Al fresco 27.06.16
If I'd thought about where I might eat my breakfast this morning, it wouldn't have been al fresco at the top end of london st.
If I'd thought about where I might eat my breakfast this morning, it wouldn't have been al fresco at the top end of london st.
Waking early and with the house all packed and cleared I've walked out to treat myself to breakfast at gonzos tearoom but unusually it's shut. Pandoras kitchen makes a good alternative, tho a steep flight of curved stairs don't look attractive to my backpack so I'm hoping the sun is more persistient than the rain and am sitting outside enjoying the experience of beginning to be a traveller.
The rest of the world begins its working day. I've left my nice bottle of cold water in the fridge and forgotten to re-glue the crack on my thumb with new skin this morning but am otherwise intact so far! My best hope is a journey similar to that of a friend when she visited the faroes. Dense fog meant they couldn't land so they returned for a night in Scotland. The second day they tried again but despite circling for some time it was again too dense and they slept in Norway. Third day lucky and they made it. she said when they were landing she was mightily pleased that they had not attempted a landing in fog.
Choosing a seating position is a skill I realised I'd forgotten only once seated. Whilst enjoying people watching, nevertheless, having the main stream of pedestrians inspect my portobello mushrooms with rocket on sour dough does not enhance my eating experience. No doubt this is not their usual 8.30 Monday morning experience and undoubtably many look on enviously. I'm pleased when someone sits at another table with a plate of full English and feel less conspicuous.
Hefting my pack onto my back I consider that eating needs to be minimal if weight lifting immediately after. I step into the road but with alarm step back quickly. Disoriented already, I'm unsure whether I'm looking for cars from the right or the left. I smile at myself all the way to the station arriving in good time for my 9.25 train. Priority is breakfast second course, coffee. Clutching my 'grande' I check the boards only to discover that my train time is 9.57!
With my backpack on my back, day sack on my front, coffee in one hand and tickets in the other I look for a seat but find no benches. Perching on a concrete pillar I wait for my train and already begin to wonder what I can discard from my pack.
I doubt whether I will continue to share this stream of consciousness for it feels like a comfortable rambling inner dialogue, morning pages rather than travel writing, a thinking and sifting of immediate experience. A text came in from Martha, staying in my garden house. Three days ago she told me the toaster wouldn't stay down to toast her crumpets. I asked her to try toast and to let me know if it still didn't work so I could replace it. Having not heard from her I assumed all was well. Timing is everything.
We cross the yare and I feel a lurch in my heart, when will I return? it was the same feeling I had as I looked around my slightly echoey house this morning. Cleaned and tidied for others, I love it's light and its spaciousness. it looks an attractive spot to lay ones head and I am lucky that it is mine.
I'm also in love with my iPad and far from wondering whether it could ever replace a journal, I now know that it already has and wonder if I can progress to turn my phone into a hotspot. Apple, I hate to say it but I'm also in love with you despite my protestations.
