Article

Comment

Digital

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.

Article

Comment

Leading

Politics

24 November 2025

4 min read

Covid inquiry: Johnson, Cummings, and the cost of refusing to grieve

The report exposes mistakes, but our real challenge is learning how to face loss without denial

Jonah Horne

Jonah Horne is a priest, living and working in Devon.

Boris Johnson sits, giving evidence to an inquiry.

Boris Johnson giving evidence to the inquiry.

UK Covid-19 Inquiry.

I distinctly remember the sheer confusion of January to March 2020. Should we flee our flat in London? Should we cancel the lease on our workspace? Will I be able to continue breakfast with my friend on Thursday mornings? I ignorantly scoffed that a lockdown could conceivably take place and then, stood devastatingly corrected only a few months later. However, the UK Covid-19 Inquiry reveals that this ignorance induced confusion was not restricted to the personal level but instead enacted on a national stage.

What’s glaringly obvious as you read the recommendations is that the government acted too slowly and too indecisively. If the initial restrictions been introduced sooner, say in January or February, the first lockdown “might have been shorter or not necessary at all.” This, the report suggests, could have saved approximately 23,000 lives. Brenda Doherty, of the Covid-19 Bereaved Families for Justice group, believes her mother could have been one of these. Instead, she and her sister stood by her graveside in March 2020 as her family members waited a few metres back sectioned off by red tape. The report and accompanying evidence call for sombre reading.

In response, those in charge at the time have understandably launched an attack in their own defence. Boris Johnson has labelled the inquiry "totally muddled,” which ironically sounds like the informal conclusion of his leadership in the report. Similarly, Dominic Cummings has hurled a 2,000-word response into the social media stratosphere, which feels almost as long as the 800-page paper itself.

What seems glaringly obvious about both men’s responses is the very thing Brenda Doherty displays with such elegance: grief. There is, in these men’s retorts, a stunning omission of any sense of responsibility or indeed any willingness to admit defeat. And what frightens me most, as we look towards the future, is our refusal to grieve over the things of the past. The threat on Europe from Russia is growing. AI’s disruption on our workforce seems to be being enthusiastically brushed aside. And another, potentially much more violent, pandemic is unsettlingly likely.

However, in the face of these disruptive forces grief is a remarkably generative power. Without grief we remain, much like Johnson and Cummings, frozen in time. Immovable in our ineptitude and ignorance. Grief, I’d argue, is the very thing that enables us to recognise our shortcomings and, when mixed with hope, energises us towards a future which lies on the other side of sorrow. Yet, when we exist in a place of fragility, the idea of imagining that life lies beyond my incompetency, if only I grieve it, is frightening. Devastatingly though, for us humans, this may be the only way to learn and move forward.

Our future and redemption is undeniably bound up in our ability to grieve. Grief is inherently futural. By grieving our ineptitude, we inevitably witness to the places that require growth, mercy and grace. When we fail to grieve, we remain frozen in time—precariously hiding behind the illusion of our infallibility. This is a deeply fragile state. From this position, any assault or critique on our mistakes becomes a personal attack rather than invitation to redemption. We find ourselves lashing out in fear, terrified of being exposed. Johnson and Cummings embody this predicament to a tee.

This situation however is not unique to the Covid iquiry and our late-prime minister’s response. Another character who lashes out in fear is St Peter, one of Jesus’s friends and disciples. There is a rather poetic story that illustrated this at the end of John’s gospel in the New Testament. One of Jesus’s friends Peter rejects him as he’s taken to be murdered. Peter attacks a guard, cuts his ear off and Jesus famously disarms him and heals the man. Moments later, Jesus is taken, Peter flees and we find him standing in a courtyard, by a fire and where claims not to know his friend and master Jesus. To make matters worse, he rejects him not once, but three times. However, when Jesus returns from the grave, he meets Peter again, at a fireside on a beach, and asks him “do you love me?” Not once but three times. The thing that I think is particularly remarkable about this meeting is that Jesus recognises Peter’s future in bound up in the redemption of his past mistakes. Jesus takes Peter to the place of failure, a fireside, and gives him an opportunity to declare his allegiance and love for him, the same amount of times he had rejected him. He reminded him of his wound to heal him for his future.

If we are to take seriously our response to the Covid-19 inquiry, we must take responsibility for our errors. Not begrudgingly but with a grace filled grief. Our future, one that is filled with hope, does not come to us without a confession of past errors. Instead, a hopeful future may only come to us when we confess, recognise and grieve our mistakes. Indeed, to freely grieve over my failures is to grieve believing in life beyond my defeat.

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