Drifting Notes

In this quiet morning paddle near Cala Rustella on the Costa Brava, I found myself gliding over a sea garden. I saw shallow rocks bursting with mosses, algae, grasses, and small sea creatures, each clinging to life in brilliant, it was an overlapping chaos. This episode is a slow drift through that moment: above the surface, stillness, yet below, a gentle riot of marine life.

I talk about the pleasure of just watching, without diving, without needing to interfere, letting the underwater world unfold from the vantage point of a stand-up paddleboard. No freediving, no big revelations. Just the beauty of noticing.

There’s talk of velvet moss, blushing algae, sea cucumbers, and, yes, my usual search for an octopus (unsuccessful, again). But mostly, this is a short meditation on how ecosystems aren’t diagrams, and how looking can sometimes be enough.

What hidden worlds have you glimpsed—without needing to enter them?

In this episode of Drifting Notes, I take you to Süßen, a small town in the Baden-Württemberg countryside, where I found myself with an hour to spare and nowhere in particular to be.

Wandering into the village's Kulturzentrum—a timbered former home now serving as library, council hall, and quiet refuge—I slipped into a grey armchair and settled among strangers. Around me, a man read the newspaper, a woman studied cookbooks, and another browsed the recommended reading shelf. A coffee machine hissed in the corner. A plant leaned toward the light.

And I realised: this little room—gently worn and unapologetically analog—was one of the most human spaces I’d been in for weeks.

This episode is about the unexpected gift of places that don’t demand your attention, but hold it anyway. Spaces that make you feel welcome without asking your name. And the quiet relief of remembering that not everything has to be fast, loud, or connected to Wi-Fi.

If you’ve ever felt at home in a library, a waiting room, or an unfamiliar town square, this one’s for you.

Some evenings linger longer than they’re supposed to. Not because of the time, but because of what happens in the quiet afterwards… when the dishes are done, the stories fade to stillness, and someone sings not to perform, but to feel something shift.

This drifting note comes from a night in early spring, spent in the upstairs room of my friend Astrid’s house in Donzdorf. No concert. No audience. Just her voice, a piano nearby, and the tender insistence of a Fauré song she’s still learning to carry.

It’s about music, but also about practice. About curiosity and about what it means to love something enough to start again.

Thanks for drifting with me, Lyss

Have you ever returned to something you loved—something you hadn’t practiced in years—just to see if it still fit?

I’ve been to Barcelona a lot. I know the rhythm, the transfers, the feel of its mornings. But on this day, I let muscle memory take the lead—and it quietly failed me.

In this episode, I follow the wrong train back to where I started. A moment of forward motion gone subtly, stubbornly off-course. It’s a small story. But also, maybe, a quiet reminder that familiarity is not the same as presence. And that even seasoned travellers still get lost—sometimes in the best possible way.

In this episode, I share a quiet moment from a hotel lobby in Barcelona—one of those liminal workdays between meetings and flights, where the espresso is on a timer and the leather couch becomes a temporary lifeline.

What unfolds is a story about presence, trust, and the kind of kindness that doesn’t announce itself. A woman I never spoke to watched my bag. That’s it. But also, somehow, it was everything.

I take you on an unexpected run—around the outer edges of Munich Airport.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t pretty. But somewhere between perimeter fences, vending machines, and the low hum of jet engines, I found something close to peace.

Join me as I jog beside something built for departure, past clumps of frost-bitten grass and blooming dandelions, and into a quiet moment of clarity. This is a story about overlooked spaces, unglamorous in-between times, and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to be chased—just noticed.

If you’ve ever found stillness in movement, or meaning in a detour, this one’s for you.

This episode of Drifting Notes was recorded after a jog along the east coast of Spain, where storm clouds gathered and the scent of wild rosemary clung to the air. A crumbling rock face on the trail caught my attention—not because it was striking, but because it made me wonder >> What would it be like to read this?

In this reflection, I explore the quiet poetry of geology—the ability to see deep time in cracks and layers, and how that perspective might shift how we move through the world. What if we saw not just the path beneath our feet, but the millions of years beneath that?

For those drawn to slow stories, elemental truths, and the beauty of what endures.

In this short episode, we step inside a small-town hardware store that still hums with the he past. From the click-click-fump of a manual pricing machine to a proudly embroidered name tag, this is a quiet ode to the shops—and shopkeepers—who still know their stock by heart and their customers by their needs. Not a megastore, but a haven of small quantities and big care.

Listen in for a nostalgic reflection on what it means to fix things, to know a place, and to be known.

Somewhere between Malaga and Torrevieja, out where the land fades and the sea stretches into forever, a bee appeared on our boat.Not frantic, not lost — just quietly, stubbornly going about her work.

In this episode of Drifting Notes, I tell the story of an unexpected companion, the strange beauty of persistence, and the way small lives cross our paths when we least expect them — asking nothing more than to be noticed.

Recorded aboard Cooee on a slow, eastward passage through early summer winds.

In this episode of Drifting Notes, we step into the quiet morning rhythm of Casa Felipe, a café in southern Spain shaped by the steady hand of its founder, Felipe—a former torero who now brings the discipline, ritual, and reverence of his earlier life into every corner of the café.

Felipe doesn’t speak loudly, but he sees everything. From washing dishes to making the first coffee of the day, he carries with him the values of a tradition that taught him presence, care, and respect. No spectacle. Just quiet honour.

Through the steam of café con leche and the soft clatter of breakfast, we explore how a life once lived in ceremony now continues—one greeting, one gesture, one morning at a time.