In this episode, I sit down in the studio for a more reflective, radio-style conversation about life here in northern Bosnia and Herzegovina.

It’s Orthodox Easter weekend here, and as always, it brings with it food, family, tradition… and a reminder of how different life can be when you choose to live in a country far from where you were born.

I talk about:

* The difference between Easter in the UK and Bosnia

* Village life and traditions (including roast pig and “death by food”)

* The recent flooding here in northern Bosnia

* Getting back into walking at 73, and feeling it!

* A chance encounter with a badger on a quiet country road

* Why I’ve removed browsers from my phone

* Slowing down, meditation, and the pressure we put on ourselves in later life

* Plans for hiking in Zenica next week

* And why I’m beginning to think more seriously about legacy, storytelling, and building my own website

This is a slower, more personal episode, less about information, more about reflection.

If you’ve ever thought about living abroad, slowing down, or simply making sense of life as you get older, you might find something here.

In this episode, I talk about something I’ve been asked many times over the years, what healthcare is actually like here in Bosnia and Herzegovina, especially as you get older and healthcare becomes a more important part of everyday life.

This is not an official guide and I’m certainly not an expert on the healthcare system or immigration law, but I wanted to share my own personal experiences of using the healthcare system here as a resident in Republika Srpska, what I pay into the system each month, and what I receive in return.

I talk about how I went from temporary residence to permanent residence, how the healthcare insurance system works, and what happens if you are working, self-employed, retired, or just staying in the country for part of the year. I also explain the difference between public healthcare and private clinics here, because Bosnia really operates on what I would call a hybrid system.

I also share a very personal story about breaking my ankle here in the village, the ambulance arriving, being taken through the system, surgery, rehabilitation, and what that whole experience was actually like. Along the way, I compare some of this with experiences in the UK, because many people listening are from Britain and often ask how the two systems compare.

Healthcare here is not completely free, it is an insurance-based system, but if you are a resident and you contribute to the health fund, you can access doctors, specialists, hospitals, emergency care and subsidised medication. Many people also use private clinics for speed and specialist consultations because private healthcare here is still very affordable compared to the UK and many other countries.

This episode is really just an honest conversation about healthcare, retirement, living abroad, and the practical realities of life in Bosnia and Herzegovina as an older person.

If you have questions about living here, residency, daily life, or healthcare, feel free to leave a comment or get in touch, and I’ll try to cover those topics in future episodes.

In this episode, I talk openly and honestly about something that has been on my mind recently, what it means to live between two countries, between two identities, and sometimes between other people’s opinions.

After a recent visit back to the United Kingdom, I found myself thinking about where I really belong. Am I British? Am I Bosnian? Or am I something in between?

I also talk about the reaction to one of my recent videos, the criticism of living abroad while receiving a UK pension, and why retirement, wherever you choose to live, should be about building the best final chapter of your life that you can.

This episode is very much a stream of consciousness, thoughts about retirement, immigration, identity, healthcare, lifestyle, and why I believe people should live where they feel happiest, not where others think they should live.

If you’ve ever lived abroad, thought about retiring abroad, or wondered what life is really like living in Bosnia and Herzegovina, this episode is for you.

In this relaunch episode of the Life in Bosnia podcast, I reflect on turning 73, restarting my creative projects, and what it really means to live between two countries. After a recent trip back to the UK, I talk about feeling like an “in-betweener” — not fully belonging in Britain anymore, but also not originally from Bosnia, the country I have called home for more than 20 years.This episode also explains the future of the Life in Bosnia podcast, the YouTube channel, and the return of the "An Englishman in the Balkans" interviews. Expect stories from daily life, travel around Bosnia and Herzegovina, retirement reflections, hiking adventures, culture, food, and honest observations about life in Southeast Europe.If you have ever wondered what it’s really like to retire abroad, live in Bosnia, or start again later in life, this podcast is for you.

This episode was recorded on a late winter afternoon, walking down to the river and back.

No studio polish. No music. No clever transitions. Just a smartphone, a small DJI microphone with its little wind muff attached (or “spoffle,” as I nearly called it), and a pair of slightly muddy boots that definitely needed cleaning before I stepped back into my tidy studio.

I talk about the tractors I call “village taxis,” cleared storm drains after snow, the River Vrbas, and the fields lying bare before spring planting. I reflect on being 73, on starting (and restarting) creative projects, on YouTube ambitions that might only aim for £100 a month — but mean something very real here in Bosnia when converted into local currency.

There’s also the familiar thread of village life: plum trees that haven’t fruited properly in years, the hope of distilling domaća šljivovica again, and the quiet privilege of being able to walk two kilometres on a Sunday afternoon and simply talk.

This is what I’d sound like if you were staying upstairs in our apartment and we’d just had coffee together before heading down to the river.

If you’re listening in London, Toronto, Sydney, or somewhere entirely different, I’d genuinely love to know. Send me a note and tell me where you are.

From Bosnia and Herzegovina to your headphones, speaker, or kitchen radio — thank you for giving me your time.

Stay safe.

Postcards from Bosnia is an audio journey into the heart of Bosnia and Herzegovina, seen through the eyes of an Englishman who has made this place his home.

Paid members get access to everything I create, including exclusive podcasts, behind-the-scenes reflections, photo essays, and more that I only share with my inner circle ☕✨Thanks so much in advance.

Thank You

Thank you for listening to these little slices of my life. If you’d like to get more stories, you can subscribe to my Substack, it’s free, and if you ever want to upgrade to paid but can’t afford it, just email me. I’ll sort it out, no questions asked.

Here are 3 questions I have.

* What would make you hit “play” on an audio post instead of just reading?

* What makes a podcast episode feel personal or meaningful to you?

* Would you like me to add audio versions of my blog posts so you can choose how to enjoy them?

I’ll give a complimentary subscription to Coffee and Rakija for life for taking the time to answer.

Postcards from Bosnia is an audio journey into the heart of Bosnia and Herzegovina, seen through the eyes of an Englishman who has made this place his home.

Paid members get access to everything I create, including exclusive podcasts, behind-the-scenes reflections, photo essays, and more that I only share with my inner circle ☕✨Thanks so much in advance.

Thank You

Thank you for listening to these little slices of my life. If you’d like to get more stories, you can subscribe to my Substack, it’s free, and if you ever want to upgrade to paid but can’t afford it, just email me. I’ll sort it out, no questions asked.

Here are 3 questions I have.

* What would make you hit “play” on an audio post instead of just reading?

* What makes a podcast episode feel personal or meaningful to you?

* Would you like me to add audio versions of my blog posts so you can choose how to enjoy them?

I’ll give a complimentary subscription to Coffee and Rakija for life for taking the time to answer.

I’ve been watching retirement and over-70s content on YouTube recently, and something began to quietly trouble me.

Many of the most popular videos aren’t made by people at all.

They’re created by AI.

And yet older viewers are watching, commenting, and sharing deeply personal stories, often speaking into what is, in reality, a silence.

This isn’t a programme about technology.

It’s a reflection on aging, loneliness, and what it means to be heard in later life.

From my garden in northern Bosnia and Herzegovina, I talk about why calm AI voices feel familiar, why they feel safe, and why so many older people are reaching out, not because they’re gullible, but because they’re human.

Because we still want to be seen.

And we still want to matter.

Let me say this upfront

I’m not a Christian.

I don’t belong to a church, I don’t follow doctrine, and I wouldn’t describe myself as religious in the traditional sense. If I’m honest, I’m a wayward, wannabe Buddhist, drawn to quiet reflection, to the idea of paying attention, but without the discipline to do it properly.

So what follows isn’t theology.

It’s observation.

Because when you live in Bosnia and Herzegovina long enough, Christmas has a habit of showing up whether you believe in it or not. And here, rather wonderfully, it shows up twice.

The Christmas most British people recognise

For most of my life, Christmas meant one thing.

The 25th of December.

A tree in the corner of the room.

Carols you could sing even if you hadn’t sung them for years.

And far, far too much food.

That was Christmas. End of story.

The Christmas most British people grew up with, Anglican in shape, even if not always in conviction, is open and outward-facing. It fits neatly into national life. Advent drifts past, lights go up, music appears everywhere, and churches fill with people who don’t normally go.

And nobody minds. That’s part of the deal.

You don’t need strong belief to take part. You just need to turn up.

Carols do a lot of the work, familiar words, familiar tunes, and at home, restraint is not the goal. Abundance is.

From the perspective of someone who doesn’t believe, it feels welcoming. Inclusive. Almost forgiving. Christmas as a shared cultural moment rather than a test of faith.

The Christmas that arrives quietly here

Orthodox Christmas feels very different.

I live in a Serbian Orthodox village in northern Bosnia, and Christmas here arrives on the 7th of January, following the older Julian calendar, long after Britain has packed Christmas away and January has started to bite.

Here, Christmas begins with waiting.

There’s a 40-day fast leading up to it. Christmas Eve “Badnji dan” is quiet, symbolic, and deliberate. The food is simple. The mood restrained.

Instead of glitter, there’s straw under the table, a reminder of the stable.

Instead of a Christmas tree, there’s an oak branch, the “Badnjak”, burned or placed in the home.

Church services are darker. There’s more chanting than singing, less explanation, fewer words. Nobody is trying to make it accessible or attractive.

And oddly enough, this is where my Buddhist leanings quietly kick in.

Ritual over persuasion

What strikes me most about Orthodox Christmas is its emphasis on ritual over words, on practice over persuasion.

No one is trying to convince you of anything.

No one is selling belief.

You either show up… or you don’t.

Even as a wannabe Buddhist who doesn’t practise nearly enough ritual himself, I recognise something familiar here. A respect for repetition. For silence. For doing, rather than explaining.

It’s not inclusive in the modern sense, but it is deeply rooted.

Breaking the fast

When Christmas Day finally arrives, the fast is broken.

The table fills. The mood lifts. A special bread, česnica, is shared, with a coin hidden inside. Whoever finds it is said to have good fortune in the year ahead.

This year, Tamara found the coin, so fingers crossed we’re in for a good 2026.

But the real point isn’t the coin.

It’s who you’re sitting next to when the bread is broken.

The greeting says everything:

Christ is born.

Truly He is born.

They do say “Happy Christmas” as well, but there are no slogans. No cheerleading. Just statement.

Same story, different energy

Living between these two Christmases has taught me something.

Anglican and Catholic Christmas tends to radiate outward.

Orthodox Christmas draws inward.

One celebrates openly.

The other prepares quietly.

Neither is better. Neither is more authentic. They are simply different ways of holding the same story.

And perhaps because I don’t fully belong to either, I get to appreciate both more clearly.

Living comfortably in between

These days, I mark both Christmases. Lightly and respectfully.

One reminds me where I come from.

The other reminds me where I now live.

And somewhere between carols and crackling oak wood, between abundance and restraint, I’ve learned something useful, even as a non-believer.

Meaning doesn’t always need belief.

Sometimes it just needs attention.

Even from a wayward, wannabe Buddhist.

This isn’t really about Sunday lunch

When most people hear the words Yorkshire pudding, they think of Sunday roast, gravy, and a very specific idea of England. It’s treated as tradition, almost ceremony. Something fixed. Something defended.

But that’s not where Yorkshire pudding starts.

It doesn’t begin with nostalgia or national pride. It begins with a problem that needed solving.

A dish born of economy, not indulgence

In eighteenth-century northern England, meat was expensive and fuel was precious. A joint of beef wasn’t an everyday meal. It was planned, stretched, and respected.

Yorkshire pudding began as a simple batter, flour, eggs, milk, poured into a pan and placed beneath roasting meat to catch the dripping fat. The batter rose in the heat, filling stomachs cheaply and effectively.

And here’s the detail many people forget: it was originally served before the meat. Gravy poured over it first. The beef came later.

Yorkshire pudding wasn’t a side dish. It was strategy.

Why that makes sense in the Balkans

Living in Bosnia, this logic feels immediately familiar.

Across the Western Balkans, there’s a deep understanding of food that fills rather than flatters. Batter-based dishes appear everywhere, not as treats, but as anchors. Uštipci at breakfast. Plain palačinke when cupboards are bare. Proja on a wooden table, sliced and shared.

These foods aren’t identical to Yorkshire pudding, and they don’t need to be. The connection isn’t about copying recipes. It’s about responding to the same conditions.

Cold winters. Hard work. Limited ingredients.

Different kitchens, same instincts

What strikes me most is how naturally Yorkshire pudding fits into a Bosnian kitchen. The ingredients are familiar. The technique, hot fat, confident timing, no hovering, makes immediate sense.

Even the arguments feel familiar. How much fat is too much? Should it be crisp or soft? Big or small? Everyone has an opinion, and everyone trusts experience over instructions.

That fierce protectiveness around simple food exists on both sides of the continent.

Is there a direct historical connection?

No. There’s no evidence that Yorkshire pudding travelled east or that Balkan batter dishes travelled west.

But history isn’t always about movement. Sometimes it’s about parallel solutions.

When people face similar problems, they often arrive at similar answers, even if they never meet.

Flour, fat, and reassurance

So this isn’t really a story about Yorkshire pudding at all.

It’s about how ordinary food carries quiet wisdom. How it feeds people without asking for attention. How it reassures rather than impresses.

Flour.

Fat.

Heat.

Different names.

Same human need.

And the same promise, whether you’re in Yorkshire or the Western Balkans:

You’ll be fed today.