Aimee and I had just ticked France, Italy, Spain, Turkey and Hungary off our Europe to-do list. Now, reunited with our high school best friend and UK newcomer, Anna, we were ready to get out of London. Where does one go, when you are broke and lacking direction? A mate’s caravan on a tiny island in Scotland, of course!

A 10 hour Megabus trip, two train rides and an hour-long ferry ride later, we reached the Isle of Arran. We were back in a familiar place, reunited with our beloved slang-talking friends. Despite having no money and enduring cramped circumstances (many humans, one caravan), we happily spent the next two weeks enjoying the sunshine, puffing away on cigarettes and occasionally applying for jobs.

Before long, we secured work in Fowey, Cornwall. It seemed too good to be true when we were accepted as a package deal. We were to work in two restaurants – a fine-dining, waterfront establishment and a more casual, airy pizzeria. There was an ice-cream shop wedged between the two, serving a variety of delicious flavours. Full of excitement and ready for a new adventure, we packed up our lives and boarded another Megabus – this time, Southbound.

We were loud, rambunctious and bubbly on arrival. The manager (who became a wonderful friend) looked regretful, surely doubting their decision to hire us. We were shown around the restaurants and introduced to our crappy abode. It was a rundown flat, with a shared kitchen and private rooms belonging to staff members. Stark with few furnishings, we were gifted mattresses on the floor to sleep on. We happily set down our backpacks and made this hell-hole home.

Thinking back, Anna must have been fucking mortified. We all should have been!

Fowey was gorgeous in every sense of the word – beautiful scenery, cold beaches and warm weather. A tiny fishing village with annual regatta (sailing) festivities, it was a tourism hot-spot and beloved holiday destination. The restaurants were already in full-swing as we hastened to find our feet. We forged fast friendships with our colleagues, worked split-shifts day in and day out, and spent ample time at the nearby pub after hours. It wasn’t long before we met our boss, the owner – M. B.

The man, the myth, the legend… or maybe just a whirlwind in a pink vest. He was abrupt, rude and neurotic. “Girl, hoover the pavement!” he’d bark, like it was the most normal request in the world. He sleuthed around the restaurants, white wine spritzer in hand, demanding the ridiculous and never bothering to learn our names. He paid us via cheque fortnightly, which we would race to the bank to deposit in fear of it bouncing. And let’s not forget his reputation! The girls and I would pop into the newsagent only to find his name plastered over the local newspapers. Headlines read: “EXPLOSION RISK – local restaurant”.

The owner was a total nutter, but honestly, we loved Fowey and our motley crew of colleagues. We were oblivious to the risk, so we stuck out the season with very little concern. Sure, we saw the random gas bottles strewn about. In fact, we had to bypass them to change the kegs. We knew M. B was a dodgy rich man who underpaid his staff. We were privy to the rumours and gossip. But it wasn’t until the end of the season that things really kicked into high gear.

Eventually, M. B had his licences revoked due to posing a serious fire and explosion risk. Those gas cylinders we routinely dodged were being incorrectly connected to the cooking appliances. To top it off, it came to light that he had been “borrowing” gas for two whole decades. I recall fire extinguisher training previously being enforced due to local concern. On another occasion, I remember one of the Polish chefs haphazardly letting one off during an aggressive drunken rampage.

It wasn’t until November when we heard the news:

“Fowey restaurateur has been jailed for stealing more than £150,000 of gas over a period of 20 years…”

Holy fuck.

As young women, we were the essence of “go with the flow” – turning even the most dire or questionable situations into a good time. We were wild and free in the best way possible, blissfully unaware of the chaos bubbling around us. Even when it was screaming at us from the front page of Newspapers.

I’m just glad we made it through the season without any explosions – it certainly makes for a good story!