When I got back people asked me for impressions. But it was so hard to sum up. Some of them assumed I had gone off to find myself. To me that was simply inane. But then I felt like that about a lot of things that others found important. Like football or wrist watches.
Others were surprised that I hadn’t lost weight. As if I’d been off on some sort of cure.
The most memorable parts I suppose were the little hardships but they were also the most difficult to relate without sounding like a moaner.
The solitary side of it had meant that encounters with others became really important and I had made some good friendships. It meant that you had to work harder at things. Rather than just skim over the surface as a tourist would.
But being alone had been very freeing. What companion would have put up with stooging around on a dockside for six hours waiting for a ferry. Or driving through the night for no acceptable purpose other than the hell of it. Or going without eating for a couple of days because it suited me. Only Pedro could put up with these behaviours and perhaps in his laconic way, enjoyed them? He was an ascetic monk at heart. If he hadn’t been built in Turin he could have been a Japanese ronin.
I didn’t know how many miles we’d covered. Around six thousand I reckoned. One of Pedro’s foibles was to reset the trip counters and clock every now and again. Whether that was random humour or a matter of privacy on his part he wasn’t saying.
It was November. Fireworks and Monday my birthday.
On Sunday G cooked me beef for Sunday lunch and finished it with apple and blackberry crumble.
It’s a wonderful life…so long as you do weaken.
