Wonder Stuff

29/11/12

Oh wow, look at me now,
I'm building up my problems to the size of a cow.

How easy would it be home in time for tea,
and stop feeling like a sailboat rocking on the sea.

You know, I've seen a lot of French cows. Close up. They seem somehow bigger than the English ones, and for whatever reason (I am no farmer) there's a lot of bulls. There are also many a museum dedicated to the humble cow. I have driven right on past these. Maybe I should have called in, after all, with a couple of nights sleeping in townie areas, I'm kind of missing falling asleep to the sound of cow bells. It's much more civilised than the wind chimes in nature. As you hear the chimes you picture a cow languidly moving, shifting in its sleep or seeking out where the grass is greener. Nice animals. Nice life. Until it ends abruptly with an abattoir visit of course.

So, the far distance snack sized cows of the Peak District seem some way away right now. In fact, life in England does, and I'm very slightly reluctant to return there, even though returning means it's time to start getting myself ready for the New Zealand trip. And hey, there are visits to good friends and to big sister planned, and I wouldn't abandon those for the world!

It feels a little like going home is returning to address problems. But what problems are those? Are they the size of French cows or of Peak District cows. Or are they, in fact, more like elephants … I say this because today I have been bouldering near to Fontainebleau and came across this little sweetheart. I climbed the other side of it, attempting to adhere to the first rule of rock climbing “don't fall off” by climbing within my grade. Well, to the edge of it anyway.

Off kilter

26/11/12

I've been naughty. Really the Aires de Camping Cars are not meant to replace campsites. They are a one night stop over unless they have some signage to indicate otherwise; and I've only so far come across 48 hour stops. But tonight I'm at Chambon sur Lac for a second night. It wasn't the plan and it isn't important. I checked out Mont-Dome but my meagre understanding of written French suggests you're welcome to use the service point (which is closed) but don't hang about overnight. I checked out Le Bourboule which has an Aire which seems to have migrated to Murat le Quaire, but this is now a weird semi closed thing with barriers and a menu of costs including showers, and all a little uncomfy feeling. I also checked out Super Besse because I liked the name. It's enormous but also incredibly windy and again as that odd barriers up, barriers down thing of the semi closed going on. So I came back here because it felt right. Not doing anyone any harm. Again, no facilities but I have no need of any for I have a bucket.

Because it was rainy today I nearly did nothing. I contemplated finding a nice view (all the nice views were in cloud) and sitting with my Open Uni books and my unfinished poetry and cracking on with it, but somehow, and I couldn't defeat the idea, that felt like failure. The Alison of early May wasn't that woman, and the Alison of late November shouldn't be either. I'm a little nostalgic for the woman who was so happy she said right, I'm going to get out there, enjoy the world, be me, the sparky, funny, adventurous, forthright, happy, bouncy, mentally amazingly strong me with her feet firmly on the ground and her head happily at the top of mountains. I'd forgotten about her. So I spent sometime remembering her, and putting my head back on again. What, I wondered would she do in this situation …

Which diverts me to one of my most joyful periods. I live life with these little mantras from time to time. The ones which say “in a hundred years we'll all be dead” or the “I'm better than this”. There's a mantra for every occasion. There was a hugely enjoyable period when I lived with “what would a grown up do in this situation?”. I loved it because it acknowledged the naughty child in me, and it let the childlike side have its head and feel the joy, but at the same time acknowledged that I did actually know what a grown up would do because I kind of knew I was one, and gave me a channel for that too.

The Alison of Spring time would, it turned out, not let a day go to waste, and she would grin and produce ideas of interesting and fun nature. It turned out she'd go fell running, so that's what I did. The Lac, on the face of it, could have provided a simple flat circuit with no options for going astray. But Lacs do tend to be at the bottom of something or other, and can be made to go gnarly off road and up. So, that's what I did, started flat then climbed and climbed. Tried to keep my efforts measured and paced, remembering what 40% felt like, what 50% felt like, and acknowledging when an ascent was near enough to vertical and rubbly underfoot and noting how it felt to go into the red. A few times. Then the joy of the descent. Now proper real fell runners descend like gazelles, long and graceful strides. I descend like a flat footed penguin. But at least I try to do more than a walking speed. Running is quite funny. You don't take much with you. I have a rather wonderful running jacket (best item of clothing ever) . It's a make called “allseasongear”, it's lightweight, you don't sweat overly, it keeps the wind off and in rain it beads like a beauty. It has lots of very bright yellow in significant places, and little zips to hold the sleeves snug around your wrists. It also has a small bijou pocket, just big enough for the car keys, the camera and the garmin. Which is probably at least one more thing than I really ought to be carrying. And it's really weird how much more ground you cover than walking. And how you don't bother with extra layers, water or food (maybe a gel or a chewy bar but not today). Makes me wonder why I don't run everywhere. Except tomorrow when the legs stiffen I expect I will have my answer.

Foreign Parts

24/11/12

So, this swanning around France, what's good then and what's bad?

This can be split into two parts really, the practical and the in my head part. Practicalities it is then.

The roads. There's not really that much traffic. I have the luxury of time so am telling the sat nav to avoid toll roads. I'm tootling along the lanes. French drivers are, I suspect a bit better than British. They'll overtake a dawdling van with almost breathtaking skill. They also manage hairpin descents in the fog like professionals. I scarcely feel endangered by them, I just feel they get on with their thing around the moving bollard that is Alison. The fact that they overtake me in 50kph zones when I'm doing that pace in the middle of towns kind of astounds me, but clearly their understanding of local roads and police measures is way in excess of me.

Sat Nav. My 6 year old TomTom that really doesn't work in the UK, has no holder, functions not without a battery and has happily taken 2 hours to find satellites in the UK, only to reliably lose them in the 15 minutes before reaching the destination loves France. It was only in the van by chance, it's been dropped dozens of times, it's chipped, it's huge and clunky but in a mystery move 6 years ago it seems I did get a version with European maps. I genuinely had no idea, and frankly life would have been incredibly hard without it. It has opened doors to me, and it deserves some kind of gentle retirement or maybe upgrade when I get home. I cannot believe it's working. In the UK, maybe 2 satellites. I always thought 5 was the maximum it actually could get, but in France, it'll get 7 or 8. It's amazing.

Driving on the right, never a problem at all, toll roads, no issue.

Buying stuff. I've found that petrol stations are best used on a self service basis, as the kiosk is on the left hand side and the window too low to access. You have to get out and walk round the van to have any success in paying for petrol that's not a stick your card in and get on with it. By the way, stick an English card in the slot and the machine knows you're English and changes language accordingly. How cool is that?

Eating as the French do. Now, beyond following little old ladies around supermarkets this is difficult. I'm working on it. Buying sausage sec, local cheese, the bread, the pastries. Just haven't really worked out how the single woman with limited fridge space manages in France. The sizes of the tins of haricot beans, cannelloni beans etc. is colossal, but I'm managing my bean & pork products kind of stews. I'm limited to tinned stuff because of the economising on gas, can't really give dried beans a good couple of hours. If it takes more than 20 mins to cook I get edgy. Which means that brown rice has to go in favour of the quicker long grain / basmati. Ho hum.

Buying French cake. This is fun. Studying the available stuff and going with something different each time. Also enjoying their weird pureed fruit pots, feeling virtuous but also getting pudding. I have even found something which works as a kind of Uncle Joe's mint balls substitute which is something of a relief, and am getting my head around the French species of cereal bars.

But when do these people work and when do they eat? It's confusing. I can't seem to find a cafe open at what I thought would be breakfast coffee & croissant time. Nor do they seem to open at lunchtimes either. Lunch by the way seems to start at 12pm and finish at 3pm. But at least it means local supermarkets are open at post bike ride o'clock.

Don't drink the water. That's what I've been told by the natives, and indeed the supermarkets do seem to do a roaring trade in bottled stuff. I'm carrying two kinds in the van. In the passenger footwell we have spring water or water whose sources were potentially iffy. I'm using this mostly for laundry and when I get desperate enough, hair washing, but also for washing the pots and pans. Water in the main body of the van is purchased and used for drinking and cooking and tea & coffee, because I'm on an economic mission and coffee out every day not really possible.

Internet. This is annoying. As is the fact that McDonalds, my main reliable source of the world wide web access doesn't open until 10am. What happens with their breakfast menu, I wonder? The providers of hot spots are for those who have contract phones with them for the most part. Orange have a £10ish for 10 hours deal which lasts six months and that's OK but they aren't the widest spread hotspot provider. A few towns, tourist info offices permit use of wireless so I can tweet, I can facebook, I can pick up e-mail but oddly can't send it and can't do a lot else. It's kind of hard to stay in touch. T mobile haven't much helped by seeming to change what I could and couldn't have, package wise between the time I looked into it and my arrival. I really can't tell even now what kind of costs I'm accruing. I have tried, and it is simply what it is. I can't live in a void.

Brits Abroad

Hey, I resemble that comment.  I hang my head in shame as I confess to a food cupboard containing both marmite and Tetley.  It does make me smile though, those who try to absorb and fit in and those who stay stubbornly British.  I've met both types of folk.  I try to speak French to anyone who will listen, and have been fortunate to encounter people of infinite patience and senses of humour.  I have talked to all and sundry out and about in the hills, even if in the end all we agree on is "magnifique", my standard fall back word.  Because it is magnifique.

Take two days ago.  I walked from a place called Merlet (Ok, I was hopeful it was really Merlot), went up to Pierre Blance and along the ridge of Aiguellete des Houches, and across a snowy plain to the refuge Bel Lachat.  It waas a truly tremendous walk. As I gained altitude I considered popping the walking crampons on but opted not to as there was as much snow as packed ice.  It involved a ridge walk / scramble along a knife edge ridge, then a navigation for close to an hour across the snow using compass and cairns for guidance.  And I talked to all kinds of folk, a group of walkers wanting to know about the conditions on Pierre Blanche (magnifique), a solitary walker through the snow who advised me I was still heading in the right direction for the refuge, and agreed it was magnifique.  Two girls at the refuge who confirmed I was headed back to Merlet and that there was a herd of Ibex ahead, which were, in fact, also magnifique.

So far, my slightly more than casual encounters have included the posh brit in the Man Truck who felt the French in that area were kind of provincial.  Puzzled, I asked more and then the penny dropped.  Ah, like the Scottish, you mean. He had no choice but to agree.  Then there were Mark and Kim from Lincoln travelling in their T5.  Mark hadn't spoken to anyone except for Kim in three weeks.  Kim was doing all the talking.  They were embracing the red wine culture but cooking English style.  I have embraced sausage sec and fumee and cassoulet has become a way of life.  They were kind of nostalgic for bacon.  Then there were the builders in MacDonalds who must, must, must have been pulling my leg when they told me they were there to build a swimming pool.  Way too much Auf Wiedersehn Pet going on there.  They defiantly spoke nothing but English to the staff, which tickled me.  I don't do badly at cafes in managing to be polite and understood and get the food & drink I want.  It's really not so difficult to manage a s'il vous plait, a merci and an aurevoir.  Even if I can't spell the phrases ...

Gratuitous picture of Ibex ...

Here Today

19/11/12

Ah, the Mountain bike and I were reacquainted today and indeed normality ventured towards me again. Possibly that feeling bolstered by the falling off incident indeed. I started at Saint Gervais des Bains, because the ski lift car park was where I'd spent the night in this life of glamour, and made my way to Bionnay along an innocuous road, followed by Bionhassay which was a road described at the bottom in both English and French as narrow, winding and very steep. And the French do not exaggerate these things, not even usually bothering to jot them down indeed. So yes, it was interesting, more so when the occasional car came on by. From Bionhassy I went up past le Fioux and up to Col de Voza, a ski station in the season. I then bimbled up to the Hotel le Prarion with its amazing panoramic view. Then frankly I came back down again. I had intended to go via Champles and down an interesting off road descent but in honesty owing to the snow on the ground, couldn't even begin to detect where the track was. I know, I know, I had a good map, directions, a compass and Garmin and have completed a nav skills course. Still, I felt ill prepared to navigate in unknown territory in the outlying hills of Mont Blanc in the snow. So be it.

Funnily, I don't have an issue with riding in the snow particularly, it's just like mud which gives a little bit more, and of course can cover interesting things too, but it doesn't really flummox me, I've done it before.

Next stop was considering tonight and tomorrow. I'd kind of got my eye on a walk which goes from Servoz, or indeed could go from numerous other locations. Tourist offices being shut for the season in the smaller towns, I ended up in les Houches which is clearly a big ski town in the season. Tourist office man there spoke English with maybe an antipodean accent. Not a trace of French accent. I had got to the point where I felt a shower might be in order, and the thought of warm water after this morning's awakening to ice on the insides of all the van window made me just a little bit euphoric. Tourist office man it seems fobbed me off. We talked about sites which were open and which took camping cars (French terminology that). But after touring three towns and 7 campsites, I finally returned to les Houches which he had already assured me had no Aires de camping cars. The book, however says it does, but it's a E15 cost for the night. I just didn't care by this point and sought out the site. To find it closed but not so that you couldn't get in. So here I am, prepared to pay but sat here for free with free wifi too. How fortuitous is that?

Anything else

18/11/12

So, I found myself in Chamonix at the foot of Mont Blanc today. I'd planned at establishing myself in a base there, looking at perhaps three days in the same campsite. Think of that, eh, a campsite, showers and all sorts. I had some expectations of the place. I knew it sounded a bit little Britainish and that it was likely to have many familiar sounds around me, and that there would undoubtedly be dishevelled climbers floating about the place. I was hopeful of perhaps finding someone to pair up with or a group to join up with. But I'll be honest, I really hated the place. It was like Blackpool meets Ambleside, horrific amounts of folk, all dressed in new looking pristine clothing. My slightly ragged Mountain Equipment jacket was a little out of place. No scruffy climbers evident, just people enjoying the sunshine, the views, the coffee and the wine. Perhaps the scruffy climbers were out on the hill.

There were a couple of things which made me run away from the place.

The Vegas style thing it had going on.

Sunday tourist offices and accommodation bureaus all shut – French campsites have different set up to UK ones. Quite often campervan sites are different to tent and caravan ones and it's not straight forward going. Also, it's out of season so finding on the off chance an open one was going to be difficult.

The Vegas style thing it had going on.

The car parking – oh my word how expensive is that.

The Vegas style thing it had going on.

The lack of roads – looking for possible road rides was for once actually as hard as looking for possible mountain bike rides. I have bought a map though.

The Vegas style thing it had going on.

But oddly it was in fact the crowded nature of the place, but also the nature of the crowds. For the first time since starting my travels I felt lonely. I mean, I've been alone which is fine, but to actually feel lonely was kind of difficult for me, and it was because genuinely the place was filled with people in pairs, in groups and in families. I actually took a deep breath and checked I was being logical not emotional by spending time trying to identify anyone else there as an individual. It made me feel alone, and that was horrid somehow. Mind you, I know you do chose your feelings, and perhaps I chose that one, but still, it is what it is, and I ran away.

But I haven't run far, just to a nearby village. I still plan on visiting the tourist information, the mountain guides places, seeing what my options are. The weather, it seems should be with us until maybe Thursday this week (I checked on the closed mountain guides office door). And I'll do some proper work on planning bike rides too, as a back up option …

Hey ho. I miss e-mail and internet at times like tonight, sat in the car park for a ski station, nobody else about.

Rescue me

16/11/12

Only me. Only me that can rescue me, that is. Not that I need (currently) rescue in any physical sense, but emotions are looking a bit like a cartoon drawing of a splat. I have to try and do some straight line thinking, and for that, I'm clearly going to need cake. Good job I have what the itemised receipt from Super U terms “industriele” sized Barre Marbree Cacao cake. Sponge chocolate marble cake to you and me. I promise you it was cheaper to buy it this way.

Many things have been buzzing through my head over the last few days. It's actually been quite a negative time. Firstly I reached a conclusion that this isn't enough. Spending my time riding bikes, walking up hills, living like a skanky feral creature isn't enough. I need purpose, and by 'eck I am trying to find it. I am pressing on with Open Uni – it's not enough. I am writing new poems and reupholstering old ones – it's still not enough. Basically I need some form of a purpose, and I'm coming to the conclusion it has to be a job. Without purpose my world is shrinking and too much importance is being put on things which shouldn't be taking up so much of my world's head space. It's not proportionate, not at all so, my world's belt just tightened and the walls came nearer when I gave up work. So, that's something I'm thinking hard about. Maybe voluntary work, maybe something in a hostel or a bunk house. I'm starting to feel a lack of ties to Manchester too, so anything is possible. This isn't running away from, this is running towards. That's hugely important to me.

Secondly, yesterday was the seven year anniversary of my husband's death. The 15^th November bites me on the arse every year, and I've come to accept it. I wriggle and squirm like a puppy resisting the bath as November approaches every year. I try filling my time, I try not filling my time, I try avoidance, retreat, anything, but this year, I just went with acceptance. Accept that in this area I remain broken, and it's Ok to be like that, really it is, and I just do my best with what I have. So I left Vernet les Bains early doors and started to climb the path to the first refuge of the Pic de Canigou. There is no let up, it is a relentless up, up and more up. Every step is truly upwards, and the route takes you through woodland, along sandy paths, boulder fields, scree, across rivers, the terrain is varied, and the views spectacular. And the sun shone on me once it had risen above the opposite mountains. And on my retreat I placed a stone on the first and highest Cairn I passed in memory of Dave, and in sorrow that he's no longer here. He always used the word “proud” when talking about the things I did, and the things he loved about me. He would have been proud of me now. It was his word, bewildering as I found it, even then I learned to accept it as his ultimate sanction. In a funny way, it's just as well, because it's pretty much his money I'm spending in a really warped way. And I got through yesterday feeling equilibrious. Balanced and OK. Somehow the previous day's lack of purpose had evaporated and I knew that actually most things are not important. Things I thought mattered, perhaps don't. Well, definitely don't. There was an overwhelming feeling of the unmattering of stuff.

Thirdly I was on the verge of several actions, none of which were really determined by any sense of logic, or by asking myself what is it you want, you really want? A gut action was taking me home. I wanted to be home. I had set off northwards wanting to simply be home. I wanted to feel my roots and the ground, I wanted to visit my sister, to go and stay with my friend Cath who would absorb me into her family and remind me I have places and people I belong to. I wanted to belong again, I didn't want to feel adrift.

And something changed too. Plans were made and unmade, and my directions became vague and I realised I wasn't being led by where I, me, I wanted to be. I'd discarded plans with a friend to climb near Monaco, I'd left it too late for Finestrat plans with other folk. I needed a plan, and it needed to belong to me, driven by me and what I wanted. Why hadn't I been doing this all along, what is wrong with me? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and I was simply opening my hand and letting it blow away with the wind, in fact, giving it a helping hand. Fists needed closing. And I need to stop drifting. My head is fighting with my heart somewhat, and they really need to be a team on this.

Which is why I am headed to Chamonix not home.

Oh, and the Rescue Me title bounces through my head from a bit of ancient pop history, sung by some screachy Diva, and it's a reminder that I am properly self contained, and this is a wonderful thing. I have my drive back.

All learning

So, what, you may ask yourselves has this nomadic vagrant skanky feral creature actually been doing with her time. Navel gazing apart of course.

Shazza has a log book, hand written, none less, and it gives a good idea of the basic itinerary to date which goes a bit like this:

1^st November St Georges de Reintembaul. Shazza couldn't spell this. My first trip on getting off the boat, first time right hand side of the road driving. It was all about the journey, and of course the destination which was a sneaky night with an old work colleague in her French pad …

2^nd November Olonne sur Mer. Again slow progress, and not a lot going on other than driving as I got used to … well … everything. The driving, the shopping, the navigation, the works. Rocked up here at an Aires I hadn't known was there, paid 5 Euros for the privilege. That was also a learning point.

3^rd November Monbazillac. My first proper attempt to live the dream. Slept in a vineyard and thought I'd made it!

4^th November Dordogne on the road bike. Beautiful. Slept in St Clar, somewhere near Toulouse.

5^th November Gavarnie – what a beautiful amazing place. Neither ski nor walking season so complete and utter tranquility. Snowed as I got up in the morning so plans to do the Cirque were abandoned for Cauterets and walking the GR10 where I meandered somehow from autumn to winter wonderland.

6^th November stop over was near Lourdes. Another annoyingly driving rich day Again, all learning. Next sleep over Les Cabannes

7^th November I learned that if I park facing East then the sun does some of the work of chiselling ice off the inside of the windscreen. Arrens Marsous mountain biking, brilliant.

8^th November I worried about Shazza. Mountains are making her hot and bothered and there's been a black smoke incident. Oil & Water are being checked daily. Ax au Thermes bimbling today, up hills, round town, talking to french folk about quiche and sausage, and washing my feet in public in the town centre thermal sulphur pool. Bliss.

9^th November slept Thues Entre Valls Aire which was terrifying. Pitch black when I rocked up and entry is on barrier so you kind of feel committed before you're even in. And when I got in, St Bernard dog, two hippy mobiles and banjo music. What had I strayed into? Locked doors. Did brilliant walk involving rope walkways, sheer drops, ladders, the works. I would do that all again. Loved it.

10^th November, road bike up and down hills and hairpin experience. Somewhere near St Marsal where you pay 3 Euros for the use of the Aires. But it's brilliant because to pay it you go into the village shop where there were home cooked bakery products. Who could ask for anything more. Next stop Amelie les Bains

11^th November got the MTB out in Arles sur Tec, slept in Le Boulou which was jam packed with German camper vans. Belgians too. Evening walk along the river ended a fine day.

12^th November. Attempted a rest day. Found a beach, found a Brit, talked the hind leg off him and slept in local pick up / dogging spot with the doors locked. Chatted up by Pascale, random French man who was transfixed by my blue eyes, brown hair combo.

13^th November – got up early to avoid anglo french relations. Visited Ille sur Tec for MTB information and headed off to Casanove to play on the mountain bike. Moved on to Casteil for the night, lovely woodland Aires.

14^th November got up early because hey, that's how I roll and got on the road bike. 5 hours later and a lot of climbing, I'd looked at all possible parking / driving approaches to Pic de Canigou, which was drawing me towards it as the biggest mountain in the area. Massif. Indeed.

15^th November slept in Vernet les Bains and washed everything in sight due to access to spring water. Not for drinking but my god you can wash a lot of knickers. Got up, walked up up and more up to the first refuge en route to Canigou. Beautiful day. Did six hours of walking but in view of the sunshine and views I swear I have never ever stopped so many times on a walk just to sit and chill. Actually drank nearly all my water which is so not like me.

My legs, by the way, have amassed 16 hours of exercise in the last three days and are screaming at me for rest.

And that's where I've been …

Inner Peace

12 November

I have become a living cliché with nothing new to say, and no original thoughts. I know this because yesterday evening I found inner peace walking by the river. She looked like twilight would if twilight were a person, ethereal but with wisps of mist gently hanging over the water. Oh dear. Maybe there's a reason cliches exist. Perhaps some are actually based in reality.

This couldn't be a bigger contrast from tonight. Tonight I am parked at a beach, somewhere near Perpignan. It was beautiful here during the day, isolated, quiet, not a soul in sight other than some naked fat dude who appeared while I was sat watching sailing boats on the horizon. In the car park there was a fellow Brit and I crammed 12 days of English conversation into 15 minutes. Dutifully remembering the wise words of you have two ears and one mouth, use them in that proportion. Because it really would not do to be rude. Besides which the Brit was kind of extraordinarily posh. Has a residence in France, has a huge ex Austrian Army van converted to living accommodation and does something in the city when in the UK. He travels a lot and named all manner of places he'd been, Libya, Egypt, when still safe to do that. Nowadays he does Europe and Morocco. I returned to the beach this evening thinking it might be a pleasant place to stay and had a sign saying camping cars 48 hours parking only please.

Two other vans are here, and I've been talking to Pascale, the man next door. Somehow in my broken French and his broken English I have managed to establish my chosen venue for the night changes radically as darkness falls and is in fact the local dogging spot. Or possibly the dogging spot for the entire Argyles coast. I've drawn the curtains and locked the doors. Not because I feel any fear of dogging as such, it's just a harmless occupation between consenting adults and they don't tend to hit on non consenting. However, Pascale has already offered me variously tea, comedy DVDs, whacky backy. He's also offered me some words regarding my brown hair and blue eyes, new words for pretty I understand. Still, at least if he's gently and from a mild kind of a distance coming on to me, he is at least prepared to keep at that distance, and he's here if a bigger threat comes along. So the bottle of wine I bought for tonight can wait, as can my intended evening stroll on the beach. Just in case I need to get the key in the ignition and get the hell out of dodge … The second van by the way has two men in it who look the very stereotype of dogging participants.

System Overload

2nd November 2012

Travelling alone I really miss conversation. I miss human interaction. I know this, have always known that I have this need to feel a connection. It's not a new thing, and it's not that I have become rabidly bonkers when I only left friends this morning. It's just something inevitable with me. Don't get me wrong, I am comfortable with my own company in many ways, I can even spend days in silence without radio or music. But I do crave intimacy with the world. Which is what the internet is there for. Stopping me from going insane bonkers I guess.

Actually, it's not just conversation I miss. It is the intimacy, the having a friend or a partner to talk to at the end of the day, not just to tell them what you did, but what you thought, and to know what they thought too, to connect with them. There are multiple people in my life who I have that interaction with. What would this trip be like for two? Apart from cramped of course. Actually, there would be both pluses and minuses. Could I pee in a bucket with a partner on board. Would we trip over each other and the bikes, I suspect so, yes. Would the feeling of freedom and the no need to make a decision until I'm behind the wheel disappear? I don't think it would. I think with someone with similar ability to go with the flow, roll with the punches, it would flow, and in fact, there would be more ideas to choose from, synergy and all that management speak I guess.

Anyway, I have pay as you go internet, which is good. Thank you Orange France, you have added to my trip's feeling of fun. Feeling of fun. Hmm.

Work for years had the philosophy whenever a request was made of us to sit back and say “will this win us a medal?” It gave complete clarity in how to prioritise and how to decide on how far to take things and respond to requests both external and internal. I don't have an equivalent now. Which I find weird. Do I need a sense of purpose in order to make decisions, I wonder. Is purpose needed? Maybe not in everybody's life, and the real question is, is it needed in mine? I've never been goal driven. I'm working on a decision making question, and am getting somewhere near. The question at the moment is something along the lines of “does this have the potential to enhance the likelihood of fun?” It's clunky and it's not quite right. Can't use happiness as you can't tell what's going to make you happy, daft old concept thinking you can, but fun can lead in that direction more likely than not fun things can anyway. Is it fun? Hmm. Maybe …

And no song today because I have been listening to French radio in an attempt to bring my French speaking and more importantly listening up to speed.