There’s a certain rhythm to returning to something you haven’t done in a while – a blend of nerves and muscle memory. For this project I found myself in North Wales, undertaking a task I’ve done many times before: core logging. For the first time in a while though, it’s my full-time focus for the contract. Solely logging core. No Teams meetings, no spreadsheets pretending to be science—just cold, hard rock and questionable instant coffee.
I showed up on day one with the usual mix of confidence and quiet anxiety. But I put on my best “I’m definitely qualified” face and dove in. Turns out, I still know what I’m doing. In fact, I’m annoyingly efficient…if perhaps overly confident. Before long I’d remembered that I actually enjoy this.
The drilling pace, meanwhile, was… relaxed. Let’s call it “serene.” Which meant a lot of time hanging about, waiting for fresh core. I filled the gaps with conversation—mostly with a group of young, wide-eyed engineers who still have hope in their eyes—and the drillers, who are basically geological pirates: rough, loud, slightly inappropriate, but strangely endearing. Within days, we’d bonded over mud, sarcasm, and an unspoken agreement that no one would agree they were actually having an enjoyable time at work.
Home for the project was, as always, my trusty campervan. I’d parked up at a farm campsite that was… let’s say, unique. Quiet and scenic, which I liked. The owners? A bit rough around the edges, but kind-hearted. The kind of place where you’re not quite sure if the shower’s going to work, but they’ll offer you a cup of tea while you wait for the plumber. It’s all part of the charm.
Daily cuisine was dominated by the local Co-op, where I discovered a meal deal masterpiece: Costa coffee and four eggs (two in a tub and two in a sandwich). It’s the little wins that carry you through the day.
Once a week, I’d treat myself to civilisation by driving into Wrexham. A Nando’s and the cinema became my little ritual. It was during one of these evenings that I made a horrifying discovery—I’ve become emotionally invested in Wrexham FC. I don’t like watching football. I wasn’t a Ryan Reynolds fan. And yet, here I am, binging a Netflix docuseries, checking Wrexham scores, and reconsidering Green Lantern.
Navigating Wales’ new 20mph speed limit, meanwhile, has been character-building. Nothing says “rural road rage” like crawling behind a tractor that’s technically breaking the law. By going 21.
Geologically, the site’s been a treat—mostly limestone, with the occasional mudstone cameo and a crust of stubborn boulder clay. Every now and then, I’d spot some lead mineralisation that made me do a little geologist happy dance (internally, of course—I’m still professional). The scenery here is magnificent in that uniquely Welsh way: staggeringly beautiful but also mildly threatening, like it might rain a sheep on you at any moment.
The client’s been brilliant—chill, smart, and refreshingly free of jargon. The only real drama came, predictably, from land access. But in a twist no one saw coming, it wasn’t the landowners causing trouble—it was the land agents, who seem to have mistaken “facilitate access” for “cause chaos and send long passive-aggressive emails.”
Still, we made it to the end. Just as the project fatigue was beginning to dull the sparkle in everyone’s eyes, we wrapped up. The finish was marked with enough handshakes, back-patting, and exaggerated declarations of teamwork to make a Hollywood sports movie blush. All well deserved, I’m sure.
This job reminded me exactly why I chose this path—being a Nomadic Geologist. The people. The unpredictable beauty of rural Britain. The unexpected fondness for egg sandwiches and obscure football clubs. The quiet joy of falling asleep in a van parked in the middle of nowhere, knowing that tomorrow you’ll wake up and do it all again.
Until the next rock face.
– The Nomadic Geologist
The Nomadic Geologist 