Beyond The North Wind

Travel slow.
Put down your phone.
Take in your surroundings.
Smell the wind.
Taste the rain.
Feel the sun that escapes the clouds.

That was the plan…

…and it worked out for the most part, it was the pain we didn’t factor in. The numbing of the brain cycling into a headwind up a hill. Thoughts reduced to a series of numbers, counting our way north. But then that pain makes it all the more beautiful when we stop, the rosy ache settles in our legs and the cold wind soothes our hot cheeks and we can feel our lungs solid and strong beneath our ribs. And you really do smell the wind, the nearly-charcoal of the peat, you taste your own sweat, the sun is a friend with a strong arm pushing your back.

Joy was found in the simplest of things because our day-to-day routine was so stripped back. It was straining against the pedals, focussing on the brow of a hill, breathing. And it made the coffee in the morning or the fire at night into events, rituals. A sip of whisky set our insides aglow and sent our minds skipping.

You can become obsessed with wave quality when travelling at high speeds, focused on one solo and deaf to the rest of the orchestra, the texture of the journey forgotten. For us surfing became a release, freedom from the dense earth on which we had been labouring.

It was cold, clear joy.

On the way back it felt down hill all the way, even climbing the mountains, we were rewarded with sunshine and clear horizons and we all slept on the ferry.

I don’t think it’s the last time we go slow and I hope to bring some of the same joys back home.