Writing Echoes of a Season wasn’t simply about telling a story from my past, it was about capturing a time, a feeling, and a life I once lived with open eyes, sun-warmed skin, and an unshakeable sense that I was exactly where I needed to be. That summer in Costa Brava in 1992, working as an overseas rep for Cosmos Holidays, changed me in more ways than I could ever have imagined. And writing about it, all these years later, changed me again.
The decision to write the book came slowly at first and was brought to the surface whilst being so unwell in hospital in November 2024, as memories resurfaced, some vivid, some half-forgotten, like old postcards tumbling out of a drawer. At times, I could hear the rumble of the coach engine climbing up from Barcelona Airport or feel the evening warmth settling over the resort after a long day of guest arrivals and hotel visits. But it was more than nostalgia. There was a thread of truth I wanted to pull, something honest about that particular moment in time, not just for me, but for a whole generation of reps who lived that wild, unpredictable, often unfiltered life overseas.
Once I started writing, I realised that memory is both a gift and a challenge. I didn’t want to just recount events; I wanted to relive them, question them, honour them. That meant returning not just to the sun-drenched beaches and hotel receptions, but to the emotions that ran underneath, the exhaustion, the friendships, the mistakes, the laughter, the brief romances, and the quiet loneliness that can creep in when the music fades. I wrote from the heart. Some chapters poured out in a single sitting. Others took days, even weeks, as I sat with them and tried to find the words that did justice to how it all felt.
The structure of the book became important. I didn’t want a dry, chronological account. I wanted Echoes of a Season to move like memory itself, sometimes linear, sometimes sudden, folding time back on itself. That’s why I used flashbacks, layered moments from my childhood, and glimpses of the future. These echoes made the story fuller, more human. Because no one’s life happens in straight lines. We carry our pasts with us, even while we’re trying to live the present.
One of the most emotional parts to write was the ending. Saying goodbye to Spain, to the people I had grown close to, to the version of myself I was during that time, it stirred up feelings I hadn’t fully processed until I sat down to write. The decision to leave early remains one of the few things I still look back on with a tinge of regret. That’s part of the truth I wanted this book to hold: not everything wraps up neatly. Life doesn’t hand you closure just because a season ends.
From a creative standpoint, there were many behind-the-scenes moments of doubt. I wondered if anyone would care about this story, about that specific summer, about what it meant to be a rep in the early ‘90s before mobile phones and social media changed the entire rhythm of working overseas. But I kept reminding myself—this book isn’t just about me. It’s about anyone who’s ever left home in search of something bigger, who’s stood on a hotel stage welcoming guests with a smile while quietly trying to hold their own life together.
Publishing the book was a journey in itself. From refining the manuscript to choosing cover art, setting pricing, and preparing for launch, it became a true labour of love. I had support from brilliant people who believed in the story and helped shape it into what it is now. But I also had late nights of self-doubt, wondering whether the details I remembered were accurate enough or whether certain names should be changed to protect privacy. (They were all changed including commercial business names.)
Then came the book launch, and the response has honestly left me humbled. The messages I’ve received, the reviews, the stories people have shared about their own seasons abroad, it’s been overwhelming in the best way. To hear from fellow reps, former guests, and complete strangers who’ve connected with the story on such a personal level… it’s something I’ll carry with me always.
There’s an intimacy to writing memoir that no other form quite offers. You expose yourself, not just in terms of what you did, but who you were. You allow people to see the younger version of yourself, flaws and all, and trust that they’ll understand. That they’ll see the honesty behind the storytelling. That they’ll feel the echoes.
Echoes of a Season isn’t just a book. It’s a chapter of my life finally given shape, colour, and voice. And if it’s resonated with you, if you’ve felt seen or understood, or just remembered something of your own while reading it, then I’ve done what I set out to do.
Now, as I work on its companion book Spanish Sunshine and continue developing new projects, I look back with gratitude. Not just for the summer of ’92, but for the chance to tell its story, to capture its spirit, and to send it out into the world.
That, for me, has been the greatest journey of all.
