Monday, 16, 17 September, 2019
Getting ready for a trip – well, one seems to blur into another – I get this strange pit of stomach feeling, like someone has died. And I wouldn’t say excitement – but certainly anticipation or hope. I love the destination part of travelling but am not so good at the actual journey.
I find my agoraphobia kicks in. Will I be OK? Will something awful happen? What if I never get there? That’s the worry gene. But then the expectation of something different, what I want to explore, what I want to taste, what will it all feel like? Inevitably, when planning a trip near the time to leave, other places creep into my brain. These are the places I’ve been before and would like to say hello to again, but also the places I’ve not made it to…and then the anticipatory anxiety of will I be OK and what if something awful happens… Gah.
Our journey was very smooth yesterday. We arrived at Swansea on time and quickly. Then it fell apart. The little two-carriage train we transferred to on the next platform couldn’t be used. Somewhere in the muffled Welsh accented announcement the word ‘broken down’ popped in. Instead we had to wait a half hour for another train that would take us to a bus, and then on to our destination. It would add about 90 minutes to our journey.
The replacement train had only one carriage but it smelled better than the first one. These little trains are like toys. They whirr, they are filled with cheery passengers, the guard walks through making small talk to pass along to the driver where people might want to stop. We pass through little villages, see cows in small intimate hollows of fields by the tracks, and then we’re alongside the sea. There’s sand, and inns, and water, and that muddy waste you see when the tide goes out. I can smell meadows, then the sea, and sometimes soil. We’re not in London any more.
When Emma reaches me by phone, I’m on my way to the bus. I’d asked the driver for the washroom. Go in that gate, see, right along to the end, don’t worry, we’ll wait for you. And so they did. Emma lets me know that ‘Colin the taxi’ (not her husband, who has MS and is in a rest home) will meet us when we get to the station.
Another almost 90 minutes on the road, in a school bus brought in for extra duty and driven by a rather elderly man, and headed straight into a large and relentless sun, causing the driver to constantly lower and raise a rickety sun blind as he went. After the first stop he announced that he didn’t know his way to Fishguard station. Not to worry, the lady next to me did so she’d be happy to direct him. We were entertained by the winding road and by two rather spectacular funnel clouds illuminated by the setting sun and looking ominously like twin tornadoes!
Colin the taxi picked us up, along with two other weary travellers and finally we were here, at Emma’s in Goodwick! A delicious dinner, cooked by today’s carer Julie and eaten on trays on our laps in Emma’s bedroom, listening to her stories of battles with doctors, politicians, and lawyers. She doesn’t leave her room any more but there’s so much going on for her from her armchair that’s taken the place of her bed these days. I feel very lucky.
I’m sitting in Emma’s kitchen. I opened the top of the window, knowing that someone will come down eventually and ask why it’s open. The air is fresh. Outside the road is steep and birds are singing. If I lean out of the window, there’s the harbour – not the best view I’ll see today – but there it is. I havent been here for four or five years. And I made a makeshift breakfast – a cracker, cheese, and half a banana. Opposite is the cottage that Sam, Emma’s older son, lives in. I will see him today and I know what to expect. I’ve known Sam since he was a teenager.
Strangely, there is an oven in the middle of the floor. Hmm. Coming in or out, I’m not sure. Perhaps out since I notice the main oven has stickers on the doors. A new one?
This place is very cottagey. I can’t help thinking what I would do with it were it mine, although it never will be. I find it interesting how differently we all like to arrange our spaces. I’m not a big fan of the kitchen table being the main socialising area but Emma’s amazing living room was flooded some years ago and it hasn’t recovered. In there, Colin had many years ago put some fantastic carpentry there. No couch sitting for me this week.
There’s talk of the battles, the family, politics – Brexit of course, and even time for some frivolity – clothes and hair talk. Always welcome. And so to bed. I’ve been awake for a couple of hours now and will spend some time organising my clothing and electronics. Krish packs so I don’t know where most things are. I hope they both sleep for a bit longer. My alone time is more precious than anyone knows.