Heaven

Sitting on the border of England and Wales, this quaint town has open bookshelves in the streets and independent bookshops lining the roads, drawing in readers from across the UK

Nestled beneath the ruins of a picturesque castle, with open bookshelves lining the streets and independent bookshops at every turn, Hay-on-Wye is an avid reader’s dream come true.

This quaint town, largely dedicated to the joy of reading, has been a haven for book lovers since 1961 when Richard Booth opened his first shop. It quickly transformed into a literary hotspot.

Today, it boasts over 20 bookshops and hosts an annual festival that attracts some of the world’s most esteemed authors and thinkers. The Hay Festival spans ten days from May to June each year.

The inception of the Hay Festival in 1988 put the town firmly on the global map as a literary sanctuary. Past guest speakers have included renowned actors such as Judi Dench and Jude Law, and even former US president Bill Clinton.

Among the castle ruins lies a unique book spot where visitors can browse open-air shelves brimming with books. Operating on an honesty system, tourists are expected to leave money in a payment box after selecting their books, which typically range from £1 to £6.

A TripAdvisor review says: “This is a very interesting place to visit with fabulous guides who have so much knowledge of the castle and it’s history…. there is also a very good gift shop with an amazing array of history books and gifts of all kinds. I would definitely encourage you to visit.”

Book lovers will find plenty to explore amongst the town’s beloved independent shops. The original Richard Booth Bookshop remains one of Hay’s largest, offering both new and second-hand titles alongside welcoming nooks where visitors can settle in with a good read.

For something different, the Hay Cinema Bookshop occupies a former picture house spread across two storeys. Its extensive collection is made easier to browse thanks to helpful signage throughout the sprawling sections.

Castle Bookshop earns high praise from bibliophiles and ranks amongst TripAdvisor’s must-visit destinations in the town. One review notes: “Best place in Hay for all types of books, with many bargains to be had. Has a lovely selection of old as well as new books.

“The only bad mark is it is not good for the disabled, as everything is up and down steps and tight walkways. But if you are a book fan, you must give it a visit.”

When Diane Keaton was 11, her father told her she was growing into a pretty young woman and someday, a boy would make her happy. She was horrified. One boy? Keaton — then going by her birth name of Diane Hall — needed to be loved by everyone. It was an early sign that she was meant to be an actor.

“Intimacy meant only one person loved you, not thousands, not millions,” Keaton wrote decades later in her 2011 memoir “Then Again.” Like drinking and smoking, she added, intimacy should be handled with caution.

“I wanted to be Warren Beatty, not date him,” Keaton confessed, romancing fellow artists as long as their relationship was mutually stimulating and then after that, remaining friends. “I collect men,” she jokingly told me when I interviewed her a decade ago, referring to a photo wall in her Los Angeles home of fellows she admired, including Morgan Freeman, Abraham Lincoln, Gary Cooper and John Wayne. She wanted an excuse to add Ryan Gosling and Channing Tatum, so I suggested a love-triangle comedy as a twofer. “No! Not one movie!” Keaton exclaimed. “I want to keep my career going.”

Just as she hoped, millions of us did fall in love with Keaton, who died Saturday at age 79. She captivated us for over 50 years, from awards heavy-hitters to a late-career string of hangout comedies that weren’t about anything more than the joy of spending time with Diane Keaton, or in the case of her 2022 body swap movie “Mack & Rita,” the thrill of becoming Diane Keaton.

In her final films, including “Summer Camp” and the “Book Club” franchise, Keaton pretty much only played variations of herself, providing reason enough to watch. I looked forward to the moment her character fully embraced looking like Diane Keaton, writing in my otherwise middling review of “Mack & Rita” that the sequence in which she “picks up a kooky blazer and wide belt is presented with the anticipation of Bruce Wayne reaching for his cowl.”

I wanted to be Diane Keaton, even if she wanted to be Warren Beatty.

The contradiction of her career is that the things we in the audience loved about her — the breezy humor, the self-deprecating charm, the iconic threads — were Keaton’s attempts to mask her own insecurities. She struggled to love herself. Even after success, Keaton remained iffy about her looks, her talent and her achievements. In interviews, she openly admitted to feeling inadequate in her signature halting, circular stammers. That is, when she’d consent to be interviewed at all, which in the first decade of her career was so rare that Keaton, loping across Central Park in baggy pants to the white-on-white apartment where she lived alone, was essentially a movie star Sasquatch.

Journalists described her as a modern Garbo. “Her habit is to clutch privacy about her like a shawl,” Time Magazine wrote in 1977, the year that “Annie Hall” and “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” established Keaton as a kooky sweetheart with serious range. I love that simile because she did refer to her wardrobe as an “impenetrable fortress.” The more bizarre the ensemble — jackets over skirts over pants over boots — the less anyone would notice the person wearing it.

Odd ducks like myself adored the whole package, including her relatable candor. She showed us how to charge through the world with aplomb, even when you’re nervous as heck.

Once young Keaton decided she wanted to perform, she set about auditioning for everything from the church choir and the cheerleading squad to the class play. But her school had a traditionally beautiful ingenue who landed the leads. This was Orange County, after all. Keaton would go home, stare at the mirror and feel disappointed by her reflection. She dreamed of looking like perky, platinum blond Doris Day. Instead, she saw a miniature Amelia Earhart. (She’d eventually get a Golden Globe nomination for playing Earhart on television in 1994.)

Keaton stuck a clothespin on the tip of her nose to make it smaller, and acted the part of an extrovert: big laugh, big hair and, when she stopped liking her hair, big hats. By age 15, she was assembling the bold, black and white wardrobe she’d wear forever and her taste for monochrome clothes was already so entrenched that she wrote Judy Garland a fan letter wondering why Dorothy had to leave Kansas for garish Oz. She might have been the only person to ever ask that question.

Not too long after that, Keaton flew across the country to New York where several things happened in short succession that would have puffed up anyone else’s ego. The drama coach Sanford Meisner gave her his blessing. The Broadway hit “Hair” gave her the main part (and agreed she could stay fully clothed). And “The Godfather,” the No. 1 box office hit of 1972, plucked Keaton from stage obscurity to give the fledgling screen actor its crucial final shot, a close-up.

Keaton made $6,000 for “The Godfather,” less than a quarter of her salary for the national deodorant commercial she’d shot a year earlier. Her memories from the set of the first film were uncharacteristically terse. Her wig was heavy, her part was “background music” and the one time Marlon Brando spoke to her, he said, “Nice tits.”

Nevertheless, Keaton’s Kay is so soft, friendly and assured when she first meets the Corleone clan at a wedding, sweetly refusing to let her boyfriend Michael dodge how the family knows the pop singer Johnny Fontane, that it’s heartbreaking (and impressive) to watch her become smaller and harder across her few scenes. But Keaton says she never saw the finished movie. “I couldn’t stand looking at myself,” she wrote in “Then Again.”

Woody Allen put the Keaton he adored front and center when he wrote “Annie Hall.” He wanted audiences to fall in love with the singular daffiness of his former girlfriend and it worked like gangbusters. It’s my favorite of his movies and my favorite of hers, and there’s just no use in pretending otherwise, as obvious of a pick as it is. Even now that I know the Annie Hall I worship is a shy woman putting on a show of being herself, the “la-di-dah” confidence she projects makes her the most precious of screen presences: the icon who feels like friend.

But I wonder if Allen also made “Annie Hall” so that Diane Keaton could fall in love with Diane Keaton just as he had. Maybe if she saw herself through his eyes, it could convince her that she really was sexy, sparkling and hilarious. But Keaton only watched “Annie Hall” once, in an ordinary theater well after it opened, and she found the experience of staring at herself miserable. She never absorbed her lead actress Oscar win. “I knew I didn’t deserve it,” she said. “I’d won an Academy Award for playing an affable version of myself.”

Nearly herself, that is. The onscreen version of Keaton is stumped when Alvy Singer brings her a copy of the philosophical tome “Death and Western Thought.” But a decade later, Keaton directed “Heaven,” an entire documentary about the subject, in which she asked street preachers and Don King and her 94-year-old grandmother how they imagined the afterlife. (As in Allen’s movie, her grandmother actually was named Grammy Hall.)

“Heaven” is an experimental film that’s heavy on dramatic shadows and surreal old movie footage, the sort of thing that would play best on an art gallery wall. It flopped, as test screenings warned it would, cautioning Keaton that her directorial debut only appealed to female weirdos — people like her. Keaton isn’t a voice in the film. Yet, that she made it at all makes every frame feel personal, and you hear her affection for the cadence of her occasionally tongue-tied subjects. Her first interviewee stutters, “Uh, heaven, heaven is, uh, um, let me see.” Exactly how Annie Hall would have put it.

Today more than ever, I’m wishing Keaton had been comfortable turning her camera on herself. I’d have liked to watch her explain where she thinks she’s gone, however adorably flustered the answer. But in her four memoirs, she safely bared all in print, openly confronting her harsh inner critic, her battle with bulimia, and — yes, Alvy — her musings on death.

“I don’t know if I have the courage to stare into the spectacle of the great unknown,” Keaton wrote in 2014’s “Let’s Just Say It Wasn’t Pretty,” sounding as apprehensive as ever. “I don’t know if I will make bold mistakes, go out on a blaze of glory unbroken by my losses, defy complacency, and refuse to face the unknown like the coward I know myself to be.”

At last, a sliver of confidence peeks out. “But I hope so.”

On behalf of her millions of fans, I hope so too.

After my marriage ended, I blithely thought it would be easy to enjoy holidays as a single parent. I soon found out they were either outrageously expensive, or they seemed only suitable for “traditional” families, or they were so cheap that I came home more knackered than when I’d left.

My first attempt, camping with friends, was fine until I had to pack up the tent. Four hours of wrestling with it in the heat later, I hated camping. Next, the adventure holiday for single-parent families. The abseiling and caving were brilliant, but sleeping in a bunk bed ruined my back. We tried a budget all-inclusive in Tenerife, but the hordes of nuclear families were overwhelming, and pool-side conversations with other women fizzled out because I didn’t come with a handy husband for their own husbands to talk to. A trip to Mallorca with a friend and her children was brilliant, but the cost was eye-watering.

Then, last autumn, a friend asked if we’d house-sit her dogs in Devon while she went to a wedding. For one tranquil weekend, we walked on the beach, and curled up by the fire in the evening. That led to house-sitting for her friend in Dorset, which also went well. Encouraged, I paid an annual £99 fee to join a house-sitting website, where, in exchange for looking after people’s pets, you stay in their homes free of charge. Within a few days, I’d arranged a 10-day house-sit in Sussex, looking after a labrador named Buzz while his owners were abroad.

It was our first sit for strangers, but any nerves dissipated the moment we arrived at the gorgeous four-bedroom house and met the gentle Buzz, who lived for tummy rubs. Our daily dog walks gave us the opportunity to explore stunning nature spots, and, once we returned home, we could relax in the garden for important conversations about our favourite “Ghosts” characters in the BBC sitcom. There were no expensive tourist traps to traipse through – instead, we browsed bookshops, treated ourselves to manicures, and went on kayak trips. I felt lighter and happier than I had in years, and could feel my bond with my daughter Polly strengthen every day. I’m not afraid to say that I cried with happiness. Things felt possible again.

House-sitting isn’t for everyone. Some people want no responsibilities on holiday apart from choosing their next cocktail, aren’t into dogs or cats, or feel odd about sleeping in a stranger’s bed, emptying their dishwasher, and putting out their bins. But the gentle rhythm of ordinary life, with work stripped out and new places to explore, is perfect for me.

It keeps me from descending into complete idleness, which leaves me feeling twitchy and oddly hollow. And, financially, house-sitting is a life-saver for a single parent. A 10-day break in a similar-sized house in the same area we stayed would set me back about £2,500 on Airbnb.

As for staying in a stranger’s house, I found it nourishing. Although house-sitting is a transaction, it’s also an act of trust between strangers and animals, which has brought out my best self – my patient, loving and measured side, full of appreciation for the people and places we discover. I’ve already lined up another four days away, caring for a whippet in leafy Surrey, and, next year, I’d like to try house-sitting abroad. Thanks to a bit of creative thinking, we can see the world from the comfort of home – it just happens to be someone else’s.

As one way to keep tabs on President Trump’s state of mind, I’m on his email fundraising lists. Lately his 79-year-old mind has seemed to be on his mortality.

“I want to try and get to heaven” has been the subject line on roughly a half-dozen Trump emails since mid-August. Oddly, one arrived earlier this month on the same day that the commander in chief separately posted on social media a meme of himself as “Apocalypse Now” character Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore, satisfyingly surveying the hellish conflagration that his helicopters had wreaked, not on Vietnam but on Chicago. “Chipocalypse” was Trump’s warning to the next U.S. city that he might militarize.

Mixed messages, to be sure.

The president hasn’t limited his celestial contemplations to online outlets. “I want to try and get to heaven, if possible,” he told the hosts of “Fox & Friends” in August, by way of explaining his (failed) effort to bring peace to Ukraine. “I’m hearing I’m not doing well.”

Well, Mr. President, here’s some advice: I don’t think you’ll get to heaven by wishing that many of your fellow citizens go to hell.

The disconnect between Trump’s dreams of eternal reward and his earthly avenging — against Democrat-run cities, political rivals, late-show hosts and other celebrity critics, universities, law firms, cultural institutions, TV networks and newspapers, liberal groups and donors, government employees, insufficiently loyal allies and even harmless protesters at a Washington restaurant — was rarely so evident as it was at the Christian revival that was Sunday’s memorial for the slain MAGA activist Charlie Kirk at State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Ariz.

Mere minutes after Erika Kirk, Kirk’s widow and successor as head of the conservative group Turning Point USA, had tearfully forgiven her husband’s accused killer, the president explicitly contradicted her with a message of hate toward his own enemies, and his continued determination to exact revenge.

Erika Kirk spoke of “Charlie’s mission” of engaging his critics and working “to save young men just like the one who took his life.” She recalled the crucified Christ absolving his executioners on Calvary, then emotionally added: “That young man. I forgive him.”

“I forgive him because it was what Christ did and what Charlie would do,” she said to applause. “The answer to hate is not hate. The answer, we know from the Gospel, is love and always love. Love for our enemies and love for those who persecute us.”

Then it was Trump’s turn.

Just one minute in, he called the 22-year-old suspect “a radicalized cold-blooded monster.” And throughout, despite investigators’ belief that the man acted alone, Trump reiterated for the umpteenth time since Kirk’s death that “radical left lunatics” — his phrase for Democrats — actually were responsible and that the Justice Department would round up those complicit for retribution.

Trump acknowledged that Charlie Kirk probably wouldn’t agree with his approach: “He did not hate his opponents. He wanted the best for them.” Then Teleprompter Trump went off script, reverting to real Trump and ad-libbing: “That’s where I disagreed with Charlie. I hate my opponent and I don’t want the best for them.” He spat the word “hate” with venom. And he got applause, just as Erika Kirk had for a very different message.

Jesus counseled “turn the other cheek” to rebuke those who harm us. Trump boasts that he always punches back. “If someone screws you, screw them back 10 times harder,” he once said. Love your enemies, as Christ commanded in his Sermon on the Mount? Nah. You heard Trump in Arizona: “I hate my opponent.”

Trump might have some explaining to do when he seeks admittance at the pearly gates.

The Bible’s words aside, a president is supposed to be the comforter in chief after a tragedy and a uniter when divisions rend the American fabric. Think of President Clinton, whose oratory bridged partisan fissures after antigovernment domestic terrorists bombed a federal building in Oklahoma City in 1995, killing 168 people, and of President George W. Bush, who visited a mosque in Washington after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, in a healing gesture intended to blunt rising anti-Muslim reactions. (Later, of course, Bush would cleave the nation by invading Iraq based on a lie about its complicity.)

Trump, by contrast, is the inciter in chief. Just hours after Kirk’s death on Sept. 10, and before a suspect was in custody, he addressed the nation, blaming “radical left political violence.” He has repeated that indictment nearly every day since, though the FBI has reported for years — including during his first term — that domestic right-wing violence is the greater threat. “We have to beat the hell out of them,” Trump told reporters. When even one of his friends on “Fox & Friends” noted radicals are on the right as well, Trump replied: “I couldn’t care less. … The radicals on the left are the problem, and they’re vicious and they’re horrible.”

All of this vituperation and vengeance suggests a big “what if”: What if Trump were more like Charlie Kirk? To ask is not to gloss over Kirk’s controversial utterances against Black Americans, gay and transgender Americans and others, but he did respectfully deal with those who disagreed with him — as he was doing when he was shot.

What if Trump, since 2016, had sincerely tried to broaden his political reach, as presidential nominees and presidents of each party historically did, to embrace his opponents and to compromise with them? What if he governed for all Americans and not just his MAGA voters? He might well have enacted bipartisan laws of the sort that Trump 1.0 promised on immigration, gun safety, infrastructure and more. In general we’d all be better off, less polarized.

And with a more magnanimous approach like that, Trump just might have a better chance at getting into heaven.

Bluesky: @jackiecalmes
Threads: @jkcalmes
X: @jackiekcalmes

‘Do you think I’m going to be cold?” asks my friend Ellie as we navigate the winding roads of Mosedale, on the north-eastern reaches of the Lake District, while rain batters against the windscreen. It’s a fair question. Both the Met Office and Mountain Weather Information Service are clear – being in the Lakeland hills will not be pleasant this Friday night, due to a sudden cold and wet snap. But there’s another reason she’s asking. I’m taking her to stay in her first bothy – that’s a mountain shelter left open, year-round, for walkers, climbers and outdoor enthusiasts to use, free of charge, with no way to book.

Unlike mountain huts in other parts of Europe and the world, they weren’t built for this purpose. They are old buildings left to ruin in wild places – former coastguard lookouts, gamekeepers’ cottages, remote Highland schoolrooms – before the Mountain Bothies Association (MBA) began to maintain them, offering shelter in a storm. And during this particular storm, shelter is definitely needed.

Before we left, Ellie was worried about what to pack, and well she might be. Despite a bothy having four walls, a roof, windows and a front door (they range from tiny, one-room affairs to sprawling, multi-bedroom structures), they are still very basic. There is no running water (there’s usually a stream nearby for this), no toilet (each has a bothy spade so you can dig your own) and no electricity (tealights and a headtorch are a must), and the one we are heading to, Great Lingy Hut, doesn’t even have the usual bothy stove for warmth.

Yet it’s precisely for these reasons that I’ve chosen it to be Ellie’s first. I know that because of the bad weather it’s unlikely we’ll have to share with anyone else. We park at the base of Carrock Fell, where the River Caldew is now a raging torrent. It is past dusk; the rain has eased to a mere mizzle and we can just make out the shape of the building on the skyline. With backpacks shouldered we begin uphill, keeping our eyes open for signs of walkers who may have potentially beaten us to it.

“Visitor numbers have definitely gone up in recent years,” the chair of the MBA, Simon Birch, tells me when I speak to him the night before. “Of course, back in the day they were kept a secret – some old documents I was going through have ‘confidential’ written across them. But people can’t keep secrets like this.”

It was in 2009 that the MBA decided to publish grid references to its 100-strong network on its website – despite some internal protests. After that, the “cat was out of the bag”, says Birch. When the MBA celebrated its 50-year anniversary in 2015, I asked and was granted permission to write the first guidebook about bothies – as a love letter to them, rather than a definitive guide. There was a lot of pushback, though. When The Book of the Bothy was published, I experienced online trolling (from MBA members and others), abusive emails, complaints to my publisher and even threats. But at the same time, one of the MBA’s co-founders, Betty Heath, told me how much she loved my passion; Birch told me that younger members began to sign up (when there was a real danger of membership ageing out); and now there is even a female thirtysomething trustee.

Out of the 105 bothies they currently look after, only two are owned by the MBA. All the others are on leases. “Ultimately, we could lose all our bothies, if the owners decided to take them back,” says Birch – which proves just how special the network and ethos of bothies is.

The hut we head to in the Lakes was originally used by miners at the nearby and now disused Carrock Mine (which dates back to the 16th century). It was relocated to its higher location on the moor as a shooting box. During the 1960s it was leased to the “Friends” Quaker boarding school in Wigton as an outdoor base and was fitted with a sleeping platform. When that school closed in 1984, it became an open shelter, and eventually the Lake District national park took responsibility for its maintenance before handing it over to the MBA in 2017.

We pass the mine workings under a starry sky, so they appear only as silhouettes. We ford the stream with the help of walking poles and mutual words of encouragement. Finally, we reach the door and experience the anticipatory few seconds that anyone who’s ever stayed in a bothy will know – when after hours of walking you knock on the door with mild trepidation, to discover if anyone else has beaten you to it. The door swings open. It’s empty. We have it to ourselves.

“The biggest change has been the impact that the growing popularity of long-distance trails has had on the bothies,” Simon tells me. “Some of the spots are incredibly well used, and we now have a sanitation officer in the MBA.”

I give Ellie a brief rundown of bothy etiquette. Put candles and the camping stove in the designated area so as not to cause a fire risk. Use the spade for the toilet – well away from the building and any watercourses. Set up a bag for waste. As a countryside girl, she has a good idea of the code – but Birch says a problem the MBA is facing in its 60th year is that content creators are showing people the bothies on social media but not teaching good practice. As such, in a very modern move, the MBA is seeking creators to collaborate with it, to demonstrate responsible bothying.

We settle in, heating a pre-made tagine and making hot chocolates to keep us warm. I also fill hot-water bottles. We chat for hours, me regaling Ellie with stories of previous bothy visits – including the time I inadvertently crashed a stag party in Scotland.

The wind whistles through the cables that hold Great Lingy Hut down, but despite this, as mothers of young children, we both sleep well away from the madness of our day-to-day lives.

Recent figures put the MBA membership at 3,800 – with many more users who don’t pay the annual £25 donation to join. We’re staying at one of the newer buildings in the network, but Birch tells me there are no plans to take on any more.

We enjoy our breakfast beside the window, where a lifting fog offers tantalising views down this little-visited valley.

As we leave, I feel hopeful for the next 60 years of bothies in Britain. We pack not only our own rubbish but empty packets and used candle holders left by others. “I love it,” says Ellie, “leaving it better than we arrived.” She may have begun this adventure worried about feeling cold but, thanks to the magic of bothies, is leaving as many do, warmed by the whole wild and wonderful experience.

For more information visit the Mountain Bothies Association. The Book of the Bothy by Phoebe Smith is available for £12.95 from guardianbookshop.com

Shell Island, on the coast of Gwynedd in Wales, dates back to the Domesday Book of 1086 and has been a popular campsite for more than 60 years

Despite its name, Shell Island is not an island but a peninsula near the village of Llanbed in Wales. Its main route is cut off at high tide on certain days each month, giving it an island feel.

The land where Shell Island campsite now stands has a rich history, dating back to the Domesday Book of 1086. The site’s historical significance doesn’t end there, with tales of King Charles I reportedly hiding at the nearby Elizabethan mansion, Cors Y Gedol Hall, in the 1640s before attempting to flee to France, possibly departing from Shell Island’s shores through a secret tunnel.

Interestingly, the area wasn’t even a peninsula until the 19th Century when the Earl of Winchilsea diverted the Afon Artro in 1819 to improve access to the wharf at Pensarn, which was the shipment point for slate from Llanfair and Llanbedr.

Before this, the Artro entered the sea to the south of Shell Island, or Mochras as it’s known in Welsh. The English name, Shell Island, comes from the abundance and variety of seashells found on its beaches. These beaches began attracting visitors in the second half of the 19th Century.

The Cambrian Coast Line, constructed between 1855 and 1869, opened up the seaside to the new industrial workers, driving the development of the area.

In 1958, the Workman family arrived and began to shape the site into what it is today. They purchased 450 acres of land and established what is now one of Europe’s largest campsites.

Over time, Shell Island’s historic structures have been carefully repurposed. The restaurant, snack bar, and tavern, developed between 1976 and 1977, were once a hay barn, stables, and a cow shed, respectively.

Even the toilet block has an interesting history, having served as a homing station for the RAF Station at Llanbedr during wartime.

For many families, a visit to this place has become an annual tradition, with each year introducing a new generation to its allure. Those who fall in love with the place can’t help but sing its praises, as evidenced by the five-star reviews on Tripadvisor.

One recent review dubbed it “beach heaven” and described the surroundings – with Eryri as a backdrop – as a true “feast for the eyes”.

They added: “A simply wonderful, divine place. “Another camper said: What an experience to set up camp in this expansive site right on the sand dunes! Spectacular views, lots of space and the beach right there!”

Another praised it as: “Wales at its beautiful best” but was hesitant about spreading the word, adding: “I would thoroughly recommend but don’t tell everyone as I want to go back!

However, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, with some visitors expressing dissatisfaction over large groups.

One disgruntled camper wrote: “Massive groups of loud, not very nice people. The site has really gone down hill since Covid, they say they don’t let groups on but people just book separately and meet up when they arrive. There are far better camp sites out there.”

Another complained: “Considering they say there are 400+ acres it seemed very crowded, if you want a sea view you’re going to be within touching distance of your neighbour.

“Definitely not a quite relaxing holiday, more like a festival field, we were booked in for three nights but left after 1, the views are beautiful but it’s spoilt by it being overcrowded and some of the people there are maybe not to everyone’s taste shall we say.”

However these complaints are certainly in the minority – with around 750 of just over 1,000 reviews rating it good or excellent, and it’s easy to see why.

The Workman family said: “Whether you’re planning a day visit or an extended stay, Shell Island promises a personal slice of paradise for every visitor.

That year, the world seemed cursed. Naira was crashing against the dollar, and the price of a 50 kg bag of rice was nearing ₦50,000. Politicians, crisscrossing the country ahead of the general elections, offered no real answers to kidnappings, terrorist killings, and gunmen violence.

At Christ High Commission, a church in Ekiti, South West Nigeria, preparations for what many believed would be the rapture intensified. A pastor declared the end of the world, and members began to arrive from Kaduna, Kabba, Benin, and across the country. 

“We saw it in the time of Noah,” said Badakin, a member of the church who went with his entire family.

Now, over three years later, many followers are still camping with the pastor as the date for the rapture keeps changing. An expert is now warning that the exercise could end tragically for all involved, as the pastor’s actions are consistent with those who usually eventually end up committing suicide or mass murder, as we have seen happen in similar cases across the continent.

For this group, the rapture was not a metaphor. The church, to them, was literally a high commission, a gateway to heaven. The pastor, Ade Abraham, was consumed with the idea. In Kabba, where he first founded his church, he carefully prepared members.

“He taught us how to be worthy, the things the Bible teaches about sin – how to be holy in career, marriage, and worship,” said Dare Ikuenayo, who served as the church’s choir master. 

As members arrived in Ekiti, they camped in a gated compound in Araromi Ugbesi, a village in Ekiti East Local Government Area. The property, once a Cherubim and Seraphim Church, housed a residential apartment where Pastor Abraham lived, an auditorium that served as the church hall, and a modest hostel that accommodated communal dining and meetings.

There, at least 40 people, including workers who left their jobs, students who abandoned school, and a corps member who fled service, lived in daily anticipation of the rapture.

“His [Pastor Abraham’s] own son, who had just spent one month at NYSC, was withdrawn to come and wait,” said Badakin, referring to the compulsory National Youth Service for Nigerian graduates.

“His second son, who was in 300 level in FUTA, also came down…My daughter in Federal University of Agriculture, Makurdi, just finished her second semester examination in the second year,” Badakin continued. “On the second day, we all converged in Omuo … before Kaduna people came to meet us there.”

A prophet’s unravelling 

Pastor Abraham had only finished primary school when a relative took him from Omuo-Ekiti, his hometown, to Kaduna. He lived there for many years, learned welding and married Mary, the woman who would later follow him to Kabba, a town in Kogi State, North Central Nigeria. In Kabba, he began as a farmer, then moved into selling electrical appliances. Eventually, he founded a church.

He built the church alone, said some Kabba residents who spoke with the Nigerian online newspaper ICIR in April 2022. “He can start any house from the scratch, roof it, put the electrical appliances and do the plumbing without any assistance.”

Although it is unclear if he went beyond primary school, Pastor Abraham conducted his services in English. For members who struggled with the language, he used an interpreter.

He was “too smart,” said one Kabba resident to ICIR. To his wife, Pastor Abraham was a caring man, the kind of “man every woman will love to have as a husband.” To the congregation, he was a strict and disciplined pastor. On Sundays, he locked the door at 8:00 a.m., so that no one could come in once the service had begun. 

“His ministry was different from other pastors,” Dare told me on the phone. “I went to his church because I believed what he believed. I believed Jesus, righteousness, holiness.”

Pastor Abraham would later establish a branch in Kaduna, where he appointed Badakin as pastor.

“Mostly, the teaching in Kabba was about the rapture and the preparation,” said Badakin.

“I saw Christ live, and I held Him live, and I felt Him live.”

A botched rapture 

At the camp, preparations went beyond prayers. Pastor Abraham assigned members the roles they would play in the Kingdom of Heaven. 

“I was selected among those who would coordinate work,” Anike, the pastor’s older sister and ex-church member, told me. “They said I wouldn’t work but would be paid. They said my office would be to the left.”

Villagers narrated how Pastor Abraham drove to the market several times and loaded his vehicle with tomatoes and other foodstuffs. Campers would cross the road to gather firewood, which they used to cook behind the hostel. In a video recorded at the camp in 2022, large cooking pots blackened from repeated use could be seen.

“You could not go out to buy food,” said Badakin.

Everyone bore the pastor’s surname, residents told me in the village. “If you asked, one might say, ‘My name is Joke Abraham.’ “

The day of the rapture, however, kept changing.

“He [Pastor Abraham] said whenever we heard the humming of a big vehicle in the middle of the night, we should hold any child we wanted to take along, climb onto the vehicle, and we would find ourselves in the Kingdom of Heaven,” said Anike.

“He once told us we were going the following week. But when the week arrived, he shifted it, saying some [of the campers] had done things Baba frowned at.” 

And Pastor Abraham is not the kind to joke with sin. 

“He almost flogged some, even those who were older than him,” Anike continued.

By April 2022, concern had started to grow outside the camp. A man whose sister and two children were inside began reaching out to journalists for help. His sister had taken the children to the camp without their father’s consent and had even sent a WhatsApp message to her son abroad, urging him to return home in time for the rapture.

When the Foundation for Investigative Journalism (FIJ) spoke with one of the campers, she said, “We are not coming back.” 

The member, who sought anonymity, had pulled out of school to join the team. “… it’s hard to accept that I won’t attend school anymore and rapture is coming soon,” she said.

As one of the many chosen days neared, members of the group began to sell their belongings. The pastor himself, according to Anike, sold his three cars. 

Media reports would, however, bring the entire journey to a halt. It rattled Pastor Abraham. Some people believed his intention was to fleece his followers; others thought his followers were simply stupid. The police arraigned him over the ₦310,000 he had asked each member to pay into his account before coming to camp. The pastor would later describe the payment to journalists as “a sacrifice,” while Anike told me it was meant to grant them a pass at the gate of heaven.

The dark side of faith 

Faith that refuses to listen or acknowledge other people’s views could be interpreted as delusion, Chioma Onyemaobi, a clinical psychologist, told me.

Suicide bombers belong here, and charismatic preachers divorced from reality: Maitatsine. Jim Jones. Credonia Mwerinde and Joseph Kibweteere, who in 2000 orchestrated a similar camping that ended in mass death.

Pastor Abraham shares many similarities with Joseph Kibweteere. Like him, he preached an apocalyptic end, when only members gathered at a spot would be saved. Like him, he set multiple dates for the end of the world, each passing without event. And like Kibweteere, his transformation didn’t fully take shape until he encountered Anabel, his choirmaster’s wife, after which his visions became more urgent.

Anabel’s careless prophecies eventually “scattered” the Kabba church, Badakin revealed.

The making of “God”

The man who arrived in Araromi Ugbesi in August 2021 was no longer the one who had founded a modest church in Kabba. He had seen death, the death of a member’s son right inside his church. 

The man who arrived in Araromi could lie. He had taken a church member’s wife and sent his own away. He had demolished the church he built alone, abandoned his home, and fled his base. 

Above all, the man who arrived in Araromi was no longer a man. He believed himself “God”.

In Kabba, Pastor Abraham had told his followers he was the leader of the end-time revival. But in Araromi, he wasn’t just a messenger anymore. He spoke of a Kingdom of Heaven where he would be king. 

The pastor was born Prince Adelegan Fasiku, and was the fifth and last child of a wife of Oba Abraham Fasiku, then Olomuo, ruler of Omuo-Ekiti Kingdom.

“He [Pastor Abraham] said, ‘Those of you still calling Jesus, Jesus has finished his own work,’ ” Anike told me in her late husband’s house in Araromi.

She spoke not with the affection with which one speaks of a younger brother, the one to whom you passed your mother’s breasts. Rather, she spoke with the tone of one who has been betrayed: “The bond of siblinghood is broken between us.”

“He said he saw the heart, and I made sure my heart was one with him,” said Anike.

“When he arrived, he told me never to call him Ade, so I called him ‘Father.’ “

In the Araromi church, no one mentioned the name of God, Anike told me. “Instead, we called ‘Baba’. He said he was Baba and his wife was Oluaye.”

“The moment we entered the church, they would lock the door behind us.”

“There were three red seats (arms made of iron) in front, where no one was allowed to sit. You must bend over while walking past them. He said they belonged to the elders.”

Recounting his encounter with Pastor Abraham, Rev. Taiwo Adewunmi, the immediate past chairman of the Christian Association of Nigeria in the LGA, told me in his office: “He never mentioned Jesus. He would say, ‘Baba.’”

“That was when we began to see that things were going wrong,” said Badakin. “The name of Jesus was no longer mentioned.”

He also used a different Bible from the standard one. Perhaps most surprising, however, was how easily his members, the same people he had once groomed in scripture and trained to be Christians, embraced his new doctrines.

When he became involved with Anabel, his choirmaster’s wife, under unclear circumstances, some of his members revolted. But when he was chased out of Kabba for refusing to let go of her, some members left with him.

“Some are still with him,” Dare, Annabel’s husband, told me. “The moment you believe someone, you believe them.”

Disappointed, however, some ex-members of Christ High Commission in Kabba no longer go to church, according to Dare.

After a botched rapture 

More than three years after the botched rapture, many are still camping with Pastor Abraham in Ekiti, including Anike’s daughter and her husband, whom the pastor had brought from Benin. 

Badakin’s three children are still camping with Pastor Abraham. One was a medical sales representative, who arrived at the camp in his official car.

“We’ve been to so many places to see what we can do, but at the end of the day, we’re still waiting for the court,” said Badakin, who believes it was God who got him out.

While a case is in court and the group has been driven from their original location, they’ve found shelter nearby. I visited their new camp, a modest bungalow owned by one of Pastor Abraham’s relatives in Kota, a neighbouring town to Araromi. His son told me the person who could have spoken with me was attending a meeting, and his father was too busy to entertain yet another journalist.

“There is something called delusional narcissism,” Chioma, the psychologist, told me. “People with narcissistic personality disorder can be delusional in the sense that they perceive the world differently (fantasy world). So now he [Pastor Abraham] is dragging people into this fantasy, or rather, the delusion he has created, and from the story, it doesn’t look like he is letting go.”

Disaster looming 

On March 17, 2000, after multiple failed apocalyptic prophecies, Joseph Kibweteere and other leaders of the Movement for the Restoration of the Ten Commandments of God gathered their followers for a party in Kanungu, a town in the Western Region of Uganda. They had purchased 50 litres of sulphuric acid. Shortly after the members arrived, a massive explosion rocked the compound, killing all 530 people in what has been described as mass murder or suicide.

Anike believes their own rapture might have ended the same way. 

“I’m only grateful we did not take off on the chosen day,” she told me. “Who knows whether we would have been set ablaze?”

But danger still lurks. 

People suffering from narcissistic personality disorder or delusions have the tendency to commit suicide, said Chioma.

And in November 2023, when Pastor Abraham resurfaced in the press, he appeared to hint at it: “The prophecy is that I have concluded my job and I am on my way to the one that sent me.”

“I hope he isn’t too delusional to commit mass murder,” said Chioma. “But then, persons with narcissistic personality disorder or delusions have the tendency to commit suicide. If things like depression, despair, challenges, and failure are in the picture, then we have to be worried because suicidal thoughts are not far away.”

Rev. Taiwo believes anyone who’s not registered with the Corporate Affairs Commission or any of the recognised religious associations in the country should not be allowed to own a church.

When asked, Badakin said Christ High Commission was never registered. Pastor Abraham had moved from the Living Faith Church, also known as Winners’ Chapel, to the Church of God of Prophecy, where he headed a branch, Badakin revealed. It was when a crisis divided the branch that he went with some members to start his own.

A news report may have saved most of the 40 members of Christ High Commission from a disastrous end, but the fate of the few still camping is uncertain.

Tehran, Iran – The highways leading into Tehran are busy again, filled with cars carrying families, suitcases, and the cautious hope that home might finally be safe. After 12 days of war that killed more than 600 Iranians and displaced hundreds of thousands from the capital, a ceasefire announced on Monday has begun drawing residents back to a city still scarred by Israeli air strikes.

For many returning to Tehran, the relief of sleeping in their own beds is tempered by the constant fear that the bombing could resume at any moment.

“Coming back home after all these days, even from a place where you had physical safety, feels like heaven,” said Nika, a 33-year-old graphic designer who spent nearly two weeks sheltering with her husband at their relatives’ home in Zanjan, some 286 kilometres (177 miles) northwest of the capital. “But I don’t know if the ceasefire will last or not,” she said.

The conflict that upended millions of lives began at dawn on June 13, when Israeli warplanes launched what Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu called a preemptive strike against Iran’s nuclear facilities. What followed was an unprecedented exchange of fire between the two regional powers that brought direct warfare to the heart of Tehran for the first time in decades.

As Israeli attacks on residential areas intensified and warnings from American and Israeli officials to evacuate Tehran grew louder, many residents, fearing for their lives, were forced to flee the capital for the relative safety of other cities and villages.

For many of Tehran’s inhabitants, abandoning their lives was a soul-crushing decision.

“I had an incredibly busy life before the war,” said Saba, a 26-year-old university student. “I lived in Tehran, had a full-time job, was studying, and since I lived alone, I managed all my household chores. When the war started, for a few days, I couldn’t believe this routine was coming to a halt. I still went to work, went out for shopping or to a cafe. But at some point, you couldn’t deny reality anymore. Life was stopping.”

By the fifth day, the war forced her to leave.

“First, my university exams were postponed, then my workplace told us to work remotely, and one by one, all my friends left Tehran. I felt a terrible loneliness,” she recalled. “I kept myself busy during the day, but at night, when the sounds of bombing and air defences began, I couldn’t fool myself any longer.”

Unable to secure a car, her father drove from her hometown of Quchan, a city near Mashhad in northeastern Iran, to bring her to the family’s house, where she stayed until the ceasefire.

‘The nights were unbearable’

According to the Iranian Ministry of Health and Medical Education, at least 610 people were killed and 1,481 wounded during the conflict, with more than 90 percent of the casualties being civilians.

“Initially, I had decided to stay in Tehran and keep the company running,” said Kamran, a businessman and CEO of a private firm in the capital, who requested anonymity due to security concerns. “There was bombing and the sound of air defence, but life was manageable during the day. The nights, however, were truly unbearable,” said the father of two.

Many fled the city in the very first days of the war. At that time, two major obstacles plagued their departure: long queues at petrol stations made it difficult to secure enough fuel for the journey, and the main exit routes from the city were choked with heavy traffic from the sheer volume of cars trying to get out.

Now, since the ceasefire was declared, many who had abandoned Tehran have begun to make their way back.

“After 11 days of living in a place where there was no sign of war, but wasn’t home – no privacy, no peace of mind – coming back to my own house felt like heaven,” explained Nika.

“After years of being accustomed to the silence of my own home, enduring life with 11 other people in an environment that was never quiet was incredibly difficult,” she said. She returned to her two-bedroom flat in Tehran as soon as the ceasefire was declared.

“I don’t know if the ceasefire will last or not,” Nika admitted. “But even if it doesn’t, I don’t think I want to leave my home again.”

Uncertain future

Not everyone was lucky enough to return to an intact home.

Keyvan Saket, a renowned Iranian musician, had learned of his home being hit by an Israeli missile while sheltering with his family in a nearby town. Yet, his neighbour’s call delivering the grim news did not keep him from rushing back after the ceasefire was declared.

According to Saket, one of the bombs fired at his residence failed to detonate, a stroke of fortune that spared further destruction. But it barred him and his family from entering their home due to safety concerns. “Once the issue was resolved and we were allowed inside, we faced an unsettling scene,” he said. “The doors and windows were shattered, the building’s facade was obliterated, and household appliances like the washing machine and refrigerator were severely damaged. The attack was so intense that even the iron doors of the building were mangled.”

Saket’s voice carried a deep sorrow as he reflected on the toll of the conflict. “With every fibre of my being, I despise war and those who ignite it,” he said, lamenting the loss of a home he cherished. “War is the ugliest of human creations.”

Since the ceasefire took effect, both sides have accused each other of violations, and fear of renewed violence has been high. Iran has reported continued Israeli attacks for several hours after the agreement, while Israel claims to have intercepted Iranian missiles post-ceasefire. In the immediate aftermath of the ceasefire announcement, strikes continued on both sides, with Israeli forces hitting targets in Tehran, including the notorious Evin Prison, and Iranian missiles striking areas in Israel.

Hamed, a political science student, believes the situation is precarious. “This feels like a recurring nightmare to me,” he said. He had returned from the southeastern Iranian city of Kerman, where he was displaced to, on the day the ceasefire was announced, but was worried he might have to abandon his home and life all over again. “I really don’t want to have to pack my things and leave my home without knowing when, or if, I can come back.”

Despite this underlying anxiety, the streets of Tehran are visibly busier than before the ceasefire. As companies end their remote work policies and recall employees, there is evidence of a cautious, determined return to life in the capital.

Infrastructure damage across Tehran was significant, with attacks striking multiple provinces, including Alborz, East Azerbaijan, Isfahan, Fars, Kermanshah, and the capital itself. The Israeli military claimed to have struck more than 100 targets across Iran during the 12-day conflict.

In the early mornings, the hum of traffic weaves through Tehran’s wide boulevards once more. “Seeing others return to the city alongside me, watching cafes and restaurants reopen, and feeling life flow back into the streets – it truly lifts my heart,” said Saba, her eyes bright with cautious optimism. Yet, as the city stirs back to life, the shadow of an uncertain ceasefire looms, a quiet reminder that this fragile revival could be tested at any moment.

This piece was published in collaboration with Egab.