Sabbatical Letter #3: 12 Things I Remember
Note: This series originally took the form of a newsletter to friends on my sabbatical travels from April to July 2026.
Dear friends,
At this moment, I’m figuring out how to defrost my hands in order to type this, from a small permaculture-practising farm community in Sudbury, Suffolk, UK. The medieval farmhouse I’m staying in has crooked windows and wisteria on its walls, and still holds its original structure from 1390. We’ve run out of oil for heating for almost two weeks while going through a May cold snap. Today’s weather has maxed out at 11°C and goes down to 1°C at night. Copious cups of tea have been consumed.
This was last week, before the cold
I’ve been living or travelling with almost-strangers for the past three weeks — with my friend Karina’s friends from Mexico and Japan through Croatia, and now with my farm hosts, who house long term residents and other volunteers. I’ve lived in my own place back home for quite a bit now, and I’m re-learning when and how to soften my edges — when to hold firm to my norms and when to release it to that of others’; chewing on needs versus wants.
I’ll return to this and other farm reflections in a later email, but for now, in the tradition of a newsletter I love and experimental memoir I Remember by Joe Brainard, here’s 12 Things I Remember About Croatia:
I remember Croatia’s fascinating melting pot of influences — how the Croatian language bears Slavic roots, but the Mediterranean-orange roofs in Croatia’s Dalmatian region and pasta and pizza-heavy diet comes from centuries of Venetian rule, and its deeply ingrained Catholicism from 7th century Roman missionaries.
I remember the eerie, sensitive beauty of Plitvice Lakes. How lakes can disappear and appear frequently due to its delicate tufa barriers. Per our guide, "Everything is alive and always changing." How the otherworldly trees and formations made me think of the carnivorous lake in Life of Pi.
- I remember the joy of discovering the Museum of Fine Arts in Split, a hospital turned art museum and the third I've come across on recent travels, such as the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid and the DesignMuseum Denmark. Their galleries surround a courtyard — I imagine where former patients could come out to for fresh air. I love how the buildings have been repurposed from one place of healing to another. I remember discovering new artists and tearing up over their work.
Vlado Jakelić, On the Tram, 1972/73, Mixed media on canvas
Andrea Musa,The wind keeps moving / Wind #2, 2025, from her series Patterns of Stored Time, Acrylic on canvas
I remember driving past a memorial made up of 15 cheerily-coloured broken colour pencils in a park in Dubrovnik, and learning that it commemorates the children killed in the Croatian War of Independence in the early 1990s.
I remember the looping Uber rides back and forth from our Airbnb to Dubrovnik’s Old Town, and the alpine swifts soaring over the rooftops when I walked its walls. Preserving the 16th-century walls of Dubrovnik’s Old Town is more important than building new roads across the city for greater accessibility. I think of other examples where places are shaped to something beyond human convenience like one of my favourite places, Chichu Art Museum, where building it to fit the natural landscape was prioritised over ease of human commutes. What a wonderful reminder that we are not the centre of the universe.
I remember how most shops in Croatia are closed on Sundays, including most supermarkets. How Sabbath can only happen when everyone gets to rest, including service providers. Planning our grocery shopping around this is a small price to pay.
I remember how locals don’t get coffee to go, but get coffee to sit down with after church, people watch and gossip.
I remember a day in our Airbnb in Hvar, on top of the hill in the quiet, pre-peak season holiday town. Sitting in our PJs, eating snacks and watching Somebody Feed Phil, while the seagulls looped and soared outside our window.
- I remember driving past villages around Hvar, formerly built around growing lavender, now abandoned after the fields were lost to wildfires. I remember the smoky taste of orange wine at Lacman Winery and being mortified that our sommelier only earns 1,000 euros a month, in a town where it’s hard to find a meal below 20 euros.
- I remember olive trees growing in carparks, and oregano sprouting under park benches. I remember the scent of orange blossoms and mock orange trees that smell like jasmine.
- I remember mixing olive oil, grape vinegar and red peppercorns to dip bread in.
- I remember consistent renovation and repair work throughout towns and villages we visited, just prior to peak season. How, as my guide explained, it’s time to do work that’s difficult in winter: “This is the time of the year to fix things.”
What I’m thinking about: What are some small steps I can take to build in rest for others, by design?
Love,
SH