Writer and Wellness Expert, Eleanor Hoath, reveals what it’s like to cross borders for a first date

In a world where dating apps stretch love stories across continents, I never thought I’d be the kind of girl to board a plane for a first date. Yet, there I was, standing at Heathrow Airport, clutching a boarding pass that had landed in my inbox just 12 hours earlier, asking myself, “Am I completely bonkers?” Spoiler: yes. But I did it anyway – for the plot.

Three weeks before, I’d matched with a guy online, he was in London for work at the time so his location was set to the city. We messaged on and off, nothing too intense, until one evening, when my friends cancelled our weekend together and a half-joking conversation turned into him offering to fly me over to where he lived, Dublin. “I’ll use points,” he said, sensing my hesitation. Somehow, knowing it wasn’t his hard-earned cash made it feel less transactional, more playful. Still, a flight? For a first date? The reasonable side of me shouted no, but the little adventurer inside whispered, “Why not?” I’d been journaling about wanting to embrace spontaneity in my twenties, and this felt like the universe’s nudge.

Cue “Operation Is She OK” – the aptly named WhatsApp group I created for my closest friends. I dropped the bombshell and was met with a mix of “are you insane?” and “we’re absolutely living for this.” But slowly, their messages turned into full-on persuasion. “You’ve GOT to go,” they insisted. “It’s so unlike you – and that’s exactly why you should do it.” It became a collective rally cry, as if my leap into the unknown was also theirs. Location shared and they’re tracking, checking and chatting about my location from the moment I stepped onto the plane. My childhood friend and her boyfriend, who I met for drinks the night before, declared me utterly bonkers but fully supported my mission. “He could kill you” from her and “or you could marry him” from him. It was so out of character for me, the cautious,  planner that’s rarely spontaneous – but that just made it all the more thrilling.

The next morning, I landed in Dublin, equal parts giddy and terrified. But when I walked through arrivals? I panicked – maybe he’d changed his mind, maybe this was all a terrible idea. I took myself straight to my hotel, closed the door, and had a long, hard chat with my reflection in the mirror. Very Bridget Jones-esque, except with fewer big knickers and more “what am I doing?!” pep talks. Eventually, I messaged him to say I’d arrived and we arranged to meet.

When I arrived at the café, there he was – even taller in person, all 6’8” of him towering above the crowd. I made a mental note to let “Operation Is She Ok” know about the height since it appears to have become an in-joke amongst friends surrounding my type. Tall guys seem to be my thing.

“Let’s grab a coffee first,” he suggested, cheerfully acknowledging the surrealness of it all. “That way you can decide if you want to stay for the rest of the day or if I’m an ick that you’ll happily fly away from.” I liked that. It gave me an out, a sense of agency in what was, let’s face it, a slightly wild scenario.

But the coffee turned into a drive to the coast. The same area of Ireland as my last name “is this the universe telling me something” – no snap out of it.  He’d packed a picnic, and we sat overlooking the sea, laughing at the absurdity of it all. It was simple, sweet, and refreshingly low-key. After a few hours, I headed back to my hotel (a location I’d wisely kept secret because a girl knows that safety is a number one priority) to freshen up and of course update the eagerly waiting group chat. We met again for dinner that evening, then wandered to a pub to watch England play Ireland in the football. I was the lone England supporter, surrounded by roaring Irish fans. That all changed when England scored a crucial goal, we both leapt up instinctively, cheering as he grabbed me and we held each other in celebration – only to realise half the pub was staring at him in bemusement, as if silently questioning his loyalty. We burst out laughing.

Later, we stopped for ice cream and strolled down the high street, sharing a kiss as the sun set. It felt a little surreal – to kiss someone I’d only known in person for a day. Quick, maybe. But somehow, it felt right in the moment. When a first date starts at 9am and ends at 11pm, does it even count as just one date?

The next day, I sat in the hotel lobby, laptop open, firing through emails, fully expecting to fly home without seeing him again. But then he texted, asking if I’d stay for dinner. I pushed back my flight. We laughed our way through another evening, enjoying that peculiar closeness that comes when two near-strangers spend uninterrupted time together. And then it was over. We sat in the car afterwards as he drove me to the airport, both awkwardly avoiding the conversation of a ‘next time.’ Neither of us wanted to break the spell or define what came next.

Modern dating is anything but clear-cut. There was no “what now” conversation, no promises or plans, just a “we’ll see each other soon,” though deep down, we both knew that might not happen. We still follow each other on social media, and he occasionally lets me know when he’s in London for work. But I’ve come to realise: some stories aren’t meant for sequels. Some are meant to be the chapter you recount over wine with friends, the anecdote that earns gasps and laughter on girls’ nights. And honestly? That’s enough. Even if I never see him again, this story belongs to me. It’s the one I’ll tell from my rocking chair, proof that sometimes, throwing caution to the wind makes for the best memories. Flying to another country for a first date wasn’t really about him at all – it was about choosing adventure over fear, plot over predictability, and letting life surprise me.

So if you ever find yourself with a boarding pass in your inbox and a whisper daring you to go, maybe listen. Just make sure to start a group chat first.

Words by Eleanor Hoath