My Midsummer Morning. Alastair Humphreys

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ