10/9 Elegy on Traveling

The calm before the storm cradled me to sleep,

the storm itself then bent the tent.

The rain falls heavy from the sky,

the steppe hardly seems to like it.

I think I had a tooth pulled today. Even though there was nothing to see, I kept heading north into the Eryri National Park. Only in the afternoon, after I warmed myself up with a coffee and a soup, did the clouds slowly part. Here and there the sun blinked through, without the temperature rising even a bit. But at least I could see more of the spectacular landscape again.

Somewhere in the mountains, after I’d already made the turn back south, a thought manifested. Not a clear thought, one that was perhaps considered or set aside. With every meter that the road went downhill again, with every kilometre toward the south, with every minute that made the evening shorter, it was as if the fog around that one great thing lifted and it became clearer and clearer: finish this great journey.

So in my head it was clear where the trip was heading. A few reasons could be given. First, there’s the uncanny amount of grit on the roads, especially in the middle of the lane. It strains you because in curves you have to stay in the lane consistently and can’t drift across the whole width of the road. At night I couldn’t even drive on the roads because you can’t see where the grit lies. Consequently my right hand is on the hand‑brake lever the whole time and finds little relief. I think this is the first time I’ve gotten a blue thumb pad from braking. I don’t have disc brakes… however. Surely the weather has also slowly but surely taken its toll. The last four or five days weren’t even that bad. For British standards it was almost midsummer. Only gusts on narrow mountain roads, plus rain like today, wear me out faster than fighting a single adversity. Those are certainly points you can complain about or stand through. But there’s a criterion that primarily determines how far you push the game: the financial framework. And it’s saying quite clearly right now, “Don’t pass Go! Go straight home!” There are still a few kilometres that can only be covered with petrol, preferably paid for. And a ferry still needs to be financed. Last but not least, I don’t want to have to replace my rear tyre abroad for ‘de luxe’ costs, so I should have given it enough Britain and hope it will at least carry me the last few millimetres of contour home.

Around 6 p.m. I tick off the final points of today’s route and set Poole as the destination, from where I plan to hop over to France just to get a rough idea of how my route will look and how much time I’ll need to budget. To top it all off, my data allowance is now exhausted and I have no internet left. I can buy more data, over the internet. Ah, the wonderful new technology we have. So for now I get no further information about accommodation options or ferry connections. It’s just wild‑camping or proper camping. The wild‑camping app doesn’t work without internet. I drive another half hour and decide to use the camping app to head for the next campsite, which usually also has Wi‑Fi. By chance, just where I stop to look, there’s a spot around the corner. So I unpack, cook pasta, and order a beer in the pub. Two. And my data allowance is back again. After two beers I become melancholy because I know a homeward journey is now imminent. The Welsh in the pub take no notice of me while I write, they play billiards all evening, and they aren’t interested in the England‑versus‑Finland match flickering on the big screen. Welsh people just aren’t English.