Travel:

‘Many a trip continues; after movement in time and space have ended’

-       John Steinbeck. 

I always liked travel as a kid.  I’m of a generation where I can remember trips to the seaside as a kid; myself and my brother, pushing against the wind of early 21^st century health and safety; by sitting in the boot of a hatchback car.  When I was older and a little less risk averse, I would stand in the departure hall of John Lennon Airport and gaze into the cerulean skies.

I didn’t travel far.  Into Central Europe, at a push.  A maximum of two and a half hours flying time.  20 minutes, if I went to Dublin.  With a further two hours on the airport bus, as it pushed and fondled its way along the M1 into the city centre.  I did the usual touristy things there, in Madrid, in Amsterdam and Berlin. In a way, this was me running away from reality. I know: a process as futile as it is facile.  I’d go to places that would make me cry.  The exhibition that surrounds Picasso’s Guernica at The Reina Sofia.  Putting my fingers in the bullet holes at Kilmainham Gaol.  Looking at the measurements of Anne Frank and her sisters, rise, rise, rise and then stop.  The corridor in The Jewish Museum, one side with cities where Jews settled, names of concentration camps on the other; that ends in a dark room with single point of light.

 

And then, things changed.  I fell in love with my wife.  Minor consideration was given to the fact that I lived in Liverpool and she lived in Devon.  Who considers minor, vitally important shit like that?  She visited me first; she’s that kind of woman.  When it was my turn, I had to undertake the 269 mile train journey.  If you’re not a British reader, this involves traversing the fractured, crazy, imperfect, antique lines of the British railway system.  Liverpool Lime Street, where the Scouse accent fades away along rusting, Victorian tracks.  Change at Birmingham, where my train was always at ‘the extreeeme end of Platform 9AY.’ The old spa town of Cheltenham. Through Bristol, a city a lot like Liverpool.  And then Devon, where both the eyes and the soul bleed green.  And it’s cream first on a scone, always.  It’s the law. 

Occasionally, we make a journey North.  I don’t drive, my wife does.  English motorways, both dirty and delicious at the same time.  The iPod; or the radio on.  Most of my journeys, alone or with my family have been accompanied by music. Time was, when I used to take a sleeve of CD’s abroad.  First iPod, my whole record collection.  Now: whatever radio I’ve downloaded.  My stepson is currently obsessed with Gary Davies’ Sounds Of The 80’s. I’m sort of obsessed with it too, secretly.  Don’t tell anyone. However, I will, constant reader tell you a secret.

I’m considering learning to drive. Those who know me, consider this to be something of a joke.  Living in rural Devon, on the top of a hill, with the nearest big town 45 minutes away… this has become somewhat of a necessity.  I’m my wife’s carer, this is another skill I need to know, and it’s not something I have much choice over.  Anyway, it plugs into my psyche, part of a dream I’ve had for a long time.  It’s time for me pump the metaphorical brakes and move on. And anyway: it sort of links into something I’ve always dreamed of. If I could live inside any of my favourite books, it would be On The Road.  It’s a beautiful, raw, honest piece of writing.  I’d dismiss the Capote quote, about it being just typing.  It’s more than that.  I’d also run down that it’s just dreamy prose for gap year teenagers.  Such criticism is that of the ignorant, usually those who’ve never actually read it.  Try it, you might like it.

As well as the book, I have the audiobook (beautifully read by David Carradine, Grasshopper).  The ‘mad ones’ quote is one of my favourite in literature.  I loved the film, even if anyone else didn’t. The book has been part of me, for just under a quarter of a century. I could dig; still do the intense, addictive loneliness of Dean Moriarty. Travel means seeing places you’ve always dreamed of… and often, being intensely disappointed by.  Case in point: for all the iconic threat of The Berlin Wall, the remains are just bricks covered by graffiti.  My favourite: ‘God is here’. Someone sprayed underneath ‘Where?’

Should you travel alone or with a companion?  That is entirely up to you.  Every Paradise needs a Moriarty.  However, Sal didn’t live on a Devon hill and faced walking down it on a Summer’s day.  I quite like sitting in the passenger seat, with my wife driving and my stepson in the back, singing along to If I Was by Midge Ure.  I think I don’t need the emotional relief that travel gave me; my mind appears to be a different, more wonderful place than it was thirteen years ago.  Conversely, travelling alone, gives you a sense of independence, freedom and lets the mind wander at the same pace as the road. 

My attitude to travel has changed from luxury to necessity as I’ve gotten older.  Falling in love, has made me a braver soul.  Brave enough to leave home, but with just the right hint of sickness to find my way back.  Dipping into my past, driving into the future.  Always moving, whilst staying still.