My Midsummer Morning

Hope

AN EMBARRASSED LAUGH BURST from my mouth after yet another tune fizzled out. But this time a man on the bench responded with a small smile. A smile! My busking had earned something at last. This was progress. But it was only a matter of time before people tired of me and the police ushered me away, so I turned to my best song. ‘Guantanamera’ was my jolliest piece and – being Cuban – vaguely close to Spanish music.

‘Guantanamera,’ I explained, hesitantly, to the bench, after stuttering through the closing notes.

‘Más o menos, more or less,’ said my ally, kindly. He was a mild-looking gentleman of about 60, resting a pile of heavy supermarket bags at his feet.

The men next to him continued to ignore me, stony-faced. In their situation, I would have done the same. Make eye contact with a crap foreign busker and he’s certainly not going to leave you in peace. Better to keep your head down and your money in your pocket.

Back in England, Becks used to dish out musical advice above and beyond trying to coax me into playing some of the right notes in approximately the right order. One afternoon she described what to do ‘once you’ve got a crowd gathered’. I raised an eyebrow at her sassy optimism.

‘They will all be clapping along to this,’ she proclaimed as I lumbered through a ponderous nursery rhyme. ‘Spaniards are very rhythmical.’

I resisted asking whether she had ever been to Spain, and sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think a crowd is going to gather to listen to this.’

There was no solace in proving myself right.

My stomach rumbled but I had not earned a crust. It was time for what is always a good plan when you are vulnerable. Be humble, look people in the eye, acknowledge your faults, trust yourself, trust the world, smile, then try your best. I wiped my eyes on my shirt, tidied my music sheets and started again. Song after song, I failed to snare my first coin. Every tune was strewn with errors. But I was enthusiastic now, a less timid person than when I woke that morning. I had to persevere, be patient, keep hoping, and trust the people of Vigo.

After what felt like a lifetime sawing away, one elderly gentleman rose from the bench. He walked towards me, stooped and leaning on his stick. He looked smart in his dark glasses and tweed jacket, with neatly combed hair. I anticipated his words:

‘Señor. Enough! Spare us. It is time to move on. Por favor. Give us back our peace, I beg you.’

But he did not say that. Instead, he put his hand into his pocket.

Surely not!

The old man pulled out a coin and handed it to me with a small smile. And I thought I was going to burst with exhilaration and amusement and relief. I had done it!

Nor was it just a copper coin. He gave me a whole euro! In the weeks of doubt before departure, my mantra to prevent me from wimping out of the trip had been, ‘If I can just get one euro, somehow, I can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, I can walk for a week. Walk for a week and after that anything becomes possible. Just one euro. That’s all I need. One euro. Somehow …’

That gentleman gave me much more than a euro. He gave more even than a bag of rice. For he gave me hope.

Encouragement

NOW: A COIN IN my case and hope in my heart! I had earned my first busking money. A euro! A bag of rice. A beginning. I held the coin up in the sunlight and kissed it. I was rich!

Laurie had a similar delighted epiphany that something as intangible as a mere song could be converted into cash. This alchemy revealed a world of possibility. ‘I felt that wherever I went from here this was a trick I could always live by.’

Shorn of fear, I dived back into my repertoire, looping through my five little songs again and again, but this time playing with joy and confidence. It is probably no coincidence that more success followed. Two elderly ladies laughed at me, fumbled in their handbags, and gave 50 cents each. I had predicted that I would earn nothing in Vigo and that it might take days before I got my act together. I saw myself picking ears of wheat and pilfering crusts from café tables. But instead, I was rich on the very first day! And, like most wealthy people, I now wanted even more.

I sawed away, panning for gold, giddy and greedy with the rushing release of nerves and the thrill of exhibitionism. And the money: so much money! I gazed in awe at the three gleaming coins in my violin case.

A lady strode through the plaza – jeans, blouse, smiling – aged about 50. She looked both prosperous and friendly: promising. She paused and peered into her handbag as though preparing to give me something. Then she changed her mind and walked on, flipping her hand at me. I presumed that she had noticed how bad I was. Oh well … nearly … At least someone had considered me.

Later, as I was packing to leave, the same woman returned, and this time she gave me a euro. She explained that earlier she had no change in her handbag. This was becoming decadent!

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.

Preparation

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.

First Walk

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.

First Night

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.

Marriage

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.