Pre Trip Blues
Sitting in the queue at Algeciras waiting for the ferry to Tangier, I just thought I’d jot down my thoughts on the journey so far, and some unforeseen psychological issues.
The next few articles I write here will be diary entries, just my thoughts on the day, or in this case days. Please excuse the unedited content.
I have been struggling somewhat with this trip. 20 years in the making and yet somehow I’m not feeling the love. My first visit to Morocco was in 2006, we flew to Marrakech, hired a 4x4 and just toured around, arriving at hotels and hostels unannounced armed only with a paper map and a rough guide. It was a fantastic trip, I vowed to go back, this time in my own vehicle.
20 years later here I am, I should be excited, and I am, but I’m also suffering a bit of angst. There’s the ‘what if’ concerns; breakdowns, accidents, illness etc, that’s pretty standard. For me anyway. I can cope with that. What’s really getting me is the feeling that I shouldn’t be here. I’m slacking, I have a business to run and a family back home, while the business should be fine and the family are supportive I can’t shift the guilt.
My eldest is starting her GCSE’s or whatever they are called now, I’m not there. My wife will be doing all the ferrying around of our 3 children, on top of all the regular things she does… They will be fine.. but yet.. I feel horrible… I’m hoping this feeling will go away when my feet touch African soil. ‘There’s no logical reason why it should’ says my inner monologue, but I’m going to cling to that hope.
The journey so far has been a blur, smashing out the miles as best I can, England done in half a day, or it would have been had there not been technical issues at the channel tunnel. It was after midnight when I arrived in France, then a broken nights sleep in a French aire. By the end of the day I was in northern Spain, another sleep in a truck stop and I arrived in Algeciras last night. I decided to cross France avoiding toll roads, it was a mixed experience. I had imagined that there would be dual carriageways most of the way but I spent a lot of time on minor roads, and around Le Mans I was weaving through single track country roads and tiny villages. It felt interminably slow.
Normally I’d enjoy that type of travel, but while pretty the villages were not plus belle, and the sense that I was losing time was constant. After the fuel light came on while I was somewhere in rural France I stopped in a lay-by to empty some of the jerry cans I had brought into the tank. As I was filling up I stepped in something, unable to shift position easily whilst holding the can I looked down. I saw the toilet paper before I saw the shit. Catherine Tait’s voice rang in my head. “The dirty bastards”. I mean at least go in the bushes! This was on the tarmac!
We’re moving now….
Till tomorrow..