gallery or museum and work into the evening if needed. Taking a late dinner is so much more continental anyway…

The “digital” bit of being a digital nomad isn’t confined to remote working either. Having the timetable of every train route in Europe, a map of the world and a translator at my fingertips offers more than just convenience. As a woman travelling alone, I feel much safer knowing that the possibility of getting lost and not being able to communicate with anyone is reduced.

Just as much as the breath-taking scenery and legendary landmarks, it’s been these little moments... which have really made this trip.

Showing an Austrian man in the laundrette how the camera feature on Google Translate turned the washing machine instructions into English in front of our eyes was a really fun moment. In fact, just as much as the breath-taking scenery and legendary landmarks, it’s been these little moments (you might call them casual magic) which have really made this trip. Like noticing that I’m one of five women on the train to Oslo who are knitting or crocheting, or watching a man in Bratislava cycle across a park with a giant bundle of modelling balloons strapped to his back.

Some people were surprised I was undertaking such a long trip alone, but it suits me. Compared to the 2021 lockdown - which happened to be my first experience of living alone - this is a doddle.

I’ve also been helped by the fact that a few friends and family have taken my trip as an excuse for a break, so I’ll have had company for four of the thirteen weeks I’m away. As a bonus, I randomly bumped into a couple I know from London whilst walking over a bridge in Budapest and joined them for an impromptu beer.

I’ve become very content dining alone. It’s nice to feel comfortable in your own skin like that, and it’s helped me get a lot more reading done as well! There have been other unexpected benefits of moving around so much. Oddly, for someone with hoarding tendencies, I take pride in being a light packer. I’ve really enjoyed the simplicity of living with a smaller amount of stuff and finally understand the power of “a place for everything and everything in its place”.

In my “normal” life I am terrible for procrastinating with life admin and leaving things until they become stressful. On the road I can’t do that. I have to book the next train or place to stay. I have to tidy up because I need to be out of my room. I’ve learned that I thrive with this blend of structure and change, though I’m yet to figure out how on earth to translate that when I get back.

I’ve also tried to keep a stricter morning routine than usual. I’ve started most days with a few pages of journaling and the daily reflection on the Pray As You Go app. It’s working well to have that consistent touchpoint, whether I’m waking up in a quirky studio apartment or on a busy sleeper train.

I’ve visited a lot of cathedrals and churches on this trip, as these are amongst the significant landmarks in many European cities. Sometimes this is a purely touristic experience; if a church is teeming with people chatting and taking selfies I might take in the artistry of the building, but find it harder to connect on a spiritual level. But many times an atmosphere of reverence is maintained. There will be a quiet sense of shared wonder. I’ll find myself slipping into a pew, meditating on the imagery around me, having a little chat with God and generally enjoying being out of the hustle and bustle of the city for a short while.

On Sundays, I’ve sought out an English-speaking church where possible. Maintaining some of the rhythms and rituals from my everyday life helps me to feel grounded. If I couldn’t listen to podcasts, or write, or crochet I suspect I would feel more disoriented whilst moving about so much. And if I didn’t go to church for the whole three months, I think I would feel out of sorts. Untethered, perhaps. In the twelve years or so I’ve been a Christian, I’ve grown used to that weekly gathering punctuating my week, giving me space to connect to God and others and allowing me time to reflect.

Joining a service has also given me a different window into some of the cities I’ve visited. I loved hearing that the church in Prague were having their annual book sale, singing with a visiting choir in Berlin and learning about the grant the church in Bucharest have received to support refugees in their city.

I am part of a worldwide movement... I can learn from others and find kinship wherever I am.

The American student handing me the order of service, the Indian priest leading the service, the Australian retiree reading the bible passage for the day; they all remind me that I am part of a worldwide movement. That I can learn from others and find kinship wherever I am. And, when it hasn’t worked logistically to attend a local service, I’ve watched one on YouTube from my church back in Brighton. I’ve been able to both find a sense of connection in a new place and stay connected to my home community. Maybe that’s the real gift of the digital tools we now have access to; they make the world both bigger and smaller at the same time.

Now, I’ve got my passport back and in six hours or so I will be in Sofia, something like city 20 of 27. In a few days I’ll take an overnight train to my furthest destination, Istanbul. I’ll be right on the precipice of where East meets West, having taken in the Alps, the Baltic Sea and the banks of the Danube along the way. Not a bad way to make a living.

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Film & TV

18 May 2024

5 min read

Théoden and breaking the spell

Bernard Hill’s most famous role sheds light on where humanity needs to be.

Theodore Brun

Theodore is author of the historical fiction series The Wanderer Chronicles. He previously studied Dark Age archaeology at Cambridge, and afterwards worked in international law.

A movie scene of a king and prince walking confidently.

Bernard Hill, middle, in The Lord of the Rings.

New Line Cinema.

Recently we saw the sad passing of Bernard Hill, one of the great British actors of his generation, whose career enjoyed many high points. Hill came to prominence, in Britain at least, in the 1980s with his role as an unemployed tarmac-layer in the BBC series Boys From the Blackstuff. Through the 1990s, he went on to star in a number of big budget Hollywood feature films, such as The Ghost and The Darkness, Titanic, and The Scorpion King. But his best-known role, the one which won him global recognition, was as King Théoden in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy.

In both Tolkien’s book and Jackson’s adaptation, the character of King Théoden plays a pivotal role in making a stand against the forces of evil advancing under the banners of first the wizard Saruman the White in The Two Towers, and then the Dark Lord Sauron himself in The Return of the King, the trilogy’s climax.

Théoden’s character arc is as heroic as any in Tolkien’s epic. But perhaps the most memorable moment within it comes when he is first introduced. Gandalf comes to Théoden’s hall of Edoras to rally support against Saruman’s rampaging armies of orcs. But instead of a redoubtable king and ally in the fight against their common enemy, he finds a weak man buckled under the weight of old age and infirmity, cowed by fear and indecision, and enthralled to the counsel of Grima Wormtongue - whom Gandalf reveals to be an agent of Saruman.

In Jackson’s version, Gandalf ‘delivers’ Théoden from his enthrallment, in effect breaking the spell of inertia and inaction which Saruman, through his minion Wormtongue, has cast over him. Théoden awakes from his bondage, is physically rejuvenated, and is now able to rise and take his proper place in the battleline against Sauron’s evil power. In Tolkien’s version, Théoden has more agency. He chooses, at last, to throw off the counsel of Wormtongue and cling to the slim thread of hope which Gandalf represents, however desperate it may seem.

It is a powerful image, and one from which we can and must learn today.

Our ears are open to so many voices through both mainstream and social media that it becomes a matter of extreme importance to be able to discern who is Gandalf and who is Grima Wormtongue?

Few would deny that recent times have revealed new and determined manifestations of evil in our culture and our world. And yet, both inside and outside the church, these latter years have also been characterised by a feeling of helplessness and inaction in the face of such evil. It’s common to hear both men and women complain that they feel unable to speak up in opposition to what they perceive as wrong. They have been silenced. Either those who dare to speak up find themselves cancelled. Or else those who don't self-censor, keeping their mouths shut and their heads well below the parapet. Like Théoden, they lock themselves away in their hall. In this latter case, the battle is ceded without ever having drawn a sword.

As the famous Edmund Burke quote goes: ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ Much of the church, some might dare to say most of it, resides in this place of cowed inaction. Enthralled and confused by the Wormtongue whisperings of the media as mouthpieces for agendas diametrically opposed to the good, we have willingly subjected ourselves to this spell. And the consequence? Like the Westfold of Rohan, the land is burning.

It is not controversial to say anyone who cares about our culture and its future needs to awaken from their slumber. Needs to cast off - or else have cast out - the gag of silence. But what is more troubling perhaps is that, even having done that, we cannot agree on what is evil and what is good.

In the Bible, the devil is portrayed as often masquerading as an angel of light. And it warns against the descent of some cultures into a state of such moral confusion that God’s ordinances are inverted: good is called evil, and evil is called good.

So how are we to navigate our way through this mire of uncertainty? Warnings against misinformation and disinformation abound. And yet, those in positions of power who proclaim them may equally be charged with propagating untruths and dissembling realities, all for the sake of shoring up their own power structures.

All this is to say - our ears are open to so many voices through both mainstream and social media that it becomes a matter of extreme importance to be able to discern who is Gandalf and who is Grima Wormtongue?

Tolkien’s choice of the name Grima Wormtongue is significant. ‘Grima’ derives from the Old Norse word, grímr which means ‘mask’. ‘Worm’ similarly derives from another Old Norse word: ormr which means ‘snake’ or ‘serpent’.

As such, it throws us right back into the Garden of Eden and the honeyed words of the serpent which led humanity into such disaster, offering some purported good up front, while concealing the calamity (and shame) which comes hard on its heels. If we are to stand up and contest the modern manifestations of evil, we must be able to recognise the side of the field of battle on which to take our stand.

Who is Gandalf? In Tolkien’s world, though he hated the idea of his work being interpreted as allegory, Gandalf does represent the Christ figure. And Sauron in turn suggests the Anti-Christ - a nebulous figure arising from scripture, poorly understood at the best of times. But somehow the fountainhead from which, humanity is told, all evil must flow.

But if humanity thinks of Christ on the side of good, and Christ as the most human of us all, perhaps this provides a yardstick by which we can discern the lines of battle.

Is it human or anti-human to stand up for life at its most vulnerable? Is it human or anti-human to stand up for the family unit? Is it human or anti-human to honour and celebrate each and every Imago Dei as they were created to be? Is it human or anti-human to safeguard a parent’s right to speak good into their children’s life? Is it human or anti-human to preserve the innocence of our young? Is it human or anti-human to challenge systems of power which enable all kinds of exploitation and other self-evident evils?

First we must awaken. Then we must choose our side. And finally, like Théoden, we must ride to the fight.

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