My Midsummer Morning

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Laurie was also struck by gold fever, recalling, ‘Those first days … were a kind of obsession; I was out in the streets from morning till night, moving from pitch to pitch in a gold-dust fever, playing till the tips of my fingers burned.’

A sturdy pensioner sat down to rest. He groaned as he lowered himself onto the bench, bracing his hands on his thighs. When he heard me playing, he did not smile. He watched with his jaw set and face expressionless. I grew nervous. After only a song or two he signalled me to stop, waving with his palm downwards in the Spanish fashion.

‘Am I really so bad?’ I wondered.

He beckoned me over and motioned for me to sit beside him on the bench.

I was rushing, the old man explained, playing too fast. I needed to allow space in the music.

‘You know the expanding ripples when you throw a stone into a lake? That is music. The silences make a tune. The unique pauses are what make a life. My name is Antonio. Now, play me “Guantanamera” again.’

I returned to my violin. I left spaces. I played, as much as I was able, with passion. I really tried. When I finished the song, one of the drunks leaning on the fountain laughed and called out, ‘más o menos’. His pals showered me with the lightest ripple of applause. And Antonio dropped a coin into my violin case. It glittered with treasure like an overflowing pirate’s chest. Four whole euros!

Antonio then launched into a rambling philosophical monologue that I only half grasped, explaining that my journey and my life was like the children’s game La Oca. In La Oca you have to be willing to roll the dice and go for it. If you want to move forward, you must risk and accept whatever triumph or disaster comes your way. I was a free spirit, like the swan in La Oca, he said. I should feel proud of what I was attempting, and be as brave as I dared to be.

After a sleepless night and the day’s exhausting emotions, Antonio’s kind words brought a lump to my throat. It was just the rousing speech I needed to get me over the next hurdle. It was time to walk.

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Preparation (#ulink_ef7217d6-d331-58ba-b477-2786d52da910)

I SCOOPED UP MY bounty and carted it to the supermarket. Up and down the air-conditioned aisles I went, fizzing with happiness, browsing carefully. I was not saddened by all I could not afford, only tantalised by how much I could.

How best to spend my money? I calculated fastidiously, focusing on calorie-to-price ratios rather than taste appeal. It was a good thing to consider every purchase. Too rarely at home do I ask, ‘do I need this or merely want it?’

What if today had been beginner’s luck though? The food those five shining coins granted me might have to last a long time. But I decided that I should never earn more than I needed when I busked, and nor should I hold any money in reserve. Boom or bust would keep me nicely on edge.

I made my choices – bread, rice, two carrots, an onion and tomato puree. I considered the smallest packet of salt, turning it over and over in my hands, but at 30 cents it felt too indulgent. I opted for an extra carrot instead, then carried my basket to the checkout, hoping I had done my sums correctly.

Only now, as I stuffed food into my rucksack, did I give any real thought to the actual journey. Hundreds of miles of hiking lay ahead, alone, finding my way, sleeping outdoors, hoping for food. This uncertainty had not troubled my mind until now, proof that the concept of adventure ought to be broader than rugged men (or me) doing rugged stuff in rugged mountains. I had walked a long way before. I’d slept outdoors for months on end. I was comfortable with being uncomfortable. The traditional expedition aspects were what I knew well and had done many times.

I sat on the pavement, ripped off a chunk of bread, unfolded my map across my knees and studied it for the first time. It was the same brand I had used cycling round the world – Michelin – and the familiar cartography and design was reassuring. The shadings of higher ground, the red pin kilometre markings, the green scenic routes. But the specific unfamiliarity of this map also thrilled me. A new lie of the land to learn. All those fresh and unknown names. I tried the sounds on my tongue. Ponteareas, Vilasobroso, Celanova … so many unmade memories beckoning me towards them.

I planned to follow Laurie’s route loosely, perhaps as far as Madrid. I had a month of freedom, and the capital lay roughly 500 miles away. I needed to get a sense of the distances I could cover out here, but that sounded about right. I had no schedule. I would just follow my nose and see where I ended up. I didn’t mind. Laurie mentioned only a handful of place names in As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. These would guide me, but I wasn’t concerned how I threaded the necklace. I was not aiming to replicate Laurie’s walk, only to follow its spirit. I would find pearls of my own along the way. I brushed away crumbs, folded the map, flexed my knees to judge the weight of my pack and joined Laurie walking out into Spain.

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First Walk (#ulink_067f8d26-b2eb-5b3d-843f-4c3a4389aceb)

THE FIRST DAY WAS long, loud concrete drudgery. Before I even got out of Vigo I had to slog through the expensive, in-the-action central streets, the poorer rings of tower blocks, then the car showrooms, industrial parks, out-of-town shopping, and – eventually – the expensive, almost-in-the-country suburbs. Laurie did not suffer this misfortune back in the 1930s when the boundary between town and country was much clearer.

Pavements are hard and bruise your feet. I looked forward to the varied footfall of paths and fields. The day was hilly, hot, and my pack was bastard-heavy. It’s difficult to find a place to pee in a city if you don’t have a penny to spend in a café. City planners consider only cars. Their oily, noisy highways steal the best routes, choking, hooting, scaring me, and making plain the absurd slowness of walking in today’s high-speed world. Pedestrians are neglected, or forbidden and forced onto circuitous routes. I walked with my eyes down, dodging dog shit, trudging through shredded tyres, broken glass and fast food plastic. Decades later, in the era of cars, Laurie reminisced about his Spanish experience. ‘I was lucky, I know, to have been setting out at that time, in a landscape not yet bulldozed for speed.’

At last, though, Vigo was behind me, and I walked inland, away from the sea. A thousand rivers and streams had the opposite idea. They pushed past me, rushing towards the Atlantic. All of man’s movements here had been channelled into this single valley, shaded with eucalyptus trees. There were no quiet parallel routes, nor could I head for open high ground and make my own way. If you leave Vigo to the east, this is the way you come. So I joined the procession. Cars, buses, lorries, and me: all going our own way. All, for now, going the same way. But I was the only one walking, and walking on a busy road stinks.

When I pedalled away from my front door to cycle around the world, aged 24, the scale of what I was taking on overwhelmed me. I was burdened by doubt as to whether I had chosen the right path in life. By going away, I discovered a deeper appreciation of everything I left behind. This heightened the significance of the unknown I had chosen in its place, and raised the stakes of my gamble.

Later, walking across India, I missed my new wife. I berated myself for trading comfy evenings on the sofa with Sarah for a lonely, ascetic hike. Three years later, however, by the time I was sweltering in the Empty Quarter, things had changed and I was just damn glad to be far from home. Laurie wrote of ‘how much easier it was to leave than to stay behind and love’. But my disloyalty soured the relief of the escape.

Here, finally, on this July day in Galicia, I had the balance of emotions about right. This was precisely where I wanted to be right now. I was enjoying refreshing my Spanish, reading every billboard and shop sign I passed. I liked the novelty of my new hiking poles, and my shiny trainers felt good. I was neither too homesick nor too desperate to get away, nicely nervous rather than swamped by foreboding. I smiled thinking about Laurie’s worries when he walked away from home. ‘The first day alone – and now I was really alone at last – steadily declined in excitement and vigour … I found myself longing for some opposition or rescue, for the sound of hurrying footsteps coming after me and family voices calling me back. None came. I was free. I was affronted by freedom. The day’s silence said, Go where you will. It’s all yours. You asked for it. It’s up to you now. You’re on your own, and nobody’s going to stop you …’

Off the highway by late afternoon, I followed an empty lane through sleepy old hamlets, home to more goats and chickens than people. The hot air smelled of dusty yellow grass. The landscape was more expansive than England’s. It would be a long walk to each horizon. There were small mosaics of meadow whenever the land lay flat enough for vintage tractors to mow. Overhanging apple trees and unripe vines taunted my hungry belly as I eked out my bread. I pinched a grape, but spat it out – sour grapes for my theft.

Every village had a fuente, an old stone fountain. They were often shaped like a large gravestone built into a wall. A stream of water cascaded into a trough. I drank at each one, the water cold and pure, then dunked my head. I was pacing myself and taking care not to push too hard. Usually, I launch into expeditions hungover and sleepless from final preparations. I charge off with such enthusiasm that by evening I collapse exhausted, muscles screaming and sunstroke-dizzy.

A tetraplegic watched me from his garden up the hill. He was enjoying the sunshine in his wheelchair. I shouted hola, and waved. He could not wave back, but I hoped I provided a few seconds of distraction. When I feel caged by ordinary life, I told myself, I should think of that man, trapped inside his body, rather than feeling sorry for myself.

The rolling hills and heavy pack punished my unsuspecting legs as I climbed steadily towards a ridge of pines. The valley floor lay quiet and hazy far below. I waded through crisp bracken and ducked under the coconut fragrance of yellow gorse. I emerged in a village of steep alleys, stone cottages with closed doors and dogs going berserk at me.

A door cracked open at the noise, and an inquisitive old woman appeared, bent like a question mark. I raised a hand in greeting and called out that her village was beautiful.

‘It is, if you like mountains, I suppose,’ she grumbled.

‘Do you like mountains?’ I asked, hoping to elicit a more cheerful response.

‘No.’

She slammed the door.

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First Night (#ulink_327fdecb-84e1-56a9-8723-2dc4a173900e)

AS DUSK APPROACHED, I grew anxious. I was uncertain where to sleep. The amygdala, deep in the primitive brain, warned of the old dangers of the night.

‘Play safe. Hide!’ my instincts urged, tugging at me, keeping me safe, avoiding horrible imaginings, just as they had done before I busked. I knew I would have to camp every night, that hotels would never be an option on this journey. Right now I wanted to burrow deep into the woods and hide like a fugitive.

Then the voice of experience chimed in. It was low and quiet, but it reminded me that I have worried about the first night on every journey I have been on. Yet once I accept that I must do it and get on with it, I always love the simple act of finding my home for the night and making myself safe and comfortable. The memories of the past beckoned me down the road.

Given the opportunity, I prefer to head high and reach the top of the next hill before stopping for the evening. The views are better from a hilltop, the toil is behind you and you gift yourself a gentle start to the next morning. Even when I am tired, I reprimand myself if I put off the hard work until tomorrow. Only in winter do I camp below a hill, when I will appreciate the early climb to warm me after a cold night.

That first evening in Galicia I tossed down my bag on a grassy hilltop in the lee of a eucalyptus tree. I flopped beside it, peeling off my sweaty shirt and socks, and admired the long views across the valley towards the sunset. Laurie might have enjoyed the same view. There was not a building in sight, though at times I heard distant sheep and dogs, a mile away and 80 years ago. Breeze rustled the pale leaves above my head. I sat cross-legged on my sleeping mat, lit a tiny fire ringed with stones and perched a pan of rice on top. I hummed to myself, enjoying the newness of being back in the old routine.

A plump, noisy bumblebee flew into his hole beside my bed. He and me, our homes together tonight. A green woodpecker rattled in the woods. The pan bubbled. I lifted it from the flames to cool. The gloop smelled burned, but I salivated. I ate half my rice as crickets chirped in the meadow, before forcing myself to put down the pan and save the rest for breakfast.

As dusk settled, I wriggled into my sleeping bag, sheltered from the breeze. I was glad not to have a tent blocking the view. The pink moon rose, gliding as it broached the horizon. I love this part of the wanderer’s day, watching the azure sky thicken from cobalt to midnight blue and – eventually – darkness and sleep.

I reached for Laurie’s book and turned on my head torch. Its brightness reduced the world to only the text and pitch blackness. Our journeys spanned the best part of a century. The gulf of Hiroshima, the moon landings, air travel and the internet separated our times. But the velvet contentment of well-earned rest beneath the stars bridged the gap and brought us together. Laurie was new to this outdoor life I loved. He took to it fondly. I read, ‘Out in the open country it grew dark quickly, and then there was nothing to do but sleep. As the sun went down, I’d turn into a field and curl up like a roosting bird, then wake in the morning soaked with dew, before the first farmer or the sun was up, and take to the road to get warm, through a smell of damp herbs, with the bent dawn moon still shining.’

I have a tradition before falling asleep on long journeys: I choose my favourite bit of the day, and what I am looking forward to tomorrow. This habit stems from gruelling times when the magnitude of an expedition felt crippling, and the loneliness magnified it. It helps me to fall asleep feeling optimistic, for the day’s last conscious thought to be positive before I surrender my brain to its unsupervised night of processing, filing and dreaming. There is always something good about each day, even if it is only the prospect of sleep. And tomorrow, too, will hold promise if I choose to see it, whether in a cup of tea, anticipating rest at day’s end, or the glory of reaching the furthest shores of a continent.

I ached, yawned and smiled: a sweet cocktail for sleep. I had earned this rest. As I do every night, I whispered goodnight to my family, using my wife and children’s nicknames. It brought a brief knot of sadness to my belly. The moon cast shadows over the field. It was peaceful on the fringes of the wood. Nobody knew I was there. Today, I had stood up in public, played the violin and passed my test. And I had walked. I had done everything the day asked of me. My journey had begun.

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Marriage (#ulink_301b12a5-f825-5a2e-a03a-eabdecaaa7ec)

BY THE TIME I finished cycling the world I was skinny, skint and spent from four years of singular focus, ascetic living and tens of thousands of lonely miles. Soft beds hurt my back, social gatherings made me anxious, supermarket aisles looked impossibly decadent. Reflecting on this, it is not surprising that such an experience eroded and hardened me in ways that would take years to resolve, some of them only with writing this book. Your first adventure moulds you; everything after fits into the impression it made. But I was unaware of all this. I only knew that I was proud to have achieved something exceptional for the first time, relieved that it was over and happy to be back with Sarah.

I had loved Sarah for years before pedalling off in tears. I was sad to go but too restless to remain, convinced that there must be more in the world than I could find at home. Sarah didn’t want to come with me: a decent job and a hectic social life sounded better than banana sandwiches, a tiny tent and endless bloody cycling. After four years apart, I threw my frayed cycling clothes in the bin, put my penknife into the cutlery drawer and moved in with Sarah.

We were very different, but our worlds sat together comfortably. Sarah wore a suit, went out to work for a big firm of accountants and then came home to relax in her pyjamas with DIY and soppy TV shows that made her cry. Uncertain what my future held, I wrote my first book, sitting at home all day in my underpants. I gave talks at schools (fully dressed) and trained for a marathon. I needed Sarah’s cheerful confidence and competence, her poised assurance that life was mapped out and under control. I’m not sure what was in it for her. Sarah is not interested in the things I love: expeditions or books or exercise. Corporate tax is not my strong point. So we helped each other keep things in perspective. Opposites fit snugly in a jigsaw.

I was halfway through a 20-mile run on a cold autumn morning when I decided to ask Sarah to marry me, slipping and sliding along a muddy footpath by the Thames. Rain lashed my face. I love running in weather like this. As I ran, I imagined two routes in life. I was sorry I could not travel both. One was the open road, with all the world to explore, and the joys and struggles and lessons that would unfold. It was selfish, feral and solitary, but tempting as ever. The alternative was unknown: marriage, children, a different search for fulfilment. A family, and all our joys and struggles and lessons together. Without these connections, I feared I would become a rootless drifter.

A cracking story is not a life. Knowing how way leads on to way, I made my choice. I was still eager to explore the world, to keep pushing myself hard and to make the most of life. But I looked forward now to sharing that with Sarah.

I jumped into the river to confirm that I was thinking straight and hadn’t gone mad, then ran back home to ask Sarah if she would like us to spend the rest of our lives together.

‘I take thee, Sarah, to be my wedded wife … from this day forward, for better or for worse.’

‘With this ring, I thee wed.’

We left our wedding reception riding a red tandem – tricky for a bride in a long white dress – with fireworks bursting overhead. As our honeymoon plane curved its great circular route over the Arctic, Sarah slept, her head against my shoulder. Her blonde curls covered her face, and I gazed out of the window at the endless expanse of ice below.

My wife and I clinked bottles and sipped cold Big Wave beer in the Hawaiian sunshine. The sound of the ocean carried to us on the warm breeze. But that beguiling Arctic ice lingered in my mind. To my surprise, I sensed that my tide of post-cycling exhaustion had finally receded. Were those years of yearning for stillness and community being pushed aside again by the clamour of restlessness and ambition? Polar literature had always entranced me, and I pondered the enormity of Antarctica. Endeavour, endurance, discovery: could I hack it there? The prospect was both terrifying and thrilling.

I despised being a one-trick pony, that guy who had once done something interesting and never stops talking about it. I have had a fortunate life and the only challenges I’ve faced are those that I have set myself. My ego, and my desire to be acknowledged as a serious adventurer, demanded a new trip. I had become beguiled by the macho lure that bigger is better, that expeditions were a way of sorting the strong from the weak. (Laurie wasn’t immune to this either. Long after walking across Spain, he admitted that part of his motivation had been to show off to girlfriends.) I was, to borrow from Robert Macfarlane writing about mountaineers, ‘half in love with myself, and half in love with oblivion’.

Feeling a little guilty, I put down my beer bottle and sloped away from the poolside to email a friend.

Hi Ben,

Having a wonderful time in Hawaii – been out whale-watching and running this morning.

But I can’t stop thinking about my future expeditions. So I decided to write and ask in all seriousness if I can join your South Pole expedition? I am writing because I will regret it if I do not, but also because you know me well enough to be able to say ‘No!’ without embarrassment or worry …!

Look forward to chatting in the New Year when I get home. Hope you have a warm, sunny Christmas, like me,

Al

There were already three of us competing in this marriage: Sarah, me and adventure.

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Dawn (#ulink_cdb28383-10f0-5745-8846-3812c9e70647)

I STIRRED IN THE silent hues of dawn, shivering. Too cold to sleep, too cold to get up. I lay uncomfortably for a while before conceding that I would not fall back to sleep and the morning might as well begin. The hills of Galicia were colder than I had expected for the summertime. I stood, stretched and dressed. My sleeping bag was dew-damp as I stuffed it into the rucksack. Yawn, blink, pack, leave. Into the distinctive moist-earth smell of the early hours, the air raw in my nostrils. It was still dark, but there was enough moonlight to walk without a torch. I padded through villages, the only soul astir. Valeixe, Vilar, Crecente … It was hard to keep heading east on roads that hairpinned and looped as they hugged the contours of the hilly landscape. This early, I was content to walk along country lanes to speed my progress. When the world woke and cars returned, I would return to the fields and footpaths.

The road was a single lane of potholed tarmac, crumbling at the edges, among smallholdings of corn and grapevines. A white dog pricked its ears as I filled my bottles at a village fountain, but it offered only a couple of sleepy barks of protest. The water glinted as it splashed, and sounded loud in the stillness. A solitary streetlight darkened the dawn sky around it. Barns and dry-stone walls were built from blocks of lichen-mottled stone. I ran my fingers along their gritty surface and sprouting clumps of soft moss. A rose bush spilled over a garden wall, and even this early the scent was strong. As the moon set in the purpling west, colour crept back into the world. Morning had returned.

Then the rising dust as the dew dried, the coming of heat and the yeasty presence of farm animals. A pair of blackbirds hurtled across the lane at ankle height, pouring torrents of noise at each other. In the passing blur I could not tell if they were courting or scrapping. A common confusion. My shirt, damp from yesterday’s sweat, steamed with my body heat in the early light. A church bell and the distant jangle of sheep bells amplified the quiet. It was many hours before I spoke to anyone. I reached into my pocket for some bread. It was so stale that I had to use my molars to tear off lumps. I didn’t mind, for it made the enjoyable act of eating last longer. I set a brisk pace as there was a village on my map that I hoped to reach in time for a lunchtime busk.

The first time Laurie played his violin in Spain he was frazzled from the sun, and a glass of wine had gone to his head. He ‘tore drunkenly into an Irish reel. They listened, open-mouthed, unable to make head or tail of it.’ Then he tried a fandango and ‘comprehension jerked them to life’. An old man danced ‘as if his life was at stake’ and afterwards ‘retired gasping to the safety of the walls’. Laurie went on to play in markets, inns, cafés and the occasional brothel along his journey. His instrument became ‘a passport of friendship’. I hoped that might hold true for me. But I was certainly never going to be allowed to perform in a café, never mind anywhere more exotic.

My prompt start got me to the village in good time. The school playground was lively and noisy and I hoped the same would be true of the plaza. My timing was good: the café was busy and customers were walking in and out of the bakery, the bank and the small grocery. I rested on a bench for a few minutes, drank some water and ate a carrot. Then it was time to busk.