My name is Alan Dunwiddie, and my life has been a long crossing between countries, storms, and the quiet work of rebuilding a man from the inside out.
I have lived through years that aged me quickly — not through tragedy, but through the slow erosion that comes from carrying more than one man should. Denmark was where I built a life, raised children, and learned what it means to endure without applause. I fought the kind of battles that don’t make headlines: courts, bureaucracy, obligations, the quiet collapse of a relationship that bent but never broke until it took pieces of me with it.
A man can survive these things, but he is never unchanged.
When the time came, I didn’t rage. I simply walked away.
June 2025 — I left Denmark like a ship leaving a harbour that had silted up around it. Not in anger, but with the calm certainty that the man I had become could not stay in the life he once built.
Ireland is where I anchor now.
A wind-beaten coast. A small town. Long walks above the tide line. The kind of quiet that lets a man hear himself again. I spend hours on beaches with a metal detector, and amongst the modern junk and Euros, occasionally unearth coins lost by men who lived and died centuries before me. They remind me that nothing built by human hands lasts forever — governments, systems, illusions of permanence. Only the man who keeps moving endures.
I am not finished moving.
There are parts of the world where a man is still welcomed for his steadiness, not judged for it. Places where independence isn’t treated as a problem to be solved. Places that still understand the old contract between strength and respect. Africa calls to me. Parts of Asia too. Warm light. Open roads. A chance to live without shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations.
This website is not a brand. It is a logbook.
A place to set down the truth of a life that has burned, rebuilt, and begun again more than once. A place to honour the quiet miles behind me and the long horizon ahead.
If my life has a single thread, it is this:
A man survives by knowing when to stay,
when to leave,
and when to walk into the unknown with no certainty but his own resolve.
I am still travelling.
Still searching.
Still listening for the next shore.
And I will know it when I reach it.