It was my first trip to Europe since the pandemic and I’d been looking forward to it for months. We prefer to travel by train where possible and as we set off on the six-hour ride from Amsterdam to Berlin, we were full of holiday cheer. The first half-hour was taken up with chatting, dipping into our books, and staring out of the window but it wasn’t long before we started thinking about coffee so Mike set off to find the buffet. It was six carriages away and as there was a queue the expedition took about twenty minutes—not long in the context of our journey but as it turned out, those twenty minutes had far-reaching consequences.

At some point, as we sped across the watery Dutch landscape, a man got onto the train. Probably at Amersfoort though I can’t be sure. I was aware of him giving me a penetrating stare but thought nothing of it as it was only momentary and he then busied himself in putting his cabin bag on the rack above my head. Oh how innocent I must have looked, all alone and so happy and relaxed in my flowery holiday dress—dozing and reading. He seemed to fiddle with his bag for slightly longer than seemed necessary. Then he sat down—several seats ahead and across the aisle. I wondered almost subconsciously—why had he put his bag above me when there was plenty of room above his own seat?

Eventually Mike arrived back with the coffee and a while later he reached up to the rack to get his camera. He wanted to show me his photos from the evening before in Amsterdam when we’d wandered alongside canals and finished up with some spicy Indonesian food. “My camera bag’s not there,” he said sounding puzzled. “It must be,” I said and stood up to look myself. That was when we realised that my computer bag was also missing with my laptop and passport inside. At first, we couldn’t absorb the inevitable truth. It was just too uncomfortable so we searched disconsolately behind and under our seats until a friendly woman across the aisle asked what was wrong. “Our bags are missing,” I said and everything stood still while she took it in. Then she gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “It must have been that guy in front,” she said, “I thought he seemed odd.” By then of course he was nowhere to be seen, having carefully lined up his bag and our bags so he could sweep them off in one professional swipe.

I walked the length of the train but knew it was hopeless as he would have got off at the first opportunity. I found the train manager and when I told him what had happened he was sympathetic but resigned, and while we were talking I remembered having heard announcements the day before, on the Paris to Amsterdam train warning that passengers should be alert to pickpockets. It hadn’t occurred to me then that this loose translation didn’t just refer to slimy people who put their hands in your back pocket, but also those who with bold contempt, rob you of your luggage. The rest of the ride was not the dreamy, relaxed affair we’d expected but was instead taken up with applying for emergency travel documents, changing online passwords, and innumerable other activities that made me grateful that I still had my phone and bank cards.

When we reached Berlin we reported the crime to the police. They were camping out in a Portakabin at the train station and were having a quiet afternoon so we received prompt and courteous attention. Like the train manager they were sympathetic but unsurprised and compiled a detailed report which included taking our photos and seat numbers in case the thief could be identified from on-board CCTV though apart from remembering his slightly odd behaviour, I could not give any kind of description other than that he had dark hair and was slight, white, and aged around forty. Once the report was done and I had ordered a replacement laptop, there was nothing else we could do until we got home so I resolved to enjoy the holiday, rationalising that it was just stuff and I was thankful that no-one had been hurt. We then had two thoroughly enjoyable weeks including lots of Bauhaus architecture in Weimar and Dessau; a Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra concert; a tour of historic Tempelhof airport; Oktoberfest in Munich; visits to several of Mad King Ludwig’s castles, and a wonderful finale with warm-hearted friends in Bavaria. We joined them every morning for a swim in the local lake—the water was crystal clear and the Alps filled the horizon.

When it was time to come home, and armed with my emergency passport we travelled from Bavaria to Southampton all in one day and it was very late when we got to bed. The next day I spent several hours setting up my new laptop and when all my usual apps were installed I finally got round to checking that my writing files were safe. I’d left that job until last as those are, to me, the most valuable. That was when I discovered a problem—the writing software I use appeared to have been backing up to the Cloud automatically as it promised it would and there were lots of zip files in Finder but when I opened them they were significantly out of date. Everything else I use was backing up so I had no reason to think that these specific files would be any different—all my licenses were valid and I had adequate Cloud capacity. It was mystifying. Fortunately, I had printed out a batch of first draft chapters so I do have those but much of what I have been working on for the past two years has been lost—thousands of random thoughts, references, notes from reading, things to follow-up on, and ideas about structuring were inaccessible and will be impossible to recreate. A resourceful customer support adviser named Jen did her best to help and was puzzled at the glitch, but in the end it seemed that nothing could be done.

I did my usual thing of trying to look for something positive—after all, having a road map is the only way I know to stop myself falling down a scary chasm of despair and depression—but both my daughters reminded me gently that it really is OK to feel upset. In fact it’s essential. So I’ve tried to sit with the difficult feelings—grief for the thousands of lost hours spent in reading and note-taking; anger at the weaselly man who made eye contact with me but didn’t care how much distress he caused; frustration with myself for not keeping a hard-disk backup; confusion about how much I have lost and what that means for my writing plans; dismay at the amount of work involved to get back on track, and fear that I will not be able to. But there are surprises lurking amongst rumpled emotions, and I’ve been taken aback—almost guilty—to recognise that I also feel some relief. And I don’t think this is misplaced Pollyanna positivity. I’ve been so engrossed in this latest project that I’ve done a massive amount of research, and the fact is that at times the volume of material I’ve accrued has seemed overwhelming. Now I’ve had an enforced decluttering and am left with the bare essentials. If I do carry on then all I can do is to trust that the most important ideas have lodged themselves in my brain and will emerge in a pared-back, more manageable form.

The day after we got back from holiday, and just before I discovered that I’d lost my writing files, Mike and I had a conversation about our magnolia tree. We used to get it professionally pruned every two years but recently it has grown more vigorously and needs doing every year. We both feel affection for it—the flowers are undeniably beautiful and any tree is a thing to be cherished. But the problem is that it’s way too big for our small front garden and when it’s in full leaf it makes the house extremely dark. “I think it might have to go,” I said reluctantly to Mike and he agreed.

Humans need stories. It’s how we make sense of the world and while I don’t want to stretch the metaphor too far, the fate of my writing and the tree seem to be running in parallel at the moment. Both have become too big for the space they occupy and they shut out the light. We’ll get our usual tree surgeon to remove the magnolia tree and then we’ll plant something more suitable. And if I do continue writing then I’ll replace my original project with something that is a better match for the time and energy I have available.

At the moment I have no idea what kind of tree or writing I’ll end up with. There are many options but it’s certainly my hope that the ground will not stay fallow for long. I’ll let you know.