The transition from bed to bus never fails to surprise.
This morning, sleeping bodies, mouths gaping, exhaling garlic, last night's beer.
I hunker down and try not to think too deeply about my fate.
Something going on in the petrol station. Fire truck, blue lights. A man with a camera.
The bus creeps past until I see a Ford Fiesta rammed head on into the crumpled pumps.
We get to our destination. A Travel Lodge on the corner – rooms only £19 a night.
A fast road and the pavement divided to make a cycle lane. An act of stubbornness
always sees me cutting through a hedge to follow a dirt path through woods where
purple rhododendron flower.
The noise of the road abates and it feels like a load lifted from my shoulders.
A bird sits on the path and opens its yellow beak. I realise that it can't fly and
have no idea what to do.
The path follows a blackish river. Something makes me look down:
the biggest beetle I have ever seen. It freezes, the crab-like pincers
hanging in serrated air.