Abandoned Travel Writing from 2007

Abandoned Travel Writing from 2007

DEPARTURE

Why is it that Recollections of journeys, especially written ones, generally seem to start while the author is on the plane?

Is it just the fact that they're stuck sitting still for anything up to several hours?

One thing that strikes me particularly, is a thing that one author noticed as she traveled to Japan, that most travel writers often seem to start anything to do with air travel at the end, with lines such as "As the plane descended through the clouds, I saw fields like a patchwork quilt spread before me" All very well and good, if you're talking about the Rice fields outside Turin which have a spectacular shimmering gold as the evening sun catches them, but they're normally the least spectacular part of the flight. It's rare that anyone comments on how the clouds seem to morph from smoky wisps to an apparent plane of icy firmness as the craft rises above them or how the ocean, usually a flat or choppy expanse of ominous grey or brilliant blue transforms itself into a topographical map at high altitude with submerged sand banks and deep ridges that suddenly reveal themselves from the depths.

Alas, I digress, I ramble on as though I were a man thrice my age to escape the inevitable truth and the truth is that this journey saddens me, it's not one one of those travels were one does not know where they will go, or if it will change them or their future, I have the horrible position of knowing to the hour where I'm going and what I'm doing and worst of all, I know that the aim of this journey will directly affect my future, possibly throwing it into confusion or helping it along the path to the career that I'm aiming for. I would pray for a little uncertainty in this trip, certainly for something other than the result, but cold calculated planning has almost set in stone this journey from start to finish.

A lack of places to poison my lungs greeted me upon arrival at Heathrow as one of the security guards joked to me "The Smoking Points? Gone up in smoke mate!".
To be honest, it was only a minor inconvenience after what had been a thoroughly enjoyable flight in a small aircraft that bucked and kicked as it met with each pocket of turbulence, invisible but powerful, they reminded me that I'm not gliding on a cushion of air but rather being forced along in a thoroughly unnatural manner by two horizontal furnaces strapped to sheets of metal, it brought the whole experience (metaphorically speaking) back down to earth.

In hindsight, the fact that I had to go outside for a stick of dried nicotine was in itself no loss, a little fresh air (ha ha) and sunshine was a welcome addition to the day. I also met an amusing chap from an African country which I can unfortunately hardly remember much less pronounce the name of and after a short chat in good English we switched to French as it turned out to be his mother-tongue and my second language. A fortunate meeting really, as have been so many of my airport acquaintances, for they all give an opportunity to glimpse a snapshot of someone else's life and on lucky rare occasions, someone else's culture. Unfortunately though, this was not one such occasion as our conversation only took the time for two cigarettes to disintegrate into embers and white puffs of gas.

Once more through the metal detectors, once more I wonder what the effect of increasing the frequency of these irradiation gates is having on my body cells, probably a negligible effect considering the time that you're exposed and certainly less than my constant nicotine and coffee intake (cigarette smoke and caffeine are mutagens for those that didn't know it.) but unlike them, this is not voluntary but compulsory.
All is swiftly forgotten though as once more I'm up and away, suspended upon alloy wings with brilliant white bulges of vapour gleaming below me and Frank Sinatra singing in my ears truly making the occasion. I'd have rounded off the mood in style had there been any port or cognac available, but true to airplane fashion, the spirits available were reduced to a quantity adequate for pixies with growth problems.

I must admit also that I was most impressed with the behaviour of the passenger in front of me; a tiny infant that could hardly be older than a year that handled the turbulence with a stoic calm of a trained pilot and with the exception of the obvious discomfort of re-compression during the descent, remained as quiet as a mouse, what was truly impressive was when the mother admitted that it was the little child's first flight.


TERRA FIRMA

Touchdown was a smooth affair, unfortunately the baggage handling turned out to be more muddled than a ball of twine, but there was a light hearted honesty and helpfulness from the workers there as one admitted that he'd found my bag on a belt designated for travelers from outside the European Union (an odd situation given that I was traveling from the administrative and historical heart of Europe) and that someone must've "cocked-up" a little with the sorting, there was a generally warm and amicable feeling all round amongst the staff as the lady behind the desk attempted to help some poor soul that was doing their best to communicate with slightly broken English and was clearly finding themselves in the deep end of the proverbial pool. (Luckily the Edinburgh and Lothian accent is not really all that hard to understand, especially when you compare it with Glasgow, Highlands or that of the unfortunate "NED" culture that is reportedly prevalent around the city center and Dalkeith)

A desperately needed cigarette lit from a Trusty Zippo (incidentally, one that had lived in Edinburgh for several years before it came into my possession) and I find myself on a bus thundering jerkily along into the heart of Edinburgh, recipient of one of my father's trademark worry-calls and listening to songs by little known musician named David Newton.
The scenery that passes me by is a welcome change to that which one usually finds beside the roads, although the area is urban, there's a delightfully rural appeal from the roadside walls and the houses too have a slight hint of Victorian architecture about them.
I wish I could also whitter away about how the windows of the bus seemed like screens displaying fleeting glances into the vehicles and shops, a fleeting impression of other people going about their lives, imprinted and washed from your conscious as the hulk of steel on which you're riding whips past with little concern other than it's destination, but it is of little consequence as they are indeed whisked from the eye in an instant.

Once in Edinburgh's city center, I am hounded by yet another call from my father, it should be a comfort to know that he is concerned about his son, but the level of concern he shows over frankly trivial matters are somewhat of a nuisance, but I know that it's a caring nuisance.
The Bus to Galashiels was overall an uneventful trip, with the bus driver showing a great deal of skill as he powered the motorised metal box around each sweeping corner of the road at a quite impressive speed.
Schedules have to be kept you know

Despite my protestation against remarking on fields resembling quilts, I'm afraid that I must use such a simile in describing the landscape between Edinburgh and the Borders, for as the Fields lie along vast stretches of rolling hills and several valleys they do appear as vast quilted blankets of grass laid over an innumerable quantity of slumbering giants.
The bus I noticed, was gifted with the uncanny ability to ability to make the ride seem to last too long and afterwards as I stepped off onto the already darkening bus station of Galashiels, feel that it would have been nice for it to have lasted longer.
Needless to say, I was glad to see my Aunt again, her usual retinue of three black Labradors invisible in the fast fading light.

It was evident that had I been tired from the long journey, my Aunt had, that day, redefined Exhaustion in the family dictionary. I have seldom seem someone so tired, (that claim being quite powerfully backed by my witnessing and participating in many sleepless nights at university attempting to finish assignments on time) but still, she pulled herself onwards, even somewhat covertly washing the dishes despite my insistence to let me do them. She holds herself together remarkably well, but as usual, her nightly routine results in the first few hours of sleep being sat in front of the television having attempted to watch the news.
I cannot blame her for it however, for that will power is something I have oft witnessed throughout not only my family but also humanity itself . I have even personally experienced, albeit in another form, my father may be confounded by a problem of a Do-It-Yourself nature and will strain every fibre of his being to finding a solution, and the moment I broke my toe, I found that I was increasingly irritated at the limitations that it attempted to put on my life and movement and so, would continue lifting any boxes I could and storing things in the attic despite the discomfort (In hindsight, probably not one of my better decisions).

Another welcome face was that of my Great Aunt, whom was able to keep the conversation going despite her Dachshund's incessant barking at a friend he had clearly forgotten (or more likely, not bothered to remember) it was at this point that I knew I was home in my native country and felt relaxed again to the point that even the chill wind that blew around me as I puffed away at a cigarette later that night, felt like an old friend tugging at my sleeve to welcome me back.
I knew that it couldn't and wouldn't last though, I'd have one day here and then I was to move on further up north, up to those dreaded white sheets that I was to stain with ink in legible patterns, up north too, however to some good friends that had unfortunately found themselves in the same predicament.

...
(Here's where I cut it off as I went up to St Andrews, simply put, I met a friend in Edinburgh, had a decent time, headed up to St Andrews, met the Clergywoman that I was staying with during the resits and met up with some friends then headed home. I wrote the concluding paragraph before I finished the rest of the text.)
...

FIN
As I end this short essay, I'm sure that you are wondering what the point of this piece of text is.
Is it travel writing? If so, then why did it digress so far into my mind and experiences?
Is it a journal? If so, why did it bother to venture into descriptions of the places and people I've seen, often avoiding delving too deeply into my own thoughts?
Let me tell you now, that I set out to write a journal of my travel, but as with so many things in life, there is rarely a sharp edge between two things, life is messy, factual, emotional, descriptive, imaginative, happy and sad all at once, and despite the fact that in this, I have taken you on a journey that I have frequently travelled alone and will continue to do so. I must now thank you, for although you may not have realised it, you have joined me on a journey that is a fleeting glance into my life. Although you are staring out the window on your own journey and I am on a bus going elsewhere, for fleeting moment, we have met eye to eye before we are both whisked away along different roads to our separate destinations.