The Beginning.
NYE - West London
How do you start something that has been taking up space in your mind for months without end, ticking away in those moments of peace and of chaos, waiting to spring forward out of that box it has been inhabiting at the back of your mind and take centre stage? This thing that excites you and scares you in equal measure. Like any great journey, the best thing to do is just to start. Put one foot in front of the other, one word after the next. But that would seem just too simple and too difficult all at the same time. The paradox of pipe dreams.
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My breath billows as steam from between my lips as I trudge along the cemetery path, the fallen leaves turning to mulch on the winding track beneath my feet, for autumn has left us long behind now. The reds, oranges, yellows and golds that graced the world only weeks ago have been replaced now with the sullen colours of the winter months. Browns layer the floor of my route where once the leaves shone bright against the sky — blue then, granite grey now — with splashes of that brilliant azure fading through pockets of empty sky, hinting at those halcyon days gone by and hopes of an Elysian future yet to come.
I wrap my scarf tighter around my face, hiding my nose and mouth away from the biting elements, only my eyes showing bright amongst the layers. On any other day I might feel self-conscious looking so conspicuous, as those who share this solemn path with me take that step or two wider as we pass, but not today. Today we all hunker down in our woollen armour and defend our precious warmth against nature’s Arctic aggression.
This is a path I know well, a journey I take as often as I can to a sanctuary among the suburbs.
On I press against the wind, whipping through the trees, whisking the odd scrap up off the cold stone cobbles and free into the air, only to be returned prematurely two feet further along its journey. On, past the pub on the corner, only recently reopened and shining within with all the hopes of a New Year only hours away. On, up through the houses and over the bridge. The Tube, free of its concrete casing out here west of the inner city, crashes along below on its never-ending shuttle run, single-minded in its mission to ferry locals and tourists alike, weighted with hopes and dreams for the coming hours, days, weeks and months ahead, never slowing its passage.
I pause for a moment, contemplating the scene below me and the myriad journeys those aged train carriages, clunking and sparking along their cold iron tracks, have made possible over their lifetimes—mine among them. Those same metal monsters beneath my feet had ferried me to memories here and there: to the airport in the early hours, off on foreign adventures to exotic lands beyond the horizon; to meet mates in the evening and back again blurry-eyed with the morning commuters; to friends’ houses, gigs, museums and restaurants over the years. Days and nights which forged countless memories, which spring forward in my consciousness now and then with a chuckle or a cringe. But the journey itself is very rarely the memory that presents itself for inspection.
Alas, the most memorable, and yet immemorable, the most unbearable of my memories shared with those carriages below stands proud at the forefront of my mind at every embarkation, every “mind the gap”, every “see it, say it, sorted”. The day-in, day-out struggle among the rush-hour crush to that most illustrious and illuminating institution in a child’s life: secondary school.
Those early years were the last time I ferociously devoured books at a rate that set me apart as perhaps not the coolest character in that sea of adolescence. Later, that passion for stories would fall by the wayside as fresh interests boiled up and over. At university those extracurricular activities pushed reading and writing right to the very edge and even, as my mother is so fond of saying, “falling straight off the coupon”. Sorry Mum, sorry Dad, you were probably right, and it wasn’t the path for me, but God did I make some memories along the way. What once gave me such joy and took me to places beyond my reach became a chore, crammed in at the last minute under extreme pressure, under the false confidence that “pressure makes diamonds”. No such jewels were forthcoming.
In recent years I felt I had lost a dear friend and sought out any path to rekindle that relationship with the printed world. So, as so many do at this time of year, I set myself a target to read more in the coming 52 weeks and through that resolution rediscovered that love for stories and tales of far-off adventure which had inspired that bright-eyed boy I had once been to pen his own journeys in mythical worlds of imagination before the hedonistic wonders of the adult world so violently turned my head.
Below my feet the train fades into the distance, around the bend in its rigid tracks. I step on into the icy air around me, my gloved fingers tingling with the tell-tale pinprick of winter. On, up the path and into the churchyard on the corner, its towering Byzantine basilica dominating the skyline of this modest suburb. I stop, as I often do—to the annoyance of those I travel with—to read the bronze plaque and discover the evolution of this spiritual home, now more monument to a glorious past than active inspiration in people’s everyday lives.
Evolved from Norman foundations, stamped into the earth in the early days of their dominion over these Saxon lands, this temple has gone through many faces to end up as it stands here today, its red bricks emblematic of its Victorian peak. The standalone grandeur of this run-of-the-mill parish church, and those of its ilk found throughout the land, will always hold a certain sway in my mind—the mind of a boy who grew up away from his London home in a land of new-build neighbourhoods with an architectural history that stretched no further back than the youngest of local pubs on these misted isles.
Born in London, we moved as a family to the other side of the world to explore new possibilities in the Golden State. The great outdoors, flashing multicoloured with the otherworldly flora of a land apart; burnt sunsets over the Indian Ocean; and blue, blue skies all year round held no sway with hearts tied to the Big Smoke. I will always remember the wonder that stole my imagination when my dad would return from trips home laden with Cadbury’s “proper chocolate”, little double-decker London buses—I’d never even seen a bus in Australia—and tiny toy knights in shining armour. That wonder never truly died away. When we returned home, that passion for all things London never faded as it does with so many who have the privilege of growing up in this big city. I still get that thrill when I’m walking through the twinkling theatre lights of the West End or when I glimpse those historic landmarks which ruled the world for so many years. London will always hold that gravitational pull on my passions, but what about the rest—the wider wonders of these British Isles which I had neglected in my infatuation with one of the world’s capital cities?
I step on, out of that monumental shadow with its refrigerating chills and out into a flash of sunshine. The false warmth of December sun lasts only a moment, but no bother—my destination lies only down the steps and over the road. A hop, skip and a jump from salvation.
The streets are empty around me, devoid of man and machine. We’re living in that twilight zone between the festive cheer of Christmas and the frivolity of New Year’s celebrations, on the cusp of renewal but still in that post-feast slumber before the fireworks of the evening to come. All is quiet, nothing stirs, but my destination hums with a muffled buzz so at odds with the world around it. The deep green trim of the shopfront encasing windows fogged and dripping with the warmth of souls, silhouettes filling the atmosphere within with bustling activity. I had journeyed here in the hope of peace, but it seems so had everyone else. The door swings outwards, spilling the hubbub of inside out with the faint ding-a-ling of the customer bell, expelling a family into the harsh frozen world beyond.
I stand on the threshold, neither in nor out, unable to come to a decision. Is it worth it? It seems pretty busy in there. Will there even be a seat? I’ve come all this way and braved the outside world; I could’ve stayed in bed. Deep breath. It’s not even a big decision—just step in. Give it a go. What’s the worst that can happen? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I screw up my face, stamp my feet and roll my shoulders—all a bit much in preparation for a coffee, but I need that moment to psych myself up—and then I step in. Into the fug of warmth and chatter, the smell of freshly roasted coffee, oven-warm pastries and the welcome numbing tingle as my extremities begin their thaw. My glasses fog immediately in reaction to the sudden change of atmosphere, and I’m left immobile, in a position to order but in no state to make a decision. I hear the woman behind the counter chuckle as I struggle to regain consciousness of my surroundings. Though I can’t see her smile, I know this must be an act played out over and over throughout her day—perhaps it’s a forced performance, perhaps genuine. By the time I’ve righted my senses I can’t decide, as she’s turned to deliver a coffee to the gentleman next to me with the call and response, “flat white?” — “flat white”, and the same smile. I order swiftly and wait my turn.
I weave amongst the crowds, hoping against hope for a seat by the window, but my slow start this morning means that I have no such luck and settle instead amongst the books in the corner at the back, next to the classics. My seat.
I take my seat, tucked away with such a great view of the rest of the shop, able to watch without being watched. Able to take in all the life swirling around without being swept up in its wake. This was where I first had my idea—that mental spark which has been fizzing away in those moments of peace and of chaos, waiting to ignite and take form. Wedged in amongst the classic tales of journeys great and small—Marco Polo’s Travels, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—I struck upon a journey which I felt needed undertaking, needed conquering, needed uncovering.
I’ve been lucky enough in my life to travel overseas and see corners of the world alien to my everyday, which have changed the way I treat the world around me. But, to my shame, I have never truly explored the kingdom on my doorstep: the magical world of King Arthur, Robin Hood, the Kelpies and the Green Man. This is something that must change, and so it will.
Over the next twelve months I promise myself I will endeavour to discover the kingdom on my doorstep, the magical world right there at my fingertips. A world of myth, legend, great battles and deep history. I will stride out into the storied towns and villages that litter the land and tackle all that they have in store head-on, sampling all that this land of bog marsh and high crags, green and pleasant lands and ancient sweeping forests, coast and moor has to offer. For it is a rich land in both history and people, food and culture, and it should be celebrated rather than forgotten in preference for exotic lands over the sea.
I look up from the internal revery and the inspirational upheaval taking place within the confines of my mind and am presented with a scene which reflects my inner struggle as a mirror to my thoughts. The lady in front of me spins round and round in the swirl of life milling around her, her indecision fuelling the pirouettes on her box-fresh trail trainers, prepared, it would seem, to tackle the arduous terrain of the suburbs. Her bushy hair is unkempt, whether from recent activity or just the struggle of life, tied back by a wide blue camouflage nylon headband attempting to assert some control over its busy energy. Flashdance-ready, her blue leopard-print leggings tucked into fluffy socks strike me as incredibly apt as the pirouettes continue. She is the picture of indecision, and I will her to make the move and break free of this involuntary dance. A gap in the crowd—a seat—emerges and she makes the leap, ballerina-esque, for its safety. She has made the decision to break free, to leap forward. I think it is my time too.
No more time for what-ifs and shall-I’s, what-will-people-think’s and will-it-even-be-any-good’s. The New Year’s bell tolls. Now is the time to step out on this journey of discovery, and I can’t wait.
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“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.
So throw off the bowlines.
Sail away from the safe harbour.
Catch the trade winds in your sails.
Explore. Dream. Discover.”
- Mark Twain
