Читать книгу My Midsummer Morning - Alastair Humphreys - Страница 22

THE FIRST DAY WAS long, loud concrete drudgery. Before I even got out of Vigo I had to slog through the expensive, in-the-action central streets, the poorer rings of tower blocks, then the car showrooms, industrial parks, out-of-town shopping, and – eventually – the expensive, almost-in-the-country suburbs. Laurie did not suffer this misfortune back in the 1930s when the boundary between town and country was much clearer.

Pavements are hard and bruise your feet. I looked forward to the varied footfall of paths and fields. The day was hilly, hot, and my pack was bastard-heavy. It’s difficult to find a place to pee in a city if you don’t have a penny to spend in a café. City planners consider only cars. Their oily, noisy highways steal the best routes, choking, hooting, scaring me, and making plain the absurd slowness of walking in today’s high-speed world. Pedestrians are neglected, or forbidden and forced onto circuitous routes. I walked with my eyes down, dodging dog shit, trudging through shredded tyres, broken glass and fast food plastic. Decades later, in the era of cars, Laurie reminisced about his Spanish experience. ‘I was lucky, I know, to have been setting out at that time, in a landscape not yet bulldozed for speed.’

At last, though, Vigo was behind me, and I walked inland, away from the sea. A thousand rivers and streams had the opposite idea. They pushed past me, rushing towards the Atlantic. All of man’s movements here had been channelled into this single valley, shaded with eucalyptus trees. There were no quiet parallel routes, nor could I head for open high ground and make my own way. If you leave Vigo to the east, this is the way you come. So I joined the procession. Cars, buses, lorries, and me: all going our own way. All, for now, going the same way. But I was the only one walking, and walking on a busy road stinks.

When I pedalled away from my front door to cycle around the world, aged 24, the scale of what I was taking on overwhelmed me. I was burdened by doubt as to whether I had chosen the right path in life. By going away, I discovered a deeper appreciation of everything I left behind. This heightened the significance of the unknown I had chosen in its place, and raised the stakes of my gamble.

Later, 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.