Friday, 18 September 2015
sat in a hotel in Wales
The trains to get here were uneventful but crowded. The landscape rolled by sometimes bathed with sunshine and sometimes showered with rain. I read and listened to music and tried to keep my elbow off the middle armrest for the nice lady sat next to me. The carriage seemed full of folks travelling for the mundane. No one looked terribly excited to be heading west. I probably didn't look terribly excited either.
I had an old boss who used to get giddy when he travelled. He'd roll back on his heels and open and close his hands with a younger grin than he had any right to and then straighten his tie and chuckle. It was an infectious giddiness, and often I would smile back, hinting that I too shared his excitement, in spite of my more stoic demeanour.
I find myself these days trying to talk myself out of the excitement of a journey. Choosing instead to fret over what I might have forgotten than delight in what I might find when I get there, or even along the way. As the train sped and the landscape passed like someone flipping too quickly through a pages of a book, I smiled out the window and abandoned my checklist.
Now I'm sat in my hotel on the riverside at sunset, compelled to write but unsure what. The quacks from the ducks on the water drift through the window. There's a lovely sense of being here, but not quite being sure where here is.