And they’re not wrong; 20 degrees, blue sky, sea warm enough to get in without completely the ability to breathe, and even coming back with a tan line. But is it worth the five hour flight? In short: yes. But there’s definitely a few things to note…

Me and my wonderful best friend searched Lastminute, scouring for an affordable December holiday, some much-needed rest before the height of holiday season. Working in hospitality and events is a lot this time of year.

We wanted sun, but we were on a bit of a budget. Neither of us have any particular pull to Dubai, and South America and Asia are a little too far for a long weekend.

So why did we choose Cyprus?

Apart from the fact that with careful booking, this little holiday cost us a very respectable £150 each, we got nicely timed flights from Gatwick to Paphos and back, and a two bed apartment about a 20 minute walk from the main strip.

This was both our first time visiting the island so we didn’t know what to expect. We knew it was going to be low season, but we weren’t sure how much so. Would there just be locals, immigrants and expats, or would there be lots of tourists too? We also wondered if there was going to be an overwhelming amount of British people since it’s definitely a place that has been British-ified.

Cyprus from the air

We stepped off the plane at Paphos airport, which was small with parts still being built, from what we could tell (a recurring theme, as you will find out). From the landing strip to the walk inside, you could see brown hills spanning everywhere you looked, with dotted green trees. It was still a very Mediterranean landscape but it reminded me of hills from Chihuahua in Mexico. A welcome change from England’s cold, grey skies.

The first day, it rained

Not Mediterranean storm rain, but a smattering. Met Office hadn’t mentioned rain, and we quickly learnt not to trust the forecast. I’d say take a light raincoat though. Luckily it stopped pretty quickly, and the sun made an appearance.

The flight time from Gatwick was estimated for around 4.5 hours but it felt like we were landing for about an hour. You have to do a loop around the island to get to Paphos airport and it just felt endless. A cab via Bolt (their version of Uber) set us back €38 so not too bad. There is a bus, the 612, but it was too confusing to understand when it was coming, and we wanted to get in the sun as soon as we could.

The sun in Cyprus is in the sky for much the same time as England for winter daylight…

…maybe a little earlier in the morning, but by 5pm it’s dark, and pretty cold. It’s still 16/17 degrees but it’s definitely not micro shorts and summer vest weather.

We were staying at Arthemus Cynthia Complex which has 6/7 blocks of rooms and apartments, and four pools. I can imagine every pool is packed in the summer, but they weren’t heated and were colder than the sea. So there were a few sparse tourists (and some cats) sunbathing, but no one swimming.

I don’t know what you’d pay in high season, but for a two bed with a nice balcony and all the amenities, including a bath and a washing machine, we were very happy.

The view from the balcony wasn’t anything special, we could see the below pool, a couple of the other blocks, the Amazon Mini Mart at the end of the street, and a new block of buildings being constructed.

We were a 20–30-minute walk away from Katos Paphos main area, which houses a long strip of cocktail bars and restaurants. And even in December there’s a large number of men outside these places offering a 10 per cent discount because “you’re a such a pretty lady, oh my god.” Maybe it’s more intense because there’s fewer people, but honestly some of them would not take no for an answer. No, I don’t want to eat at the restaurant you’ve got a captive pelican outside of, thanks.

Paphos strip at night

Our first night

By the time we’d checked in, dropped our bags off, made our way down to the strip for the first time, it was already dark, and it was cold. We settled for a cocktail and one of the trashiest and cheapest looking bars, and headed off to bed.

Now, me and my friend are not big partiers. I’m more of a get up early and go on a hike kind of girl, and she’s more of a read a book in a hammock in the sun kind of lady, so we weren’t there to club, and it’s a good job too.

In December it’s like a ghost town in large of parts of the back streets. Desolate bars taken over by colonies of cats, restaurants with no lights, and the occasional sports bar with five loud British men yelling at the screens.

The main strip however is all open. There’s a large selection of places to eat, from seafood to pasta, but not much choice for genuine Cypriot food, and definitely not all that great for a vegan. I mostly ate veggie burgers, which are nice, but not anything I can’t have at home.

Vegan burglar

On day two we started the day late, I had an online zoom interview at midday, so we didn’t go anywhere prior to this for fear of not making it back on time (it went well, thanks for asking).

We decided to take a stroll down to Paphos Castle, see the tombs and all the historic bits, which was all very nice. But very quiet and not all that accessible this time of year. It’s not like stepping off the bus and seeing the pyramids, but it’s nice to see some of the islands culture. Although I feel most people holidaying in Cyprus aren’t there to learn about its history.

Read more: Why Anguilla is the best place for a Big Birthday

The walk along the strip in the day was a lot nicer than at night. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still bombarded with comments and invites, but everything looks a lot prettier. There are people busking Christmas music, iguanas and their owners sitting by the port side, and warm enough you could walk around in shorts.

I feel like they try to be festive, there’s Christmas music playing everywhere, weekend Christmas markets, light up led… boats, whatever Christmas is to you, hey? But I think being English, my idea of Christmas is cold and wet and dark, and hearing a samba remix of Feliz Navidad on repeat everywhere did feel surreal.

We went to The Harbour restaurant for dinner, where there’s a great beach biew, and they had a solid five vegan options. At this magic place, my friend got a chicken gyro filled with salad and chips for less than €4. What a win!

We enjoyed a couple of cocktails there, and then wandered on, deciding to head back up to the apartment and get evening ready. For us this doesn’t mean getting glammed up in skimpy dresses and makeup, but more extra layers as the sun was going down.

Later that evening…

We discovered  Pingouino, a lush lounge with a heated outdoor space. They showed the football but it felt so far from a sports bar, and we returned for another evening. The cocktails weren’t too expensive either; I think the classics were all around the €9.50-€10 mark, which was a little more pricey than a lot of places, but the couple of extra euros made all the difference to the quality of the drinks. It also seemed to be the place that (at this time of year), wasn’t full of just British tourists, and rather locals, which was a much nicer vibe.

Pingouino, Paphos

We got a little tipsy and headed to bed, ready for a beach day ahead

Now, to spare you some disappointment if you decide to venture to Paphos, Coral Bay is not so named because of its abundance of coral, but because they thought it sounded nice.

It’s a lovely beach, about a 25–30-minute cab ride, or two busses away, with sandy and clear waters. We got there around 10am and it was still quiet, just locals going for a picturesque run or morning swim. Quite a few of them in – dare I say – the skimpiest Speedos I’ve ever seen.

The pictures of the bay in summer shows thousands of people lounging under umbrellas and the sea heaving with swimmers. In December, it’s not so much like this. The beach bar and the activity centre was well and truly closed, although you could still shower, and there were changing rooms and toilets. But if you were hoping to hire a lounger and umbrella or even a glass bottomed canoe, you’ll be disappointed.

By this point we’d learned not to trust Google Maps. A few long walks met with closed and very much not-opening-any-time-soon bars and restaurants taught us this. My best advice is maybe don’t go to that really far out of the centre, even if Google says it’s open. Because chances are it might not be – the Google listings are not always up to date.

We were determined to get in the sea

So we’d come with sandwiches and boxed wine, bikinis and rented towels, what more could you need? Obviously we got in the sea, it was crystal clear blue, and you could see shoals of little fish. The tanned locals were saying it’s too cold, but we were never going to listen.

It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold by any means. I’d say it’s about as warm as late June in England. I think we stayed in for a solid 15 mins, and then lounged on the beach for a few hours, downing dodgy Cypriot box wine, and got our tan on.

We’d heard of caves the other side next bay, so we decided to walk along the coast to find them. Unfortunately we never did, and I was sad to have missed out. Maybe it was blindingly obvious, but we were too sun- and wine-kissed to see the signs?!

Either way, lots of locals and other tourists told us we’d missed out, so if you’re there, go and have a look for me?!

From beaches to donkeys

On our final day, we decided to visit Animal Rescue Cyprus, which was a 10-minute walk from our apartment. This is Cyprus’s oldest no-kill shelter, which offers sanctuary to animals like cats, dogs, horses and of course donkeys. What they do is fantastic, they help to minimise over-population in animals by neutering them. They feed them, take care of them and give them medical attention. The sanctuary can be overwhelming; there are a LOT of animals. Some of the dogs are tied up, and look intimidating, but they all love the attention. They’re tied up because they don’t always get on with other dogs, but they all have beds, food, water and shelter.

When you arrive, you just go straight in, making sure to lock the gate to stop donkeys escaping, and I would recommend only bringing food if you are confident around animals. The second you whip out some food, you’ll be surrounded by an array of large animals. I almost got my head kicked in by a horse while sitting on the floor feeding some cats, so watch out!

It was a lovely visit, but it was a hard one. They’re doing everything they can for the animals but they’re not working with much so it can feel a little bare. But like I said, all the animals were happy there and loved some pats and snacks. We made a cash and food donation, and went on our way.

Heading back to Pingouino we enjoyed some dinner, a few drinks, stroked a few passing cats before calling it a night. We had an earlyish flight and not much idea on how fast security would be through the airport. I have some nightmare flights before!

Chicken at Pinguino

On our last morning, we got booted out at 10am

So we read books in the sun by the pool and grabbed a cab to the airport. The airport is small and the technology feels like Gatwick used to when I was a young kid. No liquids over 100ml, everything separated, the oldest scanners, a whole two rows of security. It’s a small airport, but it’s got some good food options, and even an outside café/bar area.

The flight back was bumpy, we got unlucky on turbulence, but otherwise it was fine. The flight each way is just under five hours, which is a little long for a 5-day trip, but with a glass or two of wine, and a late night behind you, you can sleep through it, as I discovered.

Cyprus is well worth a visit for some winter sun. It’s cheap, it’s accessible, it’s not as far or as pricey as other locations for winter warmth, and it’s got a certain British charm. Check it out, but take a real map with you as well as your mobile.

• • • We stayed at the Arthemus Cynthia Complex, which was €xx per night – obviously expect to pay more during the high season
    • Flights were by xxx and cost € / £ from Gatwick to Paphos – again, prices will vary
    • Holiday booked via Lastminute.com
    • Bolt from the airport to the resort €38

Lili Lowe

Lili works across all the channels; writing articles, taking photographs, creating content, and designing eye-capturing imagery. She’s an animal-lover who cries just seeing a picture of a baby sloth.

The post Cyprus for winter sun – is it actually warm and sunny enough!? appeared first on Silver Magazine.

‘Tis the season where people make oft-ridiculous commitments to self-improvement. Yes, I’m talking about the good old new year resolutions. I can see people left, right, and centre vowing to do more gym, eat better, do Dry January – you know the drill. I’ve decided to take a different tack this year. I don’t know about anyone else, but my 2024 has been a bit shit. More than a bit. So instead of heaping yet more pressure on myself to be better, and do better, I’m going to head in the opposite direction. It’s time for the fuck-it list.

I think we’re all big enough and ugly enough now to let go of the concept that having juvenile fun in your middle years is a bad idea

We talk a lot about the midlife ‘coming of age’ here at Silver. Those wonderful, pivotal moments that grace your middle age that used to be called a midlife crisis. I think we’re all big enough and ugly enough now to let go of the concept that having juvenile fun in your middle years is a bad idea. Actually, it’s the best time of your life, in many ways.

Many of the items on the fuck-it list come with the wisdom that age brings you. The joy of letting stuff go. Of not giving a monkey’s what people think of you; living in a permanent state of ‘wearing purple’, if you will.

I’ve been doing a lot of these things already, really. But for posterity, and perhaps to inspire other readers to go “fuck it, I’m not doing that anymore either,” here’s my list.

Dry January

Straight into the sea with this. As if January wasn’t grim enough already.

Not listening to my gut

Ooo a couple of times this year I’ve ignored my gut – one of which was an EXTRAORDINARY tale, which I’ll tell separately another time. But I should have known better, on both counts. I knew what was going on didn’t feel right. Less impulsivity and more listening to my gut instinct.

Poncy food, poor food, stupid diets

Pub Sunday roasts. They genuinely are NEVER as good as the homemade ones. Also restaurants with tiny portions, foams or whispers of things. Didn’t we have enough of this nonsense in the ’80s? No wonder people do cocaine at restaurants. They’d be starving otherwise.

Also faddy diets, which see a lot of action in January. I mean, I’d like to be less fat, but I do also love to eat and drink. So as long as my health isn’t too shabby, let’s eat, drink, and be merry. Especially in January.

Endless TV shows or series

Good grief, Dr Who. I watched the very underwhelming Christmas special and was appalled by its mediocrity. It’s not even scary anymore. Well, not in the way I was hoping for. Also box sets, or really long things – I just never finish them, so I should probably stop trying. Breaking Bad; saw about three episodes. Ripley with Andrew Scott; I literally thought I was going to die of boredom. And I LOVE Andrew Scott. AND Highsmith.

Chasing material things

I never had myself down as someone who was bothered about money, but it turns out I am. I like nice things, and I like to be successful. But over the past few years, the pursuit of these things hasn’t always made me wildly happy – or healthy. If I’m making any kind of resolution this year, it’s to start doing more of the stuff I love, and less of the stuff that is just a means to an end.

I’m not as financially rich as I’d like, but there are more important things in life. I’ve learned that the hard way over the past few years, as people who I loved deeply have died. None of that material stuff matters. It really doesn’t. That thing you hear about people on their deathbeds never saying they wished they’d worked harder? Yeah.

Settling

Settling on work I don’t want to do, giving in to clients’ demands, settling on dates, agreeing to things I don’t like or don’t want. For someone with a big opinion of herself, I can be a terrible people pleaser. I’ve noticed it’s worst when I’m feeling low, so. Keeping an eye out for that.

Letting PRs overrun my inbox

A job-specific fuck-it here, but one I suspect many other editors and journalists will relate to. Blocking/unsubscribing from lazy ‘spray and pray’ PRs who send me press releases that aren’t relevant. Or those who ‘circle back’ the same fucking release to bump it to the top of my inbox, often more than once. If it was interesting in the first place, we’d have picked it up. Leave me the hell alone. My inbox gives me way too much anxiety and this is a big part of the problem.

Heels, bras, tight clothing, things I want to rip off my body in a rage

I’m absolutely done with this shit. I don’t think this is even an ageing thing – we all got used to working in our pyjamas over lockdown, right? I don’t want to wear proper clothes ever again. I’ve also got piles of clothes I never wear – jeans from the ’90s I’ll never get into again, skimpy tops that would show more underboob than midriff these days…

Heels have mentally been the hardest thing to say goodbye to, and I love the way they make my legs look. But I’m so out of practice wearing them, it’s TORTURE to put them on for any length of time. So off with tight things, pinchy things, anything that makes me itch, or struggle to breathe, or walk, hurts my knees or back, makes me end up with red creases in my skin, or blisters… really when you say it like that, it sounds utterly insane, doesn’t it.

Letting stuff go

Life is short, and this is an ongoing practice for me, but more letting go of ‘stuff’. Including the grief around what I might have achieved if I’d had an earlier ADHD diagnosis. That’s been a biggie.

Also in this bracket is forgiving people who have wronged me, without expecting the same in return. The freedom that forgiveness brings is utterly lifechanging. I don’t really hold grudges, but it’s hard not to feel aggrieved about some things that happened in the past. I’m choosing to let those go.

And in the spirit of letting go of things that I feel bad about myself, I’m making amends where I can. I’m also forgiving myself for stupid shit I’ve done in the past. That was then, and this is now. Fuck looking backwards.

Fuck Facebook, and fuck the news on social media

Having looked at the amount of time I spent on it on a daily basis, I’ve deleted the Facebook app off my phone. The fact that I felt uncomfortable doing that, like a junky, tells me all I need to know. Social media generally is also the hotbed for comparison, which truly is the thief of joy. I compare myself and my work with others, and it steals all my joy, makes me feel useless and unsuccessful. Enough of that.

As for the news – I like to know what’s going on in the world, but the endless ‘news’ in social feeds absolutely clutters my head, and makes me depressed a lot of the time. So, a much more measured approach to all this for me this year.

Apologising for who I am

Or diminishing my own worth. Trying to fit in, or be something that I’m not. I do a fair bit of masking, as someone with ADHD, and I’m fed up with it. It’s exhausting trying to be ‘normal’. I’ve found that if I’m honest with my friends, they’re absolutely fine with the person I really am. As the saying goes, ‘those that mind don’t matter, and those that matter don’t mind.’ Take me with my quirks and all.

Going out in the evening

I absolutely LOVE a daytime adventure – lunches, outings, seeing friends. But I like to take to my boudoir early these days, and evening events are taxing. Jamie Lee Curtis, calling out for daytime gigs and parties, once said, “Nothing good happens for me after 9pm” and I hear that. I used to like starting my nights around then, but these days I like them to finish right about there. Then I can get a good night’s kip, sleep off the booze, and come up smiling in the morning.

Dating apps

‘Nuff said. I look occasionally, and am terminally depressed by them. Not going to look anymore, la la la etc.

Sam Harrington-Lowe

Sam is Silver’s founder and editor-in-chief. She’s largely responsible for organising all the things, but still finds time to do the odd bit of writing. Not enough though. Send help.

The post My f*ck-it list for 2025 appeared first on Silver Magazine.

There is so much of Mexico to explore. And when travelling, if you’re looking for something authentic, you always need to look that one step further. While popular tourist destinations like Cancun or Mexico City get all the attention, Lili Lowe on why you should consider Chihuahua in the north of Mexico for your next adventure…

If I’m being honest, I’d never really heard much about Chihuahua; apart from the dog, of course. So, when I decided to explore the Mexican region, I was excited to see a part of the world I didn’t know anything about.

The journey to Chihuahua was much like any long haul… a bit of a slog. With a 12 hour transatlantic flight to Mexico City, and a couple of hours on a connecting flight to get there – although a slightly less onerous nine-hour trip home – I was pleased to have my feet on the ground by the time I landed. It’s quite a trip.

Let’s start with Chihuahua City itself

Chihuahua might not be as big or famous as Mexico City, but it’s equally or maybe even more rich in history. One of the first things I learned was that the Mexican revolution of 1910 started in Chihuahua, rather than in the capital.

Within the city, we visited some beautiful sights, including Quinta Gameros Cultural Centre, a stunning, French-inspired mansion. It’s now owned by the local university and is a popular student hang-out. I was definitely a little jealous of the students who get to each their lunch here.

Quinta Gameros Cultural Centre

But my favourite spot by far was the house of Francisco “Pancho” Villa’s second wife, now called the is now the Francisco Villa Museum. María Luz Corral de Villa was second among 25 women who have claimed to be married to him at one time or another! He’s known as the Mexican Robin Hood, which might explain his appeal among the ladies. Marital matters aside, he was the former governor of Chihuahua and a pivotal part of the Mexican revolution.

We learnt about his rise to power, his arguments with his American neighbours, and his inevitable fall. The house, as per his request and after his second wife had died, was left to the military. Soldiers still mill around the mansion. They won’t smile at you, but they are friendly enough, if a little imposing.

Francisco Villa Museum

As well as the city’s historic charms, we stayed in District One or ‘The Modern District’ for the first couple of nights. In all honesty, it felt like a weird dystopia in comparison to the old town. Like Canary Wharf, but in the desert. It was still pleasant with lots of fancy cocktail bars, restaurants, health food shops, and even a café that had vegan options. It wasn’t my favourite part of the city but I can see why people would enjoy a night out there. Plus, it felt pretty safe. I don’t imagine the old town has much CCTV.

Chihuahua City ‘Modern District’

Wandering around Chihuahua City, the divide between those with money and those without is pretty obvious. A few of my travelling companions said that Chihuahua felt like it had been lightly touched by the western world, but much of it was left untouched. Religious buildings are everywhere, and there are houses that look exactly as you’d expect after watching a western set in Mexico. And of course, you’re conscious of the desert and mountains all around you.

Away from the Mexican metropolis

Wherever you look in Chihuahua City, you are reminded that you’re just in a small part of the state. There are mountains everywhere. And if you drive just 20 minutes outside the city, the landscape becomes unrecognisable. The desert stretches out for miles, populated by vultures, eagles, snakes and lizards. I was in awe, not necessarily because it was so pretty, but because it was so different to anything I’d seen before.

In the desert, we visited a Sotol distillery to see how the traditional Chihuahuan drink is made. It comes from Genus Dasylirion plants, which are found in north Mexico deserts, New Mexico, Arizona and Texas. Sotol is a bloody unique drink; kind of smoky, not a million miles away from tequila, but a lot more ‘rustic’. It’s like nothing I’ve never tried before. A lot of it is also insanely alcoholic.

Obviously 10am is the perfect time to visit a distillery

Some of the many flavours of Sotol to choose from

The brother of the master distiller of Sotol taught us that to even sip the drink neat, you have to first produce a small ball of spit to the front of your mouth to enjoy it on the tongue.

I tried many flavours and learnt so much, such as how Sotol was only legalised in 2002 because of its strong ties to prohibition. When the authorities searched distilleries, the booze was buried in graves, which was a pretty effective hiding place. It’s probably not my drink of choice, but with ABV percentages ranging from 30 to 70, it’s a pretty good way to get the party started.

Getting up into the mountains

The drive up to the mountains was full of stunning views and winding roads. Every time we stopped, I was reminded of how lucky I was to be seeing this. The scenery is breathtaking.

We stayed in a small town called Creel. It was felt a bit like a Swiss mountain town but hotter, with dogs instead of goats, and far less yodelling. Before we settled in, we drove about an hour away to the Valley of the Monks, a stunning spot that overlooks giant, pointy rocks. They were probably more phallic than religious, but gorgeous all the same (picture above).

Rarámuri women

Traditional crafts by the Rarámuri people

At the Valley of the Monks, we met indigenous Rarámuri people. They live off the land in places completely untouched by the modern world. These are ‘high canyon’ Rarámuri people, and most of the women and girls were dressed in bright, beautiful traditional clothing. At the foot of a mountain that we hiked up, they were selling handicrafts, such as carved wooden earrings and handwoven baskets, and insisted on posing for pictures with us. Despite living mostly off the land, drought has been a real problem, so they still need pesos to survive.

Following a train journey by the Chepe Express (more on this below), we landed in Creel, and had dinner at a steakhouse. This limited my options as a vegan, but I was helpfully assured the meat was very nice. It’s a small town, but it has everything you may need and a lot of what you don’t too. As well as practical amenities, such as banks and pharmacies, there are gift shops and small markets.

The beautiful, colourful buildings were very photogenic and I was disappointed to have only spent a night there. It’s the kind of place where you could happily wile away a few days. Creel is high up, with an elevation of more than 2,300 metres above sea level. So if you suffer with altitude sickness, this may not be the place for you. In October, it was chilly at night, but a rather pleasant 25 degrees by day.

The Copper Canyons

I have to say, the biggest draw of Chihuahua has got to be the Copper Canyons, known locally as Barrancas del Cobre. Twice as deep and four times as large as the much-visited Grand Canyon, photos and words cannot describe the sheer magnitude.

Formed of three mountains, we drove for hours and stayed in multiple locations, yet I feel like I haven’t seen even half of the views, valleys and forests.

We spent a night at Hotel Mirador, which was built so that every room and common area looked out on the mountains. From my balcony, I could see valleys, Rarámuri settlements, blue jays, eagles, vultures and more. I got up early to watch the sun rise over the mountains. As I sat there with my tea warming my hands, music in my ears, watching as the world woke up, I honestly had a little cry. It was profoundly moving, and throughout my visit I often had to take a moment just take it all in.

The world’s second longest zipline starts here

One of the wildest things I did in the mountains was take a ride on the world’s second longest zipline. The experience lasts about three minutes and can reach speeds of up to 135kph, starting from a height of 2,248 metres. When I saw the drop and looked at the wire – which I couldn’t see the end of – I gulped a bit. But as soon as I was kitted up, I couldn’t wait to go. And it was amazing, every second was a thrill. You’re going so fast you spin, and I definitely whooped and threw my hands in the air like a proper tourist.

On the other side, however, you have to hike up to the cable cart station to get back. It’s about 700m and takes anywhere between 20 and 40 minutes, depending on your fitness levels. If you think the hike might be a bit much, the adventure park has many other options for everyone involved.

We stopped at a few viewpoints to see valleys and different aspects of the canyons. At every point, I was awestruck. One of the things I loved most was seeing how different life was in different parts of the mountains, from colder, harsher temperatures up the top to rainforest temperatures and humidity in the valleys. It’s so vast and expansive that I felt like I could never have seen enough.

Read more: why the over-50s are leading the way in adventure travel

The Chepe Express

Let’s talk about the train ride! This was definitely a highlight of the trip. It’s about nine hours by rail between Los Mochis to Creel, with five stops where you can get off for further exploration. During the trip, we crossed one of the country’s most imposing mountain ranges via bridges and tunnels, all gems of Mexican engineering. And this journey took place in an environment where excellent staff pampered us in comfort.

There are three classes; first, premium, and tourist. I was lucky enough to be in first, but did venture down to premium, which wasn’t greatly different. I didn’t get a look at tourist class, but was assured that is was still a nice experience. It’s not so much about the amenities but the views. Click here to check out the rates.

It was an incredible vintage train going through the mountains, it was spectacular, it was hot – especially getting off at Los Mochis at the other end – and it was mad. They love music in Mexico and there were so many places where music was blasting through speakers. This train was no different, but it did not take away from the experience at all.

As well as the canyons, tunnels and bridges, I saw cowboys – I’m talking about actual cowboys with lassos – which was pretty exciting. I implore anyone travelling to Mexico to consider this train journey. You will not be disappointed.

On the whole…

I had a fantastic time and I came home feeling like I’d really experienced something new and interesting, not like I’d just been on holiday. This sort of buzz may not be for everyone, but if you’re looking for a genuinely new and exciting experience, then this could be the trip for you.

A nine-night stay in Mexico (six nights in Chihuahua and three in Mexico City) with Audley Travel costs from £4,090 per person (based on two travelling). The price includes all flights, transfers, accommodation, a first-class ticket on Chepe Express and excursions in Chihuahua and Mexico City. www.audleytravel.com/mexico

Lili Lowe

Lili works across all the channels; writing articles, taking photographs, creating content, and designing eye-capturing imagery. She’s an animal-lover who cries just seeing a picture of a baby sloth.

The post Consider Chihuahua in Mexico for your next adventure appeared first on Silver Magazine.

The flight takes place the night the storm hits. It’s typically empty at this time of the year; I have a row to myself, as does the woman opposite me. On a row in front there are three small children, and opposite them their very young mother. The moment the seatbelt sign is turned off I lay across all three seats, put my headphones on, prop my iPad on my chest and start watching Netflix. It’s a three-hour flight, so you can get through quite a bit of telly. The woman opposite does the same.

The three children order food and play video games. I drink gin and tonic and Rioja. Then 35 to 40 minutes before we are due to land, the cabin crew go bananas. Tear-arsing it up and down the aisle shouting at people to get their seat belts on. There’s no turbulence, no nothing. But we all strap in. Five minutes later it hits. Like being on the rollercoaster at Alton Towers.

The smallest of the three boys starts crying, and reaches for his mother’s hand. His elder brothers are, like me, enjoying the ride. I’ve suffered worse turbulence. All those years flying across the Atlantic makes me a veteran, if not a connoisseur. Then shit gets really weird. Lights, like strobes at a 90s rave send the whole cabin black and white for fifteen minutes; the cabin crew appear to move in slow motion. I will later realise we’ve been flying above the storm.

Then, just as suddenly as it started it stops

Twenty minutes later we land. It is a gentle landing, and I am first off the plane and out of the airport. It’s warm in Alicante. I get on the bus, turn on my phone and start getting messages asking if I’m okay. Loads of them. I wonder why people are so concerned. This is not the first time I have been on a plane by myself. It’s not the first time I’ve been away without my wife Janine.

Thirty minutes later I am home. And I turn on the telly to witness the utter bloody carnage I had flown over only an hour earlier. A Spanish reporter will later describe it as a war zone without fighting.

It’s the cars that get me. Swept into one another. Piled high, in unnatural, seemingly gravity defying shapes. A BMW stands vertical, on top of it a Ford, at a 45-degree angle, and another car, so coated in orange and red mud, you can’t clock the make, crowns them all.

It’s like the entirety of Valencia is some ghastly shock-art exhibition designed by JG Ballard

This spectacle is repeated over and over in every street. The mud-covered cars piled high, held aloft and at the unlikeliest of angles by twisted metal, broken house bricks and palm trees ripped from their roots. It’s like the entirety of Valencia is some ghastly shock-art exhibition designed by JG Ballard, or Warhol at his most nihilistic.

But it’s not the entirety of Valencia. Alicante and neighbouring Benidorm have been untouched. The Sierras – the mountain range that circles this area – have saved us. Embracing us like the mother of the little boy on the plane.

In the coming days I learn a great deal about Spanish floods. They are a result of DANA – Depresión Aislada en Niveles Altos – a Spanish phrase that translates to ‘depression at high levels’. Basically, a mass of warm air collides with a still and stagnant mass of cold air, at an altitude of 9,000 meters, and unleashes hell. It is an almost exclusively Spanish phenomenon, though how long that will last is probably for the climate scientists to work out.

And then the rains fall

To the north and south of me, just a few kilometres away, whole areas where there had not been a drop of rain were suddenly engulfed, as mountains turned into waterfalls and rivers overflowed. The underground carparks that serve so many Valencian apartment blocks filled with water. Or worse, mud. And once the rain stopped, roughly six hours after it had started – a whole years’ worth of rain in around a quarter of a day – the warm sun returned to harden everything. Burying people and cars alike under what is tantamount to wet cement.

The horror stories are almost unthinkable until of course you are made to think of them. After which, you can think of little else. Waist high water is the worst. People feel tempted to wade out only to have their legs chopped from beneath them by spinning manhole covers that have exploded upwards as the sewers overflow.

The horror stories are almost unthinkable until of course you are made to think of them

And that’s how people drown. You’re not going to wade out in two meters of water, but you might go out in 50, 60 centimetres of water, to try and help somebody across the road. You get your legs taken out by a manhole cover, or get dragged into a sewer moving at hundreds of kilometres per hour.

Which brings me to the smell. That is something we got a taste of here in Alicante. The toilets and sinks of my flat, bars and restaurants all bubbled up, sending the smell of human excrement wafting through our homes, streets and places of work.

After the floods

Yet there is light

Amongst the grief and the grieving, the freshly buried, the freshly unearthed horrors, there are people with courage, decency and muscle. Not just the locals. People: Spanish, English, German, Canadian, Israeli, Algerian, Iranian, and American all coming together to help. Riding bicycles, mopeds, or on foot, they arrive with spades and shovels, brooms and wellington boots. Some turn up with full scuba diving gear to dive into the sewers and subterranean carparks.

A United Colours of Benetton of mostly young people willing to do anything to help those who need it. And freeing up the first responders, who for days have been digging and sweeping, rather than mending broken bones, if not broken hearts.

Some turn up with full scuba diving gear to dive into the sewers and subterranean carparks.

They are young. A meme is doing the rounds here, in English as all memes are. It shows a picture of some smiling 20-somethings, covered in mud, post dig, post discovery and asks: ‘Generation Snowflake?’

Amongst the grief and the grieving that’s going on, and all the fear, you have people behaving with incredible selflessness.

In the days following, emotions run high. There is the desperate urge to help. But there is also fear of it happening again, and anger that it was allowed to happen at all.

In the bars, people gather together

Spaniards like talking. Now they sit silent, glued to the news. Watching the weirdness and horror reveal itself. It’s strange to be on the periphery of death, the actual edge of disaster, but have none of it touch you.

News comes through that Málaga is about to be hit really badly. Then the wealthy area of Marbella. That’s the thing about the weather. It doesn’t respect your wealth or your cultural status or anything else. It’s going to do whatever it wants.

For those of us luckily untouched by the worst of it, there is relief and guilt. In the area of Alicante called San Blas where I live, we have just a minute of rain, but even this is enough to cover two bedrooms with a layer of water. It is hard not to think of the relentless torrent Valencia experienced, and imagine what would have happened if we’d experienced the same.

As I clean, I think about the young children who live around here, the schools. The fact that in Valencia at 8 o’clock in the evening, when the warnings were received, many families would have been out enjoying an evening meal. Here, it is normal for children to be out with their families until late in the evening. For many it would have been impossible to get to safety.

Within a few days riots begin

The people throwing bottles at police may well be those who rolled up their sleeves and went to help in the first instance. Spanish police fight back with batons and tear gas; the spectacle is alarming.

People want answers. The warning sirens and notifications went off just minutes before the storm hit – but could anyone have known? I think of my plane and its passage through the storm: if the pilot and crew hadn’t known, then how could anyone on the ground have been aware?

But I understand the anger, the need to direct it somewhere: if you dig a dead family out of an underground garage, and then later see a group of people gathering outside a government building, you are probably going to want to throw a bottle.

In time, perhaps the anger will convert to positive action – the development of flood defences and prevention of future catastrophe. And if there is hope to be found, it is perhaps that Valencia’s collective anger will become a louder voice in the fight against climate change. But here and now, that is scant consolation.

The only hope to be found amongst the devastation is in the enormous human effort that rose up in response to this catastrophe. The first responders who worked tirelessly. And those individuals who downed tools and came to help – ignoring personal danger, travelling for miles on bikes and whatever transport could be found.

It reminds me that while the weather may be powerful and merciless, humans in a crisis have a power all their own.

Donate to the Spain Relief Fund

Ben Marshall

Ben Marshall is a journalist and writer whose back catalogue sits in the Melody Maker, Loaded, GQ, Golf Punk, The Guardian, The Evening Standard, Marie Claire, Red, Rolling Stone, and Men’s Health amongst others.

The post The floods in Valencia; tales of chaos and compassion appeared first on Silver Magazine.

From one heartache to the next

This time two years ago I ended my marriage of 15 years, a week before my birthday. My husband and I lived in our apartment for another 12 months, finishing the renovations so it could go up for sale. I found a much smaller place in St Leonard’s on Sea, just five miles away, while my ex was planning to move back to his native France.

Meanwhile I was in relationship with a man I was besotted with. A man who would go on to repeatedly ghost me then leave me for another woman.

Fast-forward a year and we were finally due to exchange contracts on our flat. Only for the buyer to pull out at the last moment. I had to pay the fees for the flat I could no longer buy, along with the fees for the one we hadn’t sold. I had no work at the time, so it was a huge blow, both financially and emotionally.

It’s fair to say that life was overwhelming for both of us.

Gautier’s father had died unexpectedly during COVID and his mother had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and was undergoing brutal treatment with a bleak prognosis. We were both devastated, obviously him more than me. But I too was so stressed I was worried that I’d end up with cancer.

Guess what?

The unthinkable

Gautier had just left for France when I found a weird cocktail sausage-shaped swelling in my left breast whilst maneuvering myself into a new bikini. I was sent for a mammogram, scan and biopsies immediately after the consultant had examined me, and had a lumpectomy six weeks later.

Friends helped out post-surgery, but there was nobody to make me a cup of tea, give me a hug, do housework and make dinner. Each night I went to bed exhausted, scared and alone. I struggled physically and mentally for months, especially after radiotherapy. I was stuck in a flat I couldn’t sell, so I literally couldn’t move on with my life. And I found it hard to ask for help, so I didn’t.

I desperately needed a break before I broke.

Another article you may like: 10 things I wish I’d known about breast cancer – before I had it 

A change of scenery – the road to recovery

An all-inclusive hotel in Egypt’s Sharm-el-Sheik wouldn’t have been my first choice of destination. I was thinking more of Madeira or Menorca. However, a deal popped up for the Iberotel Redsina and the word ‘snorkeling’ jumped out at me.

I went bananas and booked a ‘swim-up’ room instead of the cheapest room, which is what the old me had always done. The sea appeared to be the same shade of blue as Paul Newman’s eyes. My body needed this like it needed oxygen.

Because it was summer and off-season – high season being spring or late autumn/winter – the resort was almost empty. I arrived at night, ordered room service and jumped straight in the pool outside my room. I swam under the soft white lights with no interruptions except the faint rustling of palm tree leaves as they swayed in the breeze.

The grounds are beautiful

There’s nothing but polite staff, beautiful flowers and palm trees everywhere you go. I felt very relaxed despite the 45-degree heat doing its best to floor me.

I’d sit cross-legged in the clear shallows playing with passing fish and little things that were like a cross between starfish and tarantulas (we held hands/tentacles)

The 60-minute deep tissue massage I treated myself to was the best I’d ever had, and I left the spa with some gorgeous Egyptian skincare products. The beach was two minutes’ walk from my room; the deep water accessed by a long jetty. I was in heaven the moment I jumped into the water.

In the main restaurant, giddy from such a vast choice of food from so many different cultures, I chose Egyptian (obvs). Dishes were beautifully cooked and bursting with flavour. I ate grilled red mullet and sardines, zesty tabbouleh, stuffed aubergines, perfectly dainty French-inspired patisserie, and about 87 different breads.

“Hello Miss Juliette, would you like to do yoga and Pilates each morning, outside in the shade?” Er, yes. After that I’d sit cross-legged in the clear shallows playing with passing fish and little things that were like a cross between starfish and tarantulas (we held hands/tentacles).

Facing phobias

I snorkeled for the first time. This was a huge deal since I have three lifelong phobias: anything covering my face, eels and the other things like eels beginning with ‘s’, and deep water. I had two panic attacks then went back in minus the snorkel, waving to beautiful blue and yellow fish as I swam along the coral. Still in panic mode, though, since I was in 40ft deep water and THERE MIGHT BE AN EEL. I don’t do things by halves.

At the zen pool I could sketch or read in peace while sipping ice-cold Sakara (Egyptian beer) with lemon. I dressed up for dinner each night and was happy to eat alone while I mopped my sweaty brow, insisting on eating outside – “I’m on holiday!” – rather than in the air-conditioned interior.

Four days later, despite a horrible flight, I came back a better, calmer version of myself. I’d been looked after, and I’d relished it. I wouldn’t recommend waiting until you get cancer to allow yourself that. But for me, I guess it was better late than never. Do go in October, though, won’t you?

www.jazhotels.com

Juliette Wills

Juliette writes about football, F1, fashion, health and interiors for national magazines and newspapers. She’s also Bexhill’s new Town Crier (true story!), runs a pet sitting sideline and heads up her own creative agency. If she’s not at home she’s in the sea

The post My cancer recovery: the charm of Sharm appeared first on Silver Magazine.

When people ask me how I’m doing, I’m usually honest, or so I believed. I would say yes, I’m okay thanks, but the last few years have been really tough.

And they have. Within the last five or six years I’ve lost my beloved dad and stepmum – brutal to lose both parents so close to each other. I’ve moved house twice, not by choice, with all the stress and upheaval that goes with that. The longest relationship of my life ended, not without its drama and heartbreak. My daughter spread her wings and left home, just when we had stopped teenage/menopause fighting. Which brings me to the joy of perimenopause, and menopause, and all the fun stuff that goes with that. That’s been in the mix too.

I tell you this, not to have a whine about how awful life has been… but mostly, that you do come out of it

But it hasn’t all been personal either. I started a business with two other people, both of whom left within a year, and left me holding the baby. We’ve had Brexit and Covid, both of which placed enormous pressure not only on the business, but on my mental health. Money has been a constant worry. Suppliers and associates have been going out of business left, right and centre. I have lost friends and family to illness, and to suicide.

There are days when I am frankly astonished that I even have a business. And on my more honest days, I’m pleased that I’m here at all. Because things have been dark sometimes. I’ve struggled with depression, through antidepressants and out the other side. It’s been a ride.

I tell you this, not to have a whine about how awful life has been – although it has, in parts. But mostly to tell you that you do come out of it, somewhere along the line.

I have been underestimating the length of my tough years though

This morning I realised that although I talk about ‘the past few years’ having been challenging, it’s been quite a lot longer than that. About ten years ago, for a period of about five years, I used to get chronic migraines. Like, proper three-day mind-bending and stomach-churning battles that happened at least once a week. It was appalling, trying to slog through the pain and debilitating symptoms, to run a business and try to be a half decent parent to a challenging teen.

…what I really ought to say is that the last decade has been a brutal rollercoaster. The hardest decade of my life

Turns out it was the pill, and I’d become oestrogen-intolerant. Stopping the pill brought instant relief – the migraines completely stopped, immediately. I quit the pill, and I’ve never had another migraine since. The relief was astonishing. I could function! But then as migraines left the building, perimenopause slid in through the back door, bringing the most god-awful periods known to womankind. Of the two problems though, the latter was definitely the lesser in terms of hideousness.

And finally, possibly the most fundamentally huge shift for me, I was diagnosed with ADHD (officially) and (unofficially by my doctor) with autism. I got medication for the former, and dived headfirst into understanding and learning coping mechanisms for the latter, and that’s been utterly life-changing. I am, however, having counselling to deal with the ‘what ifs’. What if I’d been diagnosed as a child, for example. What might my life have been like? It’s a form of grief, dealing with what feels like the loss of Potential Samantha. But I’m getting there.

So although I say to people ‘the last few years’ have been tough, what I really ought to say is that the last decade has been a brutal rollercoaster. The hardest decade of my life. I’m 54, in case you were wondering.

It gets better

And I mean that literally, not sarcastically. This isn’t a huge, life-changing article full of unique revelations, and tips for making your life fantastic. But if you’re reading this and identifying with all or any of the issues I’ve experienced, I am here to tell you it gets better. It really does. There is a midlife coming of age, and it’s beautiful.

I can see it happening all around me, to my friends, and my peers, and it’s bloody fantastic. It’s actually really exciting.

There’s a phenomenon called the U-shaped curve of happiness, and even though we’ve published articles about this, I had my doubts about its legitimacy. But it’s real. The timeline isn’t the same for everyone, but by and large, at some point in mid-life, things improve. Priorities change. Attitudes change. Seismic shifts often occur, where people choose lifestyles and jobs that make them happier. I can see it happening all around me, to my friends, and my peers, and it’s bloody fantastic. It’s actually really exciting.

My own experience has been thus; firstly I’m now officially menopausal, and it’s fucking fantastic. No hormonal rollercoaster, no monthly pain and mess. I didn’t do HRT, mostly because of the oestrogen, but also because I just wanted to get it out of the way and not be reliant on anything anymore just to function. And for me that was the right choice. I feel exactly like I used to before perimenopause. Better in fact – more like when I was about 35. My brain works properly again, I can remember things. My body works. I don’t feel shut down, or dissociated, or in crazy hormonal flux. Ladies – hang in there. It’s brilliant the other side.

Your midlife coming of age brings about some good stuff

Now that I’m older, I eat better, and drink less booze, so I feel clearer in mind and body. I’m lucky and VERY grateful to be healthy and well. My body, bless it for all the shit I’ve put it through, functions well. My relationship with my daughter is wonderful. I love what I do, mostly, but wouldn’t cry if I just gave it all up tomorrow and went off round the world. That’s liberating in itself.

My body, bless it for all the shit I’ve put it through, functions well

I’m single, which makes my life less complicated. And – bear with me because this is going to sound a little weird – there’s something quite freeing about not having any older relatives left to worry about. Don’t get me wrong – I’d swap all my limbs to have my dad back, for example. But honestly? If he went on for years like a creaking gate, he would have been a difficult bastard, I know it. So there is a little silver lining. I have no elders to be responsible for. No care homes to worry about. No nursing to do. No guilt-ridden trips to medical facilities. It’s a thing, even if it sounds a bit heartless.

More than anything, I give fewer fucks. I don’t care what people think of me – although that’s never been a big thing for me, I care even less now. I have let go of wild ambitious dreams that I once had but which made me stressed trying to achieve. You’ve all read that poem When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple, by Jenny Joseph? I’m there, and it’s fabulous.

Hang in there. Man or woman, midlife is a fucking minefield assault course of a time, and we will all face a lot of similar challenge. And yes, I know not everyone will have a positive trajectory. Some of you will die too young. Some of you will not be happy. But for the vast majority – and we have undertaken our own research on this – there is light at the end of the tunnel, and a positive outcome to look forward to. Take comfort from the fact that I am here to tell you, it gets better.

Sam Harrington-Lowe

Sam is Silver’s founder and editor-in-chief. She’s largely responsible for organising all the things, but still finds time to do the odd bit of writing. Not enough though. Send help.

The post What is midlife coming of age? It’s bloody brilliant, that’s what appeared first on Silver Magazine.

Are children really using anti-ageing products? Our children fear hitting 30, let alone 50. And it has become increasingly apparent that anti-ageing products and plastic surgery is rife amongst Gen Z and Alpha.

A quick look at TikTok will horrify you on this score. Many young people and even children touting and posting the use of anti-ageing products. But with all the positive ageing messaging we have now, why are our kids terrified of ageing? What is going on?

We’ve faced our fair share of beauty standards across the decades. And we know that some days it’s easier than others to embrace the fine lines and love the wrinkles. But we also know ageing has its own beauty. The tales of laughter, late nights talking, and a life well-enjoyed are in every laughter line. We are increasingly able to celebrate the evidence of a life well lived.

Even mainstream media figures are saying a big eff-you to outdated beauty messages

Over the past decade or so, our acceptance of the ageing process has powered a pro-ageing movement. And this is particularly evident in the beauty industry. Products now support maturing skin with a pro-ageing message, rather than shaming it with ‘anti-ageing’ ranges.

Even mainstream media figures are saying a big eff-you to outdated beauty messages, and the idea that women become past it once they hit a certain look or age. Check out Nicole Kidman in 2022’s Vanity Fair cover, or And Just Like That normalising women over 50 wearing bold prints and trendy items and unashamed grey hair. We’re – thankfully – getting miles away from the phrase ‘dress your age.’ And hey, Pamela Anderson, I’m looking at you, with your fresh-faced confidence… you go girl!

So why is it, that with a generation of older women – older people in fact – to look up to, who are openly embracing maturity and challenging the idea that beauty is reserved for the young, we’re seeing under 30s getting Botox and plastic surgery? Meanwhile, even more worrying, under 18s are so afraid of a single fine line, they’re putting anti-ageing skincare on their Christmas wish lists.

Packing plastic

People are cutting and injecting themselves for cosmetic purpose more than ever before. Plastic surgery procedures increased by 102 per cent in 2022. With breast augmentation, tummy tucks, and liposuction being the most popular among women, who made up 93 per cent.

Nose jobs, chest reductions, and eyelid adjustments were top dog among the men who went under the knife. Under 34s are the highest demographic undergoing breast augmentation procedures.

The number of young people investing in preventative Botox has also increased, with many in their mid-twenties getting the injections to keep wrinkles at bay.

‘Preventative Botox’ has become a hot topic online. The hashtag for Botox has over one million videos on TikTok, with the top videos amassing 2-4 million views.

Over two-thirds of TikTok’s usership is made up of 18-34-year-olds. Young people are engaging in content which positions Botox and other cosmetic procedures as standard, common even. When you’re seeing countless people sharing their experience or recommendations for fillers, it’s gradually going to become as trivial as trying the latest viral foundation. Perhaps it’s just a way to try and get a face that looks like it’s filtered in real life?

Attainable attraction

In the eighties and nineties, you’d really only see augmented beauty in magazines, or posters. These days, Gen Z and Alpha open their phones and are confronted with endless images of influencers and celebrities. Many of these faces are supporting plumped lips, refined noses, and sculpted jaws. Never mind the filters that give you flawless skin, or even a full face of makeup. With this pressure from infinitely tweaked faces, it seems young people have become afraid of their natural, asymmetrical beauty, warping what is considered attractive.

Once considered an exclusive and unattainable way to update appearances, treatments are far more accessible to the wider population

The invention of silicon and cosmetic technologies in the sixties led to the rich and famous adjusting their appearance through cosmetic surgery. Once considered an exclusive and unattainable way to update appearances, treatments are far more accessible to the wider population. Botox injections can set you back by as little as £100 in the UK (essentially the price of a new coat, or a pair of trainers). Plus, medical tourism offers cheaper prices for these procedures, making for an appealing option – after all, you get a built-in holiday too.

Over the last decade, we’ve seen the discussions around medical beauty treatments everywhere. The Kardashians discussing their lip fillers, surgeons online breaking down a celebrity’s latest cosmetic work, and Love Island contestants sharing what they’ve had done. When you feel like everyone’s doing it, it’s understandable more people will gravitate towards it. Attitudes change, as cosmetic surgery has gone from being perceived as exclusive to something everyone can do.

Alpha’s anti-ageing frenzy

Although these treatments are illegal to perform on under 18s, that hasn’t stopped Gen Alpha from getting involved with anti-ageing effects. Earlier this year, dermatologists spoke out about the dangers of parents buying their children skincare products with highly active ingredients.

This comes from the recent boom of tweens pining after expensive retinol and vitamin C serums. Online trends where young women share their ‘get unready with me’ (GRWM) routines are packed with colourfully packaged products with fun names, like Watermelon Glow Serum, which contains hyaluronic acid. These products aren’t necessary for young skin, and can damage their sensitive faces.

Whilst part of Gen Alpha’s motivation may be to assimilate with the online community of women sharing their routines, the attraction to ‘anti-ageing’ results is worrying. Children shouldn’t be worrying about signs of ageing; in fact no one should be worried about it. For far too long youth has been equated with beauty and worth, and it’s causing anxiety and harm to our children and grandchildren.

I can’t help but wonder, with existing concerns of social media impacting mental health and self-worth on the young now, will that intensify as they do age and develop a tapestry of life experience on their skin? I can’t believe children are already using anti-ageing products I’m only in my 20s and I feel the pressure. It’s everywhere.

Impacts on ageism

Fears of ageing shouldn’t be intensifying, but lessening. I’d hoped that the next generation would learn from the OGs here. After all, maturity should be championed and seen as a blessing, rather than something to slap plaster on. And certainly not something to be avoided by pumping chemicals into your face before you’re barely in double figures.

Young people’s desperation to take up whatever’s available to slow ageing is a disheartening sight.  We know that ageing skin isn’t a curse, but our young people might not reach acceptance of that fact until the damage is done.

Perhaps we need more untouched and mature faces online to counteract young people’s perceptions of what normal is. I don’t think it’s the entire responsibility of over 50s to resolve this issue. However, there could be a positive influence made by sharing the beauty and comfort of silver skin and drowning out the noise of filtered faces and altered bodies. The fight against ageism continues, and we’re going to keep on flying the flag. Whatever our age. We never thought we’d see children using anti-ageing products, but here we are.

Lana Hall

Lana can usually be found spinning her collection of records, or writing odd poems in her phone notes. Her mixer of choice is a ginger beer, and you’ll never find her away from the sea for more than a few weeks.

The post Why are school children using anti-ageing skincare products appeared first on Silver Magazine.

Last weekend I was out clubbing, in my 50s, for the first time. I say clubbing, that’s probably pushing it a bit. An old mate was running a night at a club in Brighton and needed someone to work the door with him. I was interested. Could I do that? What would it be like clubbing in your 50s?!

I stepped up, feeling a bit wild about the whole thing. I mean, it’s years since I STARTED my night out at 11pm, look at me! Being all crazy and spontaneous. I had a long nap before I went out, obviously. I might be spontaneous but I’m not completely insane.

Really I pretty much stopped going to clubs in my early- to mid-forties

Largely because I couldn’t deal with the recovery time. When you’re young, you bounce back more easily, but it wasn’t just about that. When you’re older, you’ve got stuff to do. Kids to manage. Important jobs to worry about. I used to love being able to spend entire weekends getting smashed, dancing til dawn and beyond, and then the fun that followed over the course of the next day, or days. Just a wild ride, as a squad, until we stopped, ran out of money, or passed out cold.

I also stopped because I felt like the oldest swinger in town

You don’t do that when you’re older, and I miss that freedom, the camaraderie. The seemingly endless party. But it’s not just about this. I also stopped because I felt like the oldest swinger in town. Clubs are generally filled with people in their twenties and thirties and – despite my very public stance against ageism – I just felt older, and out of place.

Added to that, I’ve got tinnitus and knee problems, I don’t like bright lights, big crowds, queuing, or dirty toilets. Nor do I like having to drink out of a plastic glass. It’s too loud to have a conversation, I’m fussier about my music these days, the drugs these days are shit, and ugh people. I realise I now sound like the youngest boomer in town. But hey.

So colour me properly pleasantly surprised, when I had an absolute ball at the club last week.

Let me set the scene

This was a night organised by friends. So I knew I would see other friends there, and I knew I was going to love the music (Colin Dale, Terry Francis, Simon Atkinson, for those of you interested). I also knew that the club was held in a really cool little Brighton venue, WaterBear, which is a great spot, not a big overwhelming place. And because of who the DJs were, and the promoters, I knew a large proportion of the punters were going to be my age.

It wasn’t like I was running into the night with no clue what madness lay ahead, like I used to. But I also don’t have a lot of mates who want to go out to clubs these days. And as a single person, it’s still weird going to stuff like this on my own. I’m shyer than you’d think. So when I knew they needed someone to do the door, it felt like a perfect opportunity.

Read more: The Summer of Love, how it all began

More newsreader than edgy door bitch, to be fair

I liked having a job to do

I think this might be top of the list for me in terms of Why I Had Fun. There is HUGE joy to be had doing the door. You get to say hello to people as they arrive, and actually hear them, have some really funny banter. Everyone is arriving, excited and ready to have fun, so the atmosphere as they come in is buzzy.

Later when the door was still open, but it had slowed down, mates came up to chew the fat with me, and I actually got to spend a bit of time catching up with them. And hear them! Brilliant! The music off the dancefloor isn’t so loud the bass threatens you with cardiac arrest, but I still got to bust some mum-dancing moves in a 50-something-year-old fashion. And I loved having something to do other than blunder around in the midnight belly of the beast.

Older people club differently

Don’t get me wrong. There’s still plenty of dancing and getting mangled, but the pace is different. The dancing a bit more sedate – gotta be mindful of the old knees. The use of mobile phones on the dancefloor is almost nil, everyone is just enjoying the moment, loving the music, and communicating with each other.

And people really dance with each other, connecting with more than just a sexy grind. Ironically, before there were enough people on the dancefloor to soak up the quite epically loud sound, several people asked me for earplugs, which they had at the bar. I wish I’d had the foresight to do that when I was 25. My hearing is terrible these days.

The security guys treat you differently

The security team at WaterBear are chilled, but there’s a big difference in how they approach an older crowd, I suspect. There were still searches at the door, and pat-downs. It’s still a seafront nightclub, after all. But it was all done with real politeness, and dare I say it, respect.

Hilariously though, it seems like us oldies are still capable of behaving like idiots. One particular chap thought he’d found a quiet corner to have himself a little bump of coke, and was asked to leave. I know him, and couldn’t help laughing. I pointed to the bank of CCTV screens as he made his way out, shaking my head. He knew it was a fair cop. Apparently he looked up to find a huge bouncer looming over him, also shaking his head. The bouncer literally just raised his eyebrows and said, “Really?” They both knew the game was up, and my friend left sheepishly. But there was no kicking and screaming, and no drama.

I still got a chance to ‘have it’

Once the doors were closed and I was released, I had around an hour before the club shut, and that was ace. Buoyed up by some very stiff Jack Daniels’ that the promoters had been feeding me, I hit the dancefloor. And for about 35 minutes, just lost myself in the music. I can’t remember the last time that happened, and it was wonderful.

There were moments when I looked up and around me, and all I could see were smiling faces, and happy dancing. And it felt like being back there again, back in the early, more innocent days of clubbing when it really was all about peace, love, and sweet harmony. I’m aware that a significant number of the people in that room had been doing this for decades, and would also remember those days. I’m aware of sounding mawkishly nostalgic here, but it made this old bird very happy anyway.

After the club was finished, there was the inevitable after-party plans. And in the old days I’d have skipped off to join the merry band of travellers, to see where the dawn took us, for tomorrow we may die.

But instead, I jumped in an Uber, and was home before 6am. I woke up later, pretty much hangover-free but eyeing my knees with some concern. Overall though, I felt through the roof with happiness, a massive boost from socialising and dancing, and feeling kind of free again. It’s clearly not quite time to hang up my dancing shoes. I’ll be going back for more.

The next System is on 20 July 2024, and you can see the listing HERE. Keep your eyes peeled, the next guest joining Simon and Terry is A Guy Called Gerald.

Sam Harrington-Lowe

Sam is Silver’s founder and editor-in-chief. She’s largely responsible for organising all the things, but still finds time to do the odd bit of writing. Not enough though. Send help.

The post Sunday Girl. Clubbing in your 50s appeared first on Silver Magazine.

Scrolling social media lately has been, for Gen X at least, a chance to swim in a glittering ocean of nostalgia. Normally, I’ve no time for the rose-tinted spectacles sported by the golden-agers of Facebook – the ones with a tendency to pen terrible poems about the glory days of the 1950s. (“We played on the bombsite and skinned our knees/and all the beds at home had fleas”). But when it’s my generation, which grew up in the ‘70s and ‘80s, nostalgia is a powerful and intoxicating drug. So why do we feel nostalgia?

Back in time with One Day

Ambika Mod as Emma & Leo Woodall as Dexter. Photo: Netflix

One Day, the Netflix adaptation of David Nicholls’ novel about Emma and Dex and their long, ’80s-to-’00s friends-to-lovers arc, blindsided many of us with its pinpoint-accurate depictions of the clothes, music, and attitudes we embraced growing up. From the tragic growing-out perm, to the ‘curtains’ Loaded lad hair, to the glass-brick loo walls and horrific coked-up mega-restaurants of the ‘90s.

Just watching the scene where Dexter is attaining toe-curling levels of dick-ishness shot me back to an evening at The Atlantic bar with braying media types. And the stolen Quaglinos ashtray that lived on my kitchen shelf for years.

The exquisite melancholy of the past

After that briskly refreshing plunge into the past, I went to see All of Us Strangers, a deeply melancholic film about isolation and loneliness. It sees a middle-aged Andrew Scott suddenly able to visit the ghosts of his parents who died in 1987. A world of patterned acrylic jumpers, Harvest-ware toasters, unquestioned indoor smoking, and Top of the Pops on the boxy living room telly.

All of Us Strangers, starring Andrew Scott and Paul Mescal

Not only was it a devastatingly sad film, it also triggered a tsunami of memories of what most suburban kitchens looked like before ‘lifestyle’ got involved. And how back then, dads were not only permitted but encouraged to keep emotions to themselves. Nobody in my family ever said, “love you,” or “to the moon and back.” It was just assumed that you loved each other, and you’d simply get on with arguing about homework and staying up to watch Juliet Bravo.

The midlife nostalgia-fest was completed with the recent news that The Body Shop has gone into liquidation. My entire timeline filled with fond images of dewberry oil, ice blue shampoo and fuzzy peach perfume, as if a Laura Ashley washbag had exploded all over it.

As a result, I’ve been thinking heavily about nostalgia. Why we feel it, what’s it good for – even whether it can be bad for us.

Read more: Joe McGann on finding love in later life

So why do we indulge in nostalgia?

Does harking back to a half-forgotten past encourage us to imagine it was so much better back then, and to compare our current circumstances unfavourably? Or is it a positive way of linking our modern, jaded selves to the people we used to be long ago? In my case, an insecure teen who read Sweet Valley High books and dreamed about the boy in art class who had Levis and floppy hair. (Spoiler: he never noticed me, and in retrospect, was quite possibly gay).

Nostalgia is a longing or yearning for something that has happened in our past, says psychotherapist Karen Hartley. “The feeling of nostalgia is real and is triggered by something that reminds you of previous times. It often becomes most prominent in hard or uncertain times.”

…is it a positive way of linking our modern, jaded selves to the people we used to be long ago?

The word itself is a fusion of the Greek words for homecoming and pain; and was first used by a 17th century Swiss doctor who considered the condition a mental health disorder. Nowadays, we tend to view nostalgia with amused warmth, happily following ‘I had a ‘70s childhood’ groups on Facebook, and sighing over blurry Bananarama videos. (“You see, pop stars just looked like ordinary girls back then… I actually had those pixie boots…”).

Do we remember only the good bits?

Research has found that memory tends to accentuate the positive and dismiss the negative. So we forget the casual racism, sexism, homophobia, and unemployment of the ‘70s and ‘80s, in favour of recalling fewer cars on the streets, and fun times at the roller disco.

According to a study published in science journal Nature, nostalgia can reduce the cortisol released by trauma and protect against stress and anxiety. Interestingly, the study from the University of California also found that people tended to feel more nostalgic when with family and friends, or around food. And that people leaned into nostalgia when they felt depressed – perhaps unsurprisingly.

“It’s common for people to perceive the past as a simpler, better time…”

The temptation to dwell on happier times is stronger when things in the present are not so enjoyable. “We go through more nostalgic periods with age, as we encounter more triggers,” says Karen Hartley. “People might feel lonelier the older they get as well as more ‘homesick’ for lost loved ones.”

Psychotherapist Kamalyn Kaur explains, “It’s common for people to perceive the past as a simpler, better time, regardless of whether that perception is entirely accurate or not. This can happen when the brain forgets the challenges and complexities of the past, remembering and focusing only on the positives.”

So we think about the dewberry oil and forget about the school bully, or we remember our children as adorable babies and forget the agony of sleepless nights.

So a dose of nostalgia can be beneficial?

“People do it all the time, especially when it comes to relationships,” agrees Kaur. “You leave someone because they aren’t good for you but then all you can think about is all the ‘good times’.”

“As we age, we may become nostalgic for our youth or a different stage of our life – often a stage that we relate to as representing growth, exploration, or less responsibility.”

Often, she goes on to say, we feel nostalgia for a time when we experienced a sense of possibility – which is why our teenage years are such a nostalgia trigger. “As we age, we may become nostalgic for our youth or a different stage of our life – often a stage that we relate to as representing growth, exploration, or less responsibility.” It can also be a response to current stress, she adds. “When facing a difficult, complicated, or challenging time, it’s human nature to look back at a simpler, easier, and carefree time in our lives for mental relief.”

So nostalgia isn’t necessarily bad, as long as we don’t end up dwelling in an imagined past for too long. Thinking of happy memories can help put current troubles into perspective, says Kaur. “Nostalgia can evoke positive emotions; help with mood enhancement; and in some cases, be a tool for managing stress, as it allows you to ‘escape’ from your current reality.”

Although looking back, I’m not sure I truly want to escape to a time when TFI Friday was the biggest show on TV, Loaded was the best-selling mag, and ‘gay’ was a playground insult. One good thing about nostalgia – it’s a useful reminder that sometimes, the present isn’t all that bad.

Flic Everett

Flic Everett is a Mancunian writer who now lives in a cottage in the beautiful West Highlands with her patient husband and two deranged cocker spaniels. She still misses Manchester, and returns like a homing pigeon every month to see family and friends. She spends a lot of time writing on trains.

The post Why do we feel nostalgia and does it serve a purpose? appeared first on Silver Magazine.

The Equality and Human Rights Commission (EHRC) has issued guidance so that employers cannot simply dismiss the experiences of menopause in the workplace. Thankfully, it’s no longer to be viewed as a minor inconvenience, but something that has an impact on around 50 per cent of the workforce.

This is a much-needed clarification of the Equality Act 2010 by the EHRC. Which ruled that failure to make “reasonable adjustment” amounts to disability discrimination if – and here’s the important detail – the symptoms have a “long-term and substantial impact” on an employee’s ability to carry out their usual day-to-day activities.

It is rare to experience menopause, or indeed perimenopause, without any symptoms that make a “long-term and substantial impact.” And perimenopause, which can start as early as the late thirties, is often the worst part.

Hot flushes, night sweats, fatigue, brain fog, disturbed sleep, painful breasts, debilitatingly heavy periods and unexpected periods that feel like a hellish farewell-to-fertility concert. It’s an onerous list of symptoms that can last a decade. On top of all that, the risk factor for ovarian and uterine cancer increase. As does the risk of endometriosis and its lesser-known evil sister, adenomyosis.

Symptoms can be debilitating

Sam Harrington-Lowe, Silver’s editor-in-chief, recalls her own experiences of the menopause, especially the brain fog, poor sleep and painful periods: “My sleep patterns were all over the place, my periods were both agonising and biblical in output, I couldn’t risk leaving the house some days. But perhaps the worst thing was the brain fog. My mind, normally the thing I’m most proud of, just stopped working properly – it was actually quite frightening.”

Read more: Menopause and brain fog, will I ever think clearly again?

Over on Twitter (or X or whatever it’s called these days…), the response has been largely positive to this news. That said, @AudreySuffolk makes an important point about the use of disability language by the EHRC. “A lot of social media discussion about women experiencing menopause being disabled under the Equality Act demonstrate some worrying thinking about acceptance of negative attitudes to disability and work. Disability isn’t and shouldn’t be a slur.”

A lot of social media discussion about women experiencing menopause being disabled under Equality Act demonstrate some worrying thinking about acceptance of negative attitudes to disability and work. Disability isn’t and shouldn’t be a slur

— Audrey Ludwig (@AudreySuffolk) February 22, 2024

This is an important and powerful reminder. After all, if a colleague is in a wheelchair and needs reasonable adjustments, such as a ramp to access a building, this is considered a positive thing. Equally, we need to look at making reasonable adjustments for the menopause as a positive way to improve the lives of our colleagues and productivity overall.

This should be a time to shine

The menopausal decade should be one of our most productive times. We have experience and knowledge to impart, no matter what we do for a living. We are assets to any organisation and it is outrageous that menopausal symptoms can cut us down when we should be in our prime.

However, in the real world, there is still a long way to go, even in workplaces that are not horrific sweatshops. @sambakey tweeted that her male supervisor is “lovely and I can talk to him.” But that it’s “impossible to find anything regarding menopause on our intranet” in regard to workplace health.

I can’t say too much on here because of who I work for. My male supervisor is lovely & I can talk to him. However, it’s impossible to find anything regarding menopause on our intranet, nothing under workplace health dept https://t.co/kkzsOwvDf2

— Sam Clark (@sambakey) February 22, 2024

Then we had the unedifying spectacle of Quentin Letts on Good Morning Britain making light of menopause in response to the EHRC announcement. He likened menopausal symptoms to older men suffering from dodgy knees or needing to take a nap after wine at lunch. The last thing anyone in the grip of a particularly ferocious hot flush or a wild menopausal mood swing needs is unhelpful mansplaining of menopause on the telly.

@Holly_Pocketses tweeted: “Quentin Letts ill-advised input into a discussion about the menopause was disgraceful. Comparing the condition to his own ailments – having ‘hurty’ knees and needing a nap after wine at lunch was insulting to say the least.”

I’ve had to turn you off this morning. Quentin Letts ill-advised input into a discussion about the menopause was disgraceful. Comparing the condition to his own ailments – having ‘hurty’ knees and needing a nap after wine at lunch was insulting to say the least.

— Holly Pocket (@Holly_Pocketses) February 22, 2024

Cautiously positive

Hopefully, today’s news will be the catalyst for employers everywhere to make sure they introduce solid menopause policies. Everyone should feel comfortable talking about menopause at work and be understanding when a colleague needs to be accommodated because of menopause symptoms.

Sam Harrington-Lowe sums up what the new guidance should mean for so many women – and what more needs to be done. “I cannot imagine how horrific it would have been to deal with menopause in a 9-5 work structure. The time at work, the commuting, having to deal with people. Thank goodness we finally have some safeguards in place to support women dealing with this, although frankly, I’d like to see some support given to women having periods every month as this can also be debilitating.”

Georgia Lewis

In a career that has spanned Australia, the Middle East and the UK, Georgia has written about all sorts of things, including sex, cars, food, oil and gas, insurance, fashion, travel, workplace safety, health, religious affairs, glass and glazing… When she’s not writing words for fun and profit, she can usually be found with a glass of something French and red in her hand.

The post Good news for women going through menopause in the workplace appeared first on Silver Magazine.