Blog 027: Of Howling Winds, Helicoptering Nappies, and the Quest for Pasta
- Heath Tredell
- Sep 22
- 7 min read
If our last dispatch was the sun-drenched, Aperol-spiked welcome brochure, consider this the chapter written in the ink of a brewing Balkan winter, with a few… unexpected… illustrations in the margins.
We’d settled into the rhythm of Porto Montenegro like a well-worn sea shanty. By day, the breathtaking fortress town of Kotor—a fjord-like bay clutched by mountains so sheer you’d think the gods had a dramatic flair for landscaping. (Fun fact: The ancient maze of Kotor’s Old Town has streets so narrow they’re called ‘let me pass’ – a phrase I found myself using politely, and then with increasing desperation, while dodging tourists and very determined cats. - quick note, there are TONS of them!!) We explored the Lustica peninsula, a place of wild, olive-scented beauty and hidden coves that, if it wasn’t for the modern apartment complex that had been recently put in the bay it, would have felt like our own private discovery.
Captions from Montenegro
But December, that scamp, had other ideas. The mood shifted. The light became a thin, gold liquid, spilling late over the mountaintops and retreating early, as if shy of the cold. And the wind. Oh, the WIND. It didn’t whisper; it screamed. It funnelled down from the mountains to the north with a biblical fury, a reminder that for all our fancy satellite navigation and diesel engines, Neptune and Aeolus are still very much in charge.
One afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, terrifying purple and unleashed a hailstorm of such spectacular violence we half-expected a plague of frogs to follow. The hailstones weren't polite little pellets; they were the size of your thumb, a furious, icy bombardment that clattered on Sawasdeekat’s deck like a thousand drummers playing a death metal solo. We sat inside, our world a cacophony of ice, feeling thrillingly small.
It was this same divine tantrum that decided a small, innocent motorboat a few berths down had overstayed its welcome. We watched, from behind our small portholes, as the wind plucked it from its moorings like a child plucking a daisy, and tossed it, with casual indifference, onto a nearby pebbled beach. A stark, salty lesson in humility, and a fantastic photo op for my increasingly dramatic Instagram feed.
Between these meteorological dramas, we became masters of cosy innovation. Remember our dining table? We’ve had it fitted with clever telescopic legs! With a simple click, it transforms from a fine dining venue for Pookie’s culinary experiments into a huge, luxurious day bed—the perfect nest from which to watch the world go by, or to hunker down with a book while the heavens threw its worst at us. It’s these little upgrades that make life afloat feel not just adventurous, but decadently comfortable.
Forging Friendships
Now we had forged glorious bonds in this place. Countless sundowners that stretched into star-dusted nights, curry evenings that warmed the soul (a testament to Pookie’s relentless quest for decent spices, even in the Adriatic), and the kind of instant, intense friendships you only make when you’re all slightly unmoored from the real world. But the calendar was ticking a Santa-shaped rhythm, and it was time to bid a temporary ciao to our floating village and kinsmen.
The taxi to Tivat airport was a final, stunning montage of Montenegro: frozen fields sleeping under a crisp frost, mountains wearing scarves of cloud, villages clinging to hillsides like stubborn lichen. The flight was a breeze—a blissful, warm, and crucially, motionless interlude.
Touching down in the UK was a sensory shock. The cold here is different; it’s a damp, insidious chill that seeps into the bones, a stark contrast to Montenegro’s dry, theatrical bluster. First order of business? The sacred British winter ritual: firing up the central heating to ‘inferno’ and attacking the mountain of post that had gathered like a papery hydra in our absence. We were home.
What followed was a glorious, frantic, heart-swelling whirlwind. We were swept from pub to restaurant to living room, a marathon of hugs, laughter, and catching up. This life we’ve chosen, this glorious, ridiculous, sun-bleached dream on Sawasdeekat, is a paradox. It fills our cups to overflowing with new experiences, yet it forces us to be miserly with our time with the people we love most. These reunions are the sweetest of sips, and we drank deeply.
Ah, but Christmas. The most wonderful, and logistically terrifying, time of the year. For us, it’s a complex diplomatic summit involving parents, children, grandchildren, siblings, and a spreadsheet that would give a NASA engineer a headache. Historically, we’ve navigated it with a military precision usually reserved for D-Day: Us two on the 25th, the kids and grandkids on the 26th, the extended clan on the 27th.
But two cataclysmic events have shattered this careful calculus.
A little reminiscing if you don’t mind, and let us travel back, if you will, to the winter of 2019. A time of innocence, of hope, and of a freshly renovated home. We had spent 18 months having our house almost literally turned inside out, extended, and polished to a high sheen. We were proud. We were ready. We were, in a word, complacent.
Feeling magnanimous and flush with completion, we decided to host a Boxing Day extravaganza. The theme? Elves. Obviously. Because nothing says "sophisticated post-renovation reveal" like a family of adults dressed in green felt.
Elfin Fun at Christmas Time!
The morning was perfection. Pookie, our resident MasterChef maestro (she didn't at the time know what was going to be....), conjured a full English breakfast that could mend souls, accompanied by the obligatory glass of bubbly (it’s called balance). The stage was set. The family arrived, a riot of pointy hats and festive cheer. My parents, my children, and the star players of our story: the grandchildren, Logan and Lara.
In a well-intentioned (I say well intentioned, I had a cunning plan of not too much sugar meant we might get them in bed before midnight) but as it turned out fateful move, the grandchildren were given sugar-free sweets. A peace offering to the gods of parental sanity. A Trojan Horse of the most devastating kind.
The scene was idyllic. My mum, daughter, and son were locked in a fierce table tennis tournament in the garage. My Dad, another daughter, Pookie, and my son’s girlfriend, Kay, were supervising the little ones in our brand-new lounge. The carpet was pristine. The walls were unblemished. The new TV screen and new fireplace gleamed in their recessed glory.
Pookie and Kay made the fatal error of leaving the room, perhaps to check on the magical gravy. In that power vacuum, a plot was hatched. Logan, his little system no doubt humming with the peculiar, gut-busting magic of sugar-free sweeteners, decided he was done with his nappy.
Witness to this catastrophic event we my father, a man of a certain vintage, who moved with the stately pace of a tectonic plate; and my daughter, who was pinned, quite literally, by the relentless jaws of a massage chair. They were helpless spectators to the unfolding horror.
With a dexterity that would be impressive in any other context, Logan freed himself of his nappy. He then seized the soiled pad, and with a gleeful, triumphant whirl, he began to swing it around his head.
Helicopter style.
I shall spare you the full sensory description, though the image of my father’s horrified face, spattered and aghast, is seared into my memory like a brand. The room - the beautiful, new, perfect room - was transformed into a Pollock painting of the apocalypse. Walls, legs, the new carpet, and yes, even the gleam of the television screen, were all… christened in what only can be described as the most uncomfortable of brown slushy liquid.
Like a real like crime drama it was the screams brought us running.
The cleanup was professional, lengthy, and traumatic. My father, a broken man, had to be sent home to scrub his trousers in shame. The Christmas of 2019 would forever be known as The Year of the Whirly-Gig.
You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you? But the universe had a second act. Just as we were recovering, just as we thought, "Well, it can’t get worse than a faecal whirlwind," along came the great lockdown. The world stopped. And when it started again, our world was different. Sawasdeekat was bought, Pookie had her television debut, and our Christmas traditions had been well and truly scuttled.
Which brings us back to this year!
Wisely opting for a strategy of dispersal and avoidance, we became festive ninjas. Christmas Eve was a whirl of a different kind: a Christmas Fun Fair with the grandkids, presents given early (gotta steal Santa’s thunder where you can!), and unadulterated, nappy-free joy. Christmas Day was at my sister’s (her walls, her risk). Boxing Day at my daughter’s. A whirl of visits, laughter, and the deep, warm glow of family—without the biohazardous aftermath. It was perfect.
Christmas with Family & Friends
We saw in the New Year listening to my daughter sing at The Belfry, fireworks painting the sky, surrounded by friends. A clean slate. A fresh year.
And what of our other home?
Our beloved Sawasdeekat?
Ah, the plot thickens. That mysterious knocking from our Albanian haul?
We’d planned to have her lifted out in Montenegro to investigate. But the few travel lifts there are famously… temperamental. Ours developed a "fault." Despite our hopes during our Halloween shenanigans and excursions to Dubrovnik, the crane remained stubbornly out of action.
Faced with extortionate prices and a dwindling calendar, we (maybe I) made an executive decision. We’ll return to her in March, and instead of wintering completely in Montenegro, in March we shall point her bow towards Italy! A new plan is hatched: a spring voyage to the land of pasta, prosecco, and unparalleled beauty. Venice, Trieste—we’re coming for you. (And frankly, after months of Montenegrin tourist menus, my stomach is weeping with joy at the prospect of real Italian cuisine.)
If you would like to watch this episode, our YouTube channel captures most of the moments.
But first? A different kind of warmth. First, we are bound for the sun-drenched shores of Thailand to visit Pookie’s family. So, pack your virtual bags, dear readers. Next time, I’ll be writing to you from a land of golden temples, blistering street food, and smiles as warm as the sun. The adventure, as always, continues.
Until then, fair winds and calm seas.
Heath
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