Home: Leave & Return

A rite of passage. An adventure across Europe. A new beginning.

Part 1. Being back home is a strange feeling.

 Well, it is many feelings melded together into an undefinable state — some juxtaposed combination of nostalgia for the past and anticipation for the future. The safety of familiarity and the alluring risk of the unknown. I left because I needed to express who I truly am, environment playing an important part in that. I found a new home in the wild parts of Portugal and a mobile log cabin, the Walden-on-wheels, Maria the Mercedes.

I followed a trail of opportunity across Europe. Sometimes leading to burnout, dead-ends and long detours. Sometimes leading to unbelievable synchronicities and moments of indescribable joy. Navigating the foggy and volatile terrain of our modern existence as best as I could — I walked through the metaphorical fire and escaped with a few scars and a few stories. 

I was desperate to escape the urban maze, but the true desire was for new eyes to perceive the world with. A perspective that can only come from throwing yourself into the abyss and coming out the other side. Embodied experience instead of intellectual understanding. 

I haven't seen the sun much since being in northern Europe, but I have seen a different sort of illumination — one that gives energy in a different sort of way. The reconnection with friends and family. Bright smiles and bad jokes. The satisfaction of comfort and convenience, after choosing a monk-like existence for so long. 

Perhaps the most significant insight since being back home, is a deeper appreciation for experiencing the full spectrum of the human condition. There's a lot of value that comes from walking into the shadows. I chose to ride my bike through London in the rain, to open myself up to the visceral chaos of the city of Christmas eve. I chose to feel the bitter cold of a winter's morning, in order to appreciate the warmth of a wood fire. I choose it all, in order to feel more deeply. Because feeling is living. 

This equilibrium has to be maintained, the pendulum always swings back. Coming home represented this for me. A rebalancing of sorts, before heading off into the unknown once again. 

Part 2. I’ve always found it difficult to say goodbye. 

The alarm was set for 5:45 in the morning, another familiar early start in the dark and cold British winter — with one exception. This would be the last time, at least for the foreseeable future. A few minutes later, I was on the motorway towards Dover. My thoughts wondered with the hypnotic rhythm of the passing highway streetlights. Reflections on a month spent back home after a crazy couple of years. How much has changed since I left, since the world began to unravel. 

It's too much to comprehend at the best of times, especially when you still have nearly 2500 kilometres to drive across 4 countries. So I took a deep breath and focused on the road ahead.  I'm not sure if it's something about long drives, but I've always observed similarities to meditation — in the sense of long periods of silence and stillness, moments of quiet introspection. Drifting between dreams and memories, the past and the present.

Before I know it, my mind wanders again. This time, thinking about the contrast between solitude and community. I've certainly come to appreciate the unique solitude of these long journeys, but I appreciate the importance of connection and community even more now. If anything, I'm certain that the last two years have shown us the importance of not being isolated — of not going it alone. 

In all honesty, it was hard to leave. The reconnection, safety and warmth of home was something I longed for. The familiarity of seemingly mundane routines — like walking the dog or watching documentaries with the family, hold so much sentimental value. It was time though, and the goodbyes were difficult but necessary. The end of a chapter is also the beginning of another one. It was time to go back to Portugal and there were 3 countries and over 2000 kilometres ahead.

Part 3. I arrived in the Basque Country for the first time today. 

After driving nearly 20 hours in 3 days, I was desperate to reach the border of Spain. Most of France is so painfully similar that it makes progress feel elusive, and the final stretch was no different. I wanted it to be over as quickly as possible, The highway was dead straight for hours. Miles of tarmac monotony and monocultures of pine trees. And toll roads. Lots of toll roads.

My nervous system became even more frazzled as the time passed. I'm sure there is a healthy threshold for time spent driving and I probably surpassed it. It probably didn't help that I noticed water leaking from the engine radiator, but that was a problem for my future self to deal with.

I headed straight for the mountains to go for a walk and to decompress. It is still noticeably winter here — the trees are stripped of their leaves and there is a chill in the air. Still, Spain means shorts weather and shorts weather it is. 

Following the river up the valley, I unintentionally find an abandoned mine called Arditurri. Every direction I look, I find either flowing streams, waterfalls or exposed mine shafts. My curiosity gets the better of me and I approach a cave for a closer look, noticing the cold air vacuum blowing out of the dark abyss. I'll probably stick to "above ground" adventures for now. Especially after hearing about the intxixu, a mythological half-human, half-cow creature that is said to live in the deserted mines. 

I walk onwards through the Oak forests, noting the distinctive leaf shape that reminds me of the forests back home. The interweaving patterns of moss and lichen catch my eye. An explosion of colour on the canvas of the tree — greens and oranges and browns, a humbling reminder of Nature's creativity and beauty. The sun is setting now and it's time to go, so I make my way back to the van for tomorrow's adventure — thankfully involving a lot of riding and no driving. 

Part 4. My entry into the Basque Country quickly became a new rite of passage. 

After realising that my van’s radiator hose had completely exploded, I had to spend the night stranded in an industrial estate in the pouring rain. The constant stream of nearby highway traffic made it impossible to fully relax, reminding me that this is no place to rest. The feeling of loneliness crept up slowly and hung over me like a dark shadow. I was helpless in this moment. I berate myself for going for a 3 hour bike ride instead of going straight to a mechanic.

When my radiator hose blew out the day before, I didn't realise the extent of the damage at first. I found out quickly enough when I was driving to a mechanic — the steam was pouring out from underneath me, pouring out of the windows like an erupting volcano of water vapour. 

It was the longest 15 minute drive of my life. The terrain in the Basque Country is extremely hilly and the van was working hard. I saw the temperature gauge reach the maximum limit and I knew I was pushing it. I had no choice. After calling 8 different garages I finally found someone willing to help me. The mechanic brought his dog, aptly named Piston, along for the journey. After 3 hours of  fixing and replacing I was miraculously back on the road. The sun came out and my miserable night spent stranded on the industrial estate felt like an event from a previous life. 

I was relieved to be on my way but still anxious about the remaining distance ahead. The mountain passes of the Pyrenees and Extramadura had to be crossed, as well as the strange, desolate void of the Spanish outback. I became increasingly aware of my van's mortality as well as my own. One thousand kilometres to go. Less than halfway but still so far. I pulled up in a lay-by near Palencia and basked in the relief that the torment of the Basque lands was now over. 

Part 5. You really get an understanding for how huge Spain actually is when you drive across it. 

It seems that in some parts there is nothing except for highways, trucks and petrol stations. Only the hardy survive here. Even the plants and rocks maintain the same sun-hardened character as the local people. 

If there is one word that can define the feeling of the Spanish landscape, it would be space. A vast openness. Skies with the deepest blue you could ever imagine. Hues of brown and beige with the incredible variety in tone and texture. Mostly barren and even desolate in some regions, but with an alluring beauty that pervades even the most deserted places. Those who love the desert will know what I mean. 

I woke up early to finish the final stretch to the border. The sun was shining but it was below freezing outside. Not that it made any difference, since the temperature outside is the same as in the van. I tried to clean my windscreen and the water froze instantly, creating a layer of ice that I had to scrape off by hand. It was going to be a long day ahead, but it was nothing compared to what lay behind. 

After many hours of driving through the wild west of Spain, I noticed the first sign of cliffrose flowers beginning to bloom. It is the smell I associate most with Portugal — an intoxicating sweetness that permeates the air, spreading its pleasant scent in whatever direction the wind blows. It was a measurable indicator of the journey reaching its final conclusion. 

It was a relief to see it again, like an old friend that was guiding my way back home. The first sign of life in a relatively lifeless place. The cork trees on the horizon beckon me back to where I belong — the sun and the sea, the dusty roads and rolling hills. 

Part 6. Find the place where time becomes elastic. 

I arrived in Portugal just over a week ago and already my concept of time has started to become blurry. Days and schedules matter less here — I don't know if it's an influence of the sunshine or a more relaxed culture, but something shifts in the atmosphere when you reach southern Europe. The stress of driving thousands of kilometres feels like a distant memory.

Each passing day becomes less about doing and more about being. To live in a rural landscape is to disconnect from the noise of modern life. The illusion of control fades away and is replaced by a quiet satisfaction of simplicity, a return to nature.

I've felt the harshness of the cold, wet winters and am now plunged back into a sense of Mediterranean comfort. I have never been more grateful for the sunshine and dry, dusty roads. Watching the sunrise and hearing the birds sing. Riding in the hills and observing the diverse and colourful butterflies, each with their own unique patterns and colours. Drinking fresh spring water straight from the Earth. Small details that are deeply appreciated after a long period of absence. I’ll trade convenience for simplicity any day. 

I can see more clearly now the correlations of what brings the most joy, a common theme being the loss of a sense of time — a feeling of fluidity and elasticity. The moments when I am most time-attentive are often the moments when I am least present. The moments when I am most present are often the moments where time matters least. I am here. I am home.