As someone who wheels through towns, museums, cafés and festivals, I have learned that the little details often make the biggest difference. A smooth ramp, a low counter, a staff member who greets you with a genuine smile and these are the moments that turn a visit from merely tolerable to truly welcoming.

Yet when we look at most booking sites we are met with rows of stars, a tidy numeric shorthand that promises to tell us everything we need to know. In my experience, those stars are useful for a quick glance, but they rarely reveal whether a venue has thought about the full range of needs that a wheelchair user, a person with a visual impairment or a parent with a stroller might have.

When I first heard the phrase “living with a disability” I imagined a suitcase packed with medical charts, a timetable of appointments and a steady stream of adaptations that I, as an individual, had to manage. The wording feels like a quiet admission that the condition belongs to me, that the obstacle sits inside my body and that I must learn to cope with it.

Contrast that with “living with disability”. Suddenly the focus shifts from the person to the world around them. The sentence hints that the difficulty is not solely my fault, that the streets, the services, the attitudes and the policies all play a part in shaping the experience. It is a subtle but powerful change of perspective, one that mirrors the long‑standing debate between the medical model and the social model of disability.

Every year a fresh gadget arrives on the market with a headline that reads something like “the future is now”. Touch screens, voice assistants, biometric scanners – all of them are sold as answers to the problem of friction. The idea is appealing: a single surface that can do everything, a single voice that can command everything, a single card that can pay everywhere. In theory the world becomes smoother, faster, more elegant.

But the reality is that most of these inventions are created without a seat at the table for people who experience the world differently. When a design team assumes that every user can see a bright icon, tap a tiny button and speak a clear command, they are building a wall as much as a bridge. The wall is invisible to those who do not need to climb over it, but it is solid and unyielding for the rest of us.

Hello and welcome to episode thirty‑four of Blindly Wheeling. I’m delighted you’re tuning in because today I’m sharing something a little different – the complete audio version of my latest book Access all events – Accessible gathering in practice.

You may have already spotted the book on my website, heard the teaser on social media, or perhaps you’re one of the many readers who have asked when the audio edition will be available. I decided to record the whole work and release it here so that anyone who prefers to listen can experience the ideas, the stories and the practical tips in the same way they would by turning the pages.

In this recording you’ll hear the same chapters that will appear in the printed book, from the opening reflections on why inclusive events matter, through the step‑by‑step guide to planning a gathering that welcomes every body, to the real world case studies that show how a community centre, a music festival and a local market transformed their spaces when they put accessibility at the heart of the plan.

So settle in, adjust your headphones, and let’s embark on a journey through accessible event design together. I hope you find inspiration, practical ideas and a few smiles along the way. Enjoy! If you enjoy my work and want to support my writing and podcasting you can buy me a coffee over on "Buy me Coffee" - https://buymeacoffee.com/blindlywheeling

Today I want to share a little journey that taught me how a town that thinks about access can feel like a warm invitation rather than a series of obstacles. The place I’m talking about is Oban, the little jewel on Scotland’s west coast, where the sea meets the hills and the rhythm of daily life is set by the tide, the train and the chatter of the harbour.

My adventure began on a crisp morning when I arrived by the single track railway that winds its way across the hills and moors. The line snakes through wild, remote hills, crosses bubbling streams and skirts the shoulders of mountains that rise like ancient guardians. From the carriage window I watched the landscape unfold in a series of breathtaking vistas.

Welcome, listeners. It’s a pleasure to have you with me today as we wander through time and terrain. Picture yourself stepping through a massive oak door, the scent of ancient stone mingling with fresh meadow air, and finding a place where you can simply sit on the green, gaze over rolling hills and let the stories of centuries drift around you. That is the feeling I want to explore, the surprising truth that some medieval castles, built for cannons and carts, can feel more welcoming than many polished Victorian mansions.

Thanks for listening,

Paul P.S. If you enjoy my work and want to support my writing and podcasting you can buy me a coffee over on "Buy me Coffee" - https://buymeacoffee.com/blindlywheeling

If you’ve ever watched a film about a road‑trip, you’ll recognise the montage of maps, fuel stops and scenic vistas. For most of us those moments are simply a backdrop to the real goal, the beach, the concert, the cosy B&B. For many wheelchair users, however, the journey can be the main plot.

Podcast 30 – Why Accessible Design Doesn’t Have to Be Boring, Grey and Grumpy

Hello and welcome to episode 30 of the Blindly Wheeling podcast.

Now, I don’t know who first decided that “accessible design” meant painting everything hospital beige, sticking up a few plastic grab rails, and hoping nobody complained … but whoever they were, I’d quite like a word.

Because here’s the truth: accessibility doesn’t have to be bland, grey, or grumpy. Done well, it can be stylish, joyful, and even Instagram-worthy. And the best bit? It’s better for everyone, not just disabled people.

So let’s roll into this properly; powerchairs and all.