My invisible travel companion
The tube from from the London King’s Cross station pulls into Paddington shortly before 11 and we lug our suitcases out of the train and onto the platform. The heavy back pack digs into my shoulders while we walk, and as I wheel the suitcases up the walkway to the lift, I have to keep stopping to catch my breath . When we enter the station, its beautiful towering ceiling smiles down at me in welcome, and high above, the beams holding up the curved roof appear unfazed by the weight they carry. Up ahead, the massive glass windows with the white metal grills twisted into beautiful shapes shower the hundreds of people waiting for their trains with bright light as if to show them the way.
A cacophony of sounds assaults my ears; the click-clack of a woman’s sharp heels on the smooth floor, a baby crying at the top of its lungs, announcements blaring from the intercom announcing train departure and arrival times, a man with bloodshot eyes walking around blasting music from a black speaker in his hand. Our train does not depart for another hour, and I fear the pounding in my head will soon become a raging monster.
After what feels like an eternity , the screen shows what platform we board our train from, and a throng of people suddenly flock to the boarding gate. I fumble around in my bag for my pink wallet, removing my ticket while trying not to drop my half-eaten croissant. In the distance, my boyfriend’s stripped hat is all I can see over the heads of people, and it is what I keep my eyes on as I walk past the gates, a light rain falling on the platform as I walk past a dozen carriages before finally making it to the farthest one. When we at last find our seats, our bags and suitcases stowed away, I can finally relax.
Over the next four hours, the train makes it’s way down 200 miles of the beautiful English countryside to the south, passing towns with names I try to pronounce under my breath like a secret no one else can know; Taunton, Plymouth, Liskeard, Lostwithiel. As the train runs towards Cornwall, England’s westernmost part of the Southwestern peninsula, I watch sheep scattered across green fields and cows grazing idly while the trees and shrubs look on like silent witnesses.
In the distance, undulating hills rise to meet dark grey skies and I watch transfixed as the fog sits on them with a familiarity of old friends. At times, a weak sun shines as if covered by a huge cloth and bathes the hills in a brown haze, and on and on we go until my right knee becomes as stiff as a board.
As we approach Plymouth, the coast begins to show itself, the water a massive grey thing sitting heavily on the land below. I look up from my book just in time to see boats bobbing gently up and down on the water, and up ahead, rows and rows of houses crouch low on the hill like birds waiting to take flight.
Later, as the train pulls into the city of Truro, I spot the city’s cathedral standing exactly where I left her. The following morning when we walk into town, I stand beneath her and look up to take her entire length . My face lifted up to her in admiration, in an optical illusion, I watch the white tufts of cloud moving quickly past her and feel like she is falling over, about to crush me. A few days later on a Sunday morning, it is the organ playing from inside this magnificent building that wakes me up from my sleep.
When we leave the city that Sunday afternoon and drive on narrow winding roads that leave me nauseous into the North of Cornwall , we come to a coastline that takes my breath away. We make our way to a cafe that sits atop a cliff, the blue water beneath us beating gently against the rocks before spreading out into the distance like an endless carpet. I sit transfixed, watching the beautiful water rest below as if it has just come from a long journey. On her surface, different shades of blue appear randomly like footpaths on a field, and the occasional boat riding on her back makes her stir from her sleep.
As I sip on my drink and open my book, I see a bird fly so close to the surface it appears to hop playfully on the water and stop to follow her movements. As if unfortunate in her endeavour to catch a meal, off she hops into the distance until my eyes can’t follow her anymore.
Later, as seagulls fly close enough to my head as if ready to pluck a hair , we walk down the cliff on a path adorned by flowers on each side like a beautiful bride. As we come up to the craggy shoreline with rocks so black they remind me of trees burned for charcoal, I stare at the orange lichen that has made its home on the rough surface , the turquoise water that contrasts it and think how much my Dad would have loved it all.
Later, when I start to write about it all, it is him that I write this for, the man who planted the love of adventure and nature inside me. He is the one I carry with me wherever I go, my forever travel companion, my heavenly angel who now experiences the world through me.
