I stood on a cold P&O deck today and looked towards my future. As that ferry powered across the Channel, I contemplated the continent I will cross and the warmer waters and sunnier climes I’m headed towards.
Not just metaphorically.
Little more than a week ago, I landed in Great Britain in a still-fragile state (not only because it was a bumpy flight with Malaysian Airlines. And it went on to be a week in which Brexit revealed Britain to be somewhat Less-Than-Great.) But the embrace of one’s family is a wonderful thing. A nurturing, healing thing.
I’ve thought a lot this week about the weather. And about weathering life. And how one bears upon the other. London was sunny and rainy and cloudy in an endless and ever-changing loop. As was my emotional state. Rays of hope with flimsy resilience. But promises of summer to come.
Fitting then, this morning, to be launched off on my Continental adventures by sunny family. My bike and I to cruise our first miles under a skyscape of bright and dark clouds.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful and appropriate start to this journey, hugging the English coastline in exploration, cranking up the climb to the path above Dover’s famous chalk cliffs, and rolling onto the ferry as the lone cyclist amongst the dozens of monster trucks.
And then, in Calais, to be set adrift, clocking up another 10 miles or more in search of my hotel, content enough to be lost in France at last.