I’ll admit to some tears.
When my brother and I rolled onto that pier at Le Grau-du-Roi, wet cheeks were the furthest thing from my mind. But suddenly they were a reality. As was a huge, fat grin.
Because it had all been so much fun.
I write now from a bar in Barcelona four days later, and look back on the blur that was three weeks and 1,302km of cycling across France, almost all of it solo. A journey I had believed might be an odyssey. A journey dreamed up in despair, symbolizing hope. A journey I had thought would be about overcoming obstacles.
Apart from loneliness, I hadn’t been too sure what these obstacles might be, but I’d been absolutely sure they’d be there. As it turned out… No. None of that. I happen to enjoy my own company a fair deal, and have loads of friends (including freshened, deepened relationships with family) a Whatsapp away. So check loneliness off the list. New entries? None. Whatever came up, I could handle without much fuss. Result? Just fun. The journey had proved to be a trip. I had reached “the warmer waters and sunnier climes” I’d dreamed off. I had made it to the Med, literally and figuratively. I’d crossed to the other side. The only hard parts, it had transpired, had been imaginary. (Let’s face it: this is modern Europe, after all.)
And to top it all, those last days were done with Douard. Rich days indeed. With Janine cheering us on from afar.
Now I dream new journeys. #Ivegotthis
Oops, gotta go… The DJ’s playing some thumpin’ tunes and the barman just asked me to dance.