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Last Days
Mountains
Way Back
River
Thunder Road
Last Play
The Wall
Last Night
Into Madrid
Home from Abroad
Reward
It’s All Right
Photos from the Adventure (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements
The Violin Case
About the Author
About the Book
Books by Alastair Humphreys
Books by Laurie Lee
About the Publisher
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AND HERE I WAS at last. I had imagined this moment for years. My dream was finally happening. I had worked hard to make it this far, spurred on by the anticipation of how happy I would be. Yet now that it was beginning, I felt only afraid and lonely. I breathed deeply to calm myself. The air here smelled different from home – warm and dry. I looked beyond the pine trees and the red tiled roofs, over the blue bay, and on to the distant, forested hills. I wanted to flee and hide up in those hills. They looked so quiet and so safe. But I could not leave. At least, not yet. Before I escaped this town there was one task I must do, the burden that was scaring me. I needed to play my violin.
I was hungry. My pockets were empty. I had to busk to earn some money. But I had never busked in my life, never even played in public before. I was terrible at the violin. What on earth was I doing?
I could not bring myself to unpack my new instrument. Instead, I kept walking. I scrunched my eyes against the glare of the sun, crossing streets to cling to the shaded sides. My rucksack was cumbersome, heavier than I had imagined. I eyed a wishing well in a park. The water glittered with coins. I was both disappointed and relieved that the coins tossed in exchange for dreams were beyond my reach. It was a little soon to resort to stealing children’s money and wishes. I prowled the streets, nervous, eyes to the ground, scanning for loose change. I was looking for money, but mostly I was searching for excuses. The well is always deep with those.
Eventually I made my way back to the town centre, to what I had already concluded – two or three times – was the best plaza for busking. There were no cars, but plenty of pedestrians. A church shaded one side from the sun. Let’s get this over and done with, I told myself.
But my heart sank when I noticed that another busker had beaten me to it. A young man sat cross-legged in ‘my’ plaza, hunched over a recorder. This was not the time for an interloper! Usually, I would barely have noticed him: he was not a good musician and was playing very quietly. He wore a denim jacket and dark greasy hair fell over his face. He wasn’t charismatic and did not appear to be very successful (nor even conspicuously, successfully destitute). But today, as I dawdled in the shadows across the plaza, I saw him in a different light. He was a musician! He knew how to play songs! Not only that, but he had been brave enough to snaffle the premium spot in town. His hat on the pavement already had money in it. I wished I could be like him. I wanted to ask how much he earned, to be in his presence, to seek his wisdom and his blessing. But I was too shy.
I slunk off and found a different plaza, sleepy and set back from the road. I dumped my rucksack by the fountain. The sun was high now, so I stooped to drink and splash my face. My back was sweaty. A waiter unrolled the sun shade outside his restaurant. ‘Casa Gazpara,’ I read. ‘Vinos, Comidas, Mariscos, Tapas.’ I remembered how hungry I was. I had only butterflies in my stomach. Some drunks swayed and slurred on the other side of the fountain. I couldn’t even afford a dash of their Dutch courage.
I had not felt this apprehensive since the day a few years ago when I’d climbed aboard a small green rowing boat, picked up the oars and set off to try to row across the Atlantic Ocean. The prospect of playing a few tunes in a quiet plaza agitated me as much as colossal waves a thousand miles from land. But in place of storms and capsize, here I dreaded failure and shame. I was frightened of appearing a fool and worried what people would think about me. I knew this was pathetic behaviour for a man in his thirties, but the vulnerability was fascinating. What if I fall, asks the poem? Oh, but what if you fly?
I glanced around, then unzipped the violin case, furtively, as if it contained a gun. I was committed now, too far across the floor at the school disco to swerve my decision to ask the girl to dance. An apt comparison for I never dared do that either. I positioned the shoulder rest and tightened the bow. I had known that performing in public would be much harder than practising alone, which was why I had waited until today to try it. I had deliberately avoided getting accustomed to busking when the consequences did not matter. I chose to wait until it counted – until I was alone and penniless in a foreign country – because I wanted to experience the full shock of plunging in. I wanted to make this as hard as possible. I wanted that until I got it.
Pensioners watched the world go by from a bench near the fountain. They passed occasional comments to each other and pointed things out that caught their attention. One gentleman wore a Panama hat and yellow trainers; another was in a tweed jacket and dark glasses. Now they all turned in my direction, curious. I looked away, avoiding their gaze as I extended the legs of my new music stand. I tried to recall how buskers usually set everything up. I had never paid attention before. A gang of schoolchildren crossed the plaza, laughing and chatting. I pegged my music sheets onto the stand. A hush seemed to descend on the town and I stood lonely among the crowd. At this point a movie would cut to slow motion. I tuned the violin as best I could, fingers fumbling at the pegs. Don’t die wondering, they say. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees, they say.
Die? Don’t be ridiculous! It’s only a bloody violin. Lo siento, España. I am so sorry, Spain. I lifted my face to the sun, smiled, took a deep breath, and began to play.
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Imagine (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
SOMETIMES, WHEN I READ travel books, I say to myself, ‘You could put this book down right now, step outside, and just go. The sunlit road calling you. Nowhere to be but there. The freedom all yours to choose.’
Imagine.
If I could go, would I?
A dusty white road winding through orange groves. Summer heat and the tang of citrus. Cicadas shrill the still silence. A silver ribbon of river threads the green valley below. A cluster of stone cottages and the dull clang of a church bell. The blue smudge of distant mountains. The day long and open and waiting for me.
As I hike, I cradle an imaginary violin, snug under my chin, fingers dancing on the strings. My right hand plays the pretend bow and I whistle the tune as I walk. One of the songs of my life, soaked deep into my marrow, personal and precious. I break from a whistled verse to yell the chorus. Stamping the beat with my battered boots interrupts the rhythm of walking, but helps the exuberance bust out of my body. A song, a dance, a journey, all of my own.
The sun pounds and burns my back. But I relish it as a burnished medal for 20 miles earned each day beneath it. I have become lean but strong, stripped back. My pack contains the bare minimum, and that is enough. A blanket, bread, half a bottle of water. Strapped to the outside is my fiddle, the real one. It is fragile, smooth maple, and the magic key to this journey. Without it, I am ordinary – just another man tramping through Spain across the ages. But with this violin, I become a music maker and a dreamer of dreams. Tonight, beneath the stars in that village across the valley, I will bring music and laughter. My hat upturned upon the ground, dancers tossing coins as I play. They shine bright as they spin in the moonlight.
Wherever I walk, I sow happiness in my wake, and the world lies all before me. The weary satisfaction of physical effort beneath a summer sky. The focused simplicity of creating a living from the art you love. Carefree independence and the enticing spontaneity of the open road.
Just imagine.
If you could go, would you?
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Life (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
I LOOKED UP. LET out a sigh. I was not in Spain, but somewhere near Slough, on a slow train bound for nowhere. I closed my book, a tale of sunshine, music and adventure. Monday morning trundled past, laden with drizzle and gloom. Flat-roofed pubs, warehouses, muddy park pitches. This was where I lived. This was my life.
Books carry me far away. I enjoy that, for I am cursed with fernweh, a yearning for distant places. Throughout my adult life I have either been wandering the world, preparing to, or wishing that I was. I grow excited every time I pack a bag and slip my passport into my pocket, but despondent when I arrive back home and put the passport away in a drawer. Returning inevitably disappoints, pricking my hope that going away might somehow have fixed my problems.
I first read As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning when I was a student, dreaming of travel and getting ready to live. Laurie Lee had never left England before he docked in Spain in 1935. He hadn’t given much thought to ‘what would happen then, for already I saw myself there, brown as an apostle, walking the white dust roads through the orange groves’.
Laurie’s hazy plan was to walk south from Vigo, exploring a new country and playing the violin to pay his way. He had no schedule or deadline. He slept under the stars, lived on bread and cheap wine, and flirted happily. Laurie’s book is a paean to pure adventure, free from responsibility, made possible by the music from his violin. Reading it whisked me away to sunlit hills and villages, and I dreamed of one day following Laurie to Galicia. I wanted the same uncertainty, freedom and excitement in my own predictable, routine-dominated life.
But there was one fundamental problem. I could not play the violin, nor any other musical instrument. I had learned the piano for about a year when I was 10, until my mum yielded to the tedium of getting a reluctant, talentless boy to practise and allowed me to quit. I remember the music teacher at school – a bully later outed as a paedophile – mocking my timid and tuneless singing in front of a laughing class. I burned with shame and fought back tears. Forever after, I dreaded music lessons. Today, merely the thought of having to sing in public makes me prickle with nerves. I hate karaoke or dancing. My heart sinks whenever I hear the line, ‘introduce yourself to the group and tell us a bit about yourself’.
Realistically, then, I could never busk through Spain. I had neither the skill nor the personality. Yet following Laurie’s route with a wallet rather than a violin would be merely a walking holiday. That was missing the point. So, for 15 years, I shelved the idea. Instead, I looked elsewhere for adventure. I cycled round the world. I walked across southern India and the Empty Quarter desert. I crossed Iceland by packraft. I rowed the Atlantic, spent time in Greenland and on the frozen Arctic Ocean near the North Pole. I was ridiculously fit. I hung out with intelligent, daredevil, ambitious misfits. Each expedition gave me ideas and skills for new journeys. They were miraculous days of joy and wonder. I even managed to turn these escapades into my career. I gave talks and wrote articles and books. I was the luckiest man in town.
But then, in life’s musical chairs, the music stopped. And I realised I had been sitting in this threadbare seat for years now, staring out of commuter train windows. I called myself an Adventurer, but I was not living adventurously anymore. I was no longer proud of the story I was writing. The woman next to me, late for work and furious, tapped her displeasure in a series of to-and-fro text messages at my shoulder, clammy in her perfumed blouse. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Beep-beep. Tap-tap-tap.
I shifted my focus to my reflection in the dirty, rain-spattered window. I didn’t like what I saw. I was bored with myself. I had grown up and settled down. For most people this is the conventional, accepted route in life. I envy them. But it was not working for me.
I wanted uncertainty and doubt in my life, and the courage, energy and spirit to face them. I needed to move in order to breathe. I craved being on the road again, inhaling the heady air of places new with just one difficult but simple goal to chase. Instead, I was trundling round and round telling old tales to pay the bills. I had given up.
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One Moment (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
I GLANCED DOWN AT the book in my lap, closed my eyes, and sighed. Then, without thinking, I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jeans, contorting myself on the cramped seat to do so. But instead of the artificial escape of social media, today I opened Google.
‘Find a local violin teacher’, I thumbed.
A website popped up, I found an email address, and before I had time to dwell on it, I began to type.
Fri, 20 Nov 2015, 11:56
TO: Becks Violin
FROM: Alastair Humphreys
SUBJECT: Can you teach me the violin really quickly?
Every journey, every change in direction, begins with one tiny deed, quick to revoke and easy to forget. An action so devoid of binding consequence that there is no reason not to take it. No reason except inertia and fear. The hardest part of every adventure is this one moment, small yet significant. It is the decision to begin, to get moving, to push back the boundaries of your normality, perhaps even to turn your whole life around.
I hit ‘Send’ and went back to my book.
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Laurie (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
LAURIE LEE AND I first met as teenagers, though he was 63 years older than me. Laurie lived in a lush valley in Gloucestershire where, emboldened by booze, he was busy getting his leg over with half the girls in the village. I was studying Cider with Rosie for English GCSE, avoiding eye contact with the teacher – all irascible nicotine and tweed – and willing the lunch bell to save me. Not for the final time, I envied Laurie.
Cider with Rosie is the story of Laurie’s childhood. It is vivid with eccentric village characters and tales of his friends roaming the countryside. Laurie grew up in a chaotic but loving home with his mother and six siblings. One of his earliest memories was of a man in uniform knocking on the door to ask for a cup of tea. Laurie’s mother had ‘brought him in and given him a whole breakfast’. The soldier was a deserter from World War I, sleeping rough in the woods.
Laurie left school at 14 and went on to become a poet, screenwriter and author. He procrastinated prolifically in the pubs and clubs and literary parties of London. When he did write, he worked slowly with a soft pencil, editing and re-editing obsessively. Throughout his life, Laurie was plagued by self-doubt and often considered himself a failure, despite the unexpected, extraordinary success of Cider with Rosie, which sold more than six million copies. He described himself as ‘a melancholic man who likes to be thought merry’.
The next time Laurie and I met, in our twenties, we were both looking for adventure. I was in my final year at university when I picked up an old copy of As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning, the sequel to Cider with Rosie, in a charity shop at the end of my street.
‘You’ll enjoy that,’ remarked Ziggy, the friend I was browsing with. ‘It’s about a guy wandering around Spain, half drunk with wine, and a bunch of dark-eyed beauties.’
Ziggy and I convened regularly in the greasy spoon café next door to nurse hangovers or refuel after frosty runs along the river. We spoke incessantly of travel and adventure ideas. Ziggy wanted to live in Africa. I wanted to hit the road. We were impatient for our course to end and the chance to charge across the start line into real life. Until then, I was burning off my energy with the university boxing club, muddy football matches and tomfoolery. It was fun, but what I really wanted was, once again, what Laurie Lee was doing.
Ziggy and I headed to the café with our small pile of books. I ordered mugs of tea while Ziggy found a table in the corner. He cleared a circle in the steamed-up window with his sleeve, then peered out. I took a slurp of tea and opened my new book. I have the same copy beside me today, faded and torn. It falls open to well-thumbed passages for I reread it almost every year.
Back then, I gorged on books about polar exploration and mountaineering. These tales on the margins of possibility – the best of the best doing the hardest of the hard – were exhilarating but unattainable to someone as callow as me. Laurie’s story was immediately different. It read like a poetic version of my own life. The cover showed a young man walking towards a red-roofed village under a clear blue sky. Bored with his claustrophobic life, Laurie dreamed of seeing the world. He didn’t have much cash. His mum waved goodbye from the garden gate. He felt more homesick than heroic. So far, so me.
I was disillusioned preparing for a career that did not excite me as much as I thought life ought to. I had gone to university only because all my friends were going. It was a privileged but naive decision, for it had literally not occurred to me that it was possible to do anything else. I was training to be a teacher, but dreaming of being an explorer. While my classmates sent their CVs out to schools, I researched joining the Foreign Legion, the SAS, or MI6. I wanted mayhem, not timetables. Today, it astonishes me how little I knew of life back then that I saw only binary options: the Legion, or lesson planning. Sensible and realistic, or thrilling but absurd.
‘How does anything exciting happen in a blasted office?’ Laurie exclaimed after taking a job with Messrs Randall & Payne, Chartered Accountants, when he left school. Laurie’s girlfriend urged, ‘If it isn’t impertinent to ask, why don’t you clear out of Stroud? You’re simply wasting your time, and you’ll never be content there. Even if you don’t find happiness you’ll at least be living.’
Soon after, Laurie wrote a brief resignation letter.
‘Dear Mr Payne, I am not suited to office work and resign from my job with your firm. Yours sincerely Laurie Lee.’
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Direction (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
LAURIE LEFT HIS GIRLFRIEND and his home one midsummer morning and walked to London in search of fame and fortune. He had never seen a city before. He found work building ‘three unbeautiful blocks of flats’, pushing a wheelbarrow of cement through a tableau of Cockneys and con men whose priorities were petty theft, gambling and cheap cigarettes. A year later Laurie had ‘little to show for it except calloused hands and one printed poem’. But he was saving money, biding his time and summoning his nerve. ‘I never felt so beefily strong in my life,’ he recalled. ‘I remember standing one morning on the windy roof-top, and looking round at the racing sky, and suddenly realising that once the job was finished I could go anywhere I liked in the world. There was nothing to stop me, I would be penniless, free, and could just pack up and walk away.’
Laurie considered various foreign lands for his first adventure, ‘names with vaguely operatic flavours’. But a pretty Argentinian girl had taught him a single sentence of Spanish, ‘Deme un vaso de agua, por favor’.
And so Laurie chose Spain.
Fifteen years ago, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning sang me a siren song in that Oxford café. I have been smitten by Spain ever since. I love the evening light laden with citrus blossom and the rook-like chatter of old women, dark-eyed and kinder than they let on. I fell, too, for Laurie’s style of travel. He walked slowly and lived frugally (except after a windfall when he splurged extravagantly. Once he earned enough to buy ‘a few litres of wine’ and take a couple of girls up onto a roof terrace overlooking the city to share it). He camped on hilltops, bathed in rivers and enjoyed his encounters with the characters he met on the road.
Laurie shaped the way I came to approach my own travelling. Travel writers need not pretend to be infallible or invincible like the traditional stiff-upper-lip explorers. Journeys didn’t have to be sensational or competitive. Adventure was not only for self-anointed ‘Adventurers’. Laurie showed me a different outlook; that ordinary people could also see the world. I shouldn’t feel like an imposter. All I needed to do was go. I didn’t need experience or ability. Those I would earn along the way. This scrawny young poet gave me the guts and the permission to begin. Everything I hoped for in life was already out there, hiding in plain sight. I would only have myself to blame if I missed my chance at life. Enough then of the excuses!
I did not play the violin and so wouldn’t be able to busk across Spain, but surely I could do something? I was giddy with the excitement of youthful possibility. My student days were drawing to a close and it was time to decide my direction.
I sat down at my desk, shoved aside football boots and coffee mugs, and rummaged for a pen. I stared for a while at a blank sheet of paper, then began to write.
Oxford,
December 2000,
Dear Mr. Walker,
Thank you for offering me a teaching position at your school. I would definitely enjoy working here on a permanent basis. However there is so much to see and do in the world. If I was to settle into teaching now I am sure that I would enjoy it, but there would always be something gnawing at me. Therefore I have decided that I am going to go ahead with my original plan to take two or three years cycling around the globe. Deep down I know that [teaching is] probably the sensible option. However, even deeper down I know that if I have the chance to do something now and do not take it, I may always regret it.
Yours Sincerely,
Alastair Humphreys
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Adventure (#u5d2a73f3-5e2b-5183-be62-7a885a7323f4)
Fri, 20 Nov 2015, 18:07
TO: Alastair Humphreys
FROM: Becks Violin
SUBJECT: Re: Can you teach me the violin really quickly?
Hi Alastair, Thanks for your email. Wow, what an exciting challenge! I’d love to help you out and am sure we could arm you with a few tunes (with some dedication!) for your adventure …
