Journeying

Familarity breeds claustrophobia, especially in the city. This weekend I had the fortune of leaving the smoke behind to cross county after county by train and car. It's a sad fact of life that I find car journeys more than a bit exciting, more than likely due to their rarity. Changing gear and sitting at trafic lights in a private metal box has long been replaced with the clatter of a tube carriage, or the hum of displaced air past cold ears as I pedal my way through grid-locked streets. On Saturday evening between 8 and 9 o'clock, I sat silently, alone in the back of a blue VW Golf streaming through Gloucestershire in the twilight. The sky played out a light show for an audience of one, wispy grey clouds and twinkly stars fixed my eyes without blinking. With the simplicity of the sky and familiar white noise, sleep came gently.