I sit in silence on a mountainside high above the plain. The view stretches all the way to Venice. If you squint, you can just make out St Mark’s Campanile. Am I glad not to be down there in all that hustle and bustle right now. The heat is finally beginning to ease as evening settles around us. In my hand is a plastic cup with the last of the red wine, warm by now. My backside, in a pair of stained trousers, is perched on an old pallet with long rusty nails sticking out of it. My skin is sticky with sweat and dust after my last full day of work up here.

“If you don’t do it now, you’ll come back in a few years and be miserable because nothing has changed. I took the risk, and look what I’ve built here. You can’t just expect things to work themselves out. You have to do something about it! Otherwise you’ll be unhappy for the rest of your life. You can do that if you want, but then don’t complain to me.” That hits home. But he isn’t finished yet.

“Promise me! Promise me you’ll at least try! And if you fail, at least you’ll have tried! Then you won’t be able to reproach yourself later. Train as a pastry chef! And promise me you’ll specialise in Italian pastry as well.”

I drain the last of the wine and mumble, “Okay. I promise.” Well, I suppose that settles it.

The young German Shepherd limping beside us chooses that exact moment to empty his bowels in one enormous, stinking heap. I nearly choke from laughing and coughing.

Exactly four years later, I’m sitting here again. The moon rules the dark night sky. This time, at least, I’ve already showered and I’m wearing clean clothes. We’re sitting on the stony ground of the hillside with a bottle of cedrata juice “And now?” I ask as the sharp stones press through the fabric. “I did everything. In four years, alongside my regular job, I completed basic pastry training in Austria and graduated from an official pastry academy in Bologna. I worked for a year in a pastry shop in Padua! Now what?” He furrows his brow thoughtfully and stares at the sea of lights below us. You can make out the main roads winding through the dark plain like chains of golden-yellow lights.

“And now you do whatever you want,” he replies firmly. I look at him, puzzled. “What...?” He takes a sip of cold juice and says, “You said it yourself. You have everything you need. You’re ready.”

The now enormous German Shepherd sticks his nose into a wild plant behind us and erupts into a terrible fit of wet sneezing down the backs of our necks. Some things never change.

I’m Sarah. I grew up in Upper Austria and Styria. I’m a passionate pastry chef who found her calling later in life. I need water and mountains—or at least hills—nearby for my peace of mind. I love travelling, especially in Italy and Great Britain, discovering new things, and I usually jump first and think later. And now I have to learn what it actually means to be myself, stay true to myself and make my dreams a reality.

I used to be certain about what I would do next. I planned. I organised. But what happens when fate has other ideas?

It’s never too late to start again! Even when you have absolutely no idea how. Even when you fail somewhere along the way.

Right now, I still don’t know where my path will lead me. I’m trying to take the small steps and trust that the next stretch of the path will reveal itself as I go. And I’d love it if you joined me at the garden table beneath the wisteria or settled into the cosy wingback chair on the glass veranda and enjoyed life for a little while.

Until then: The kettle is on, come in!