I don’t get trip jitters. But northbound on N-IV leaving El Puerto de Santa Maria and Jerez, I caught my first glimpse of anxiety as the wind blew me back and forth across the asphalt. Oncoming traffic consisted of hordes of bikers, reckless and possibly drunk, battling the same winds, but at 150kph instead of the posted 80 or 100. It was MotoGP week in Jerez, and it broke my heart to leave after another year of missing it, but a big vacation block like this one only has so many places it can fit. On this particular Saturday, I wasn’t exceptionally prepared to start my voyage north. After a placid winter followed by a hectic spring in the office, I had been frantically working on different projects all the way up until the day before I left. Struggling hard just to fit in the absolute necessities of planning a motorcycle trip such as this, I simply neglected the additional details and luxuries to which I usually lend attention. Regardless, I pushed forward knowing that I am not a fair weather rider and that I possess the requisite experience and skill to travel safely. Still, I knew it would be a few days before I grew accustomed to being multiple days away from home, alone, and doing something I had rarely done before. Despite having put the trip together over a three month period, it approached so rapidly that I was suddenly unsure of why I was going in the first place.
I can spare the narration of the trip across Spain as most of it consisted of plowing through hundreds and hundreds of miles of long, bumpy freeways, and staring at brownish-greenish bushes and dirt. Nothing irritates me more about travelling than the simple bulk mileage of boring terrain. The Iberian Peninsula provides a dramatic landscape with long, craggy mountain ranges, green valleys, and rocky coasts, but in preserving geological karma, it is also stuck with wide plains full of dirt and boredom. As Paul Theroux writes, “travel is only glamorous in retrospect,” and riding bikes for any significant distance is no exception. As you bounce down the road, your thoughts wander, and it’s easy to forget that you are riding. Listening to the silence of your earplugs, you picture events passed and your trip’s future and any possible perturbation of your life and career. A lot of thinking occurs when you are in the saddle, and as boring and irritating as riding across flat terrain can be, at what other time do you do nothing but sit and think? For this, I cherish the boredom, and I try to use the opportunity for productivity rather than daydreaming, often with much futility. As I work towards my destination, I pass the occasional towns and cities interrupting the hazy brown. This pattern of country, town, country, town, country, city repeats for what feels like my entire life. With 60,000 miles of riding experience, I am no stranger to long distances. I routinely cross Andalucia. Barmen in Granada know me by name. Tangier and Tétouan have parking spaces with my name on them. Yet I never grow accustomed to long distances. No matter which way you cut it, it is still work. This wasn’t my last plain crossing of the trip either and certainly not the worst.
After four or five iterations through the country, town, city pattern, I reached the outskirts of Madrid. I faced the puzzle of finding my way to my host’s house. All of my friends know of my loathing of GPS. None of them understand it. I cannot say from where exactly the depth of this hatred comes. I see it as a backseat driver, nagging and prodding and reminding you of everything which you don’t do perfectly. For me, travel, in part, is a chance to leave some questions unanswered. I never want to navigate perfectly. If you know exactly where you’re going, then you’re not exploring. Approaching the city, I came prepared with nothing but a laminated print-out of my host’s neighborhood and an overview of the city with the major roads and a few hand-written notes. This was my process, and I’ve followed this system of navigation literally hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I had a general idea of where I was going, but more importantly, after doing this enough, I knew when I had most likely missed a turn. It’s a sense. It’s a muscle. If you let a computer drive for you enough, this muscle will turn to Jell-O. And more than anything else, knowing when you miss a turn is a method of fixing your position. On the other hand, I almost never take the most direct route which leads to the occasional delay. Riding partners don’t understand the phrase “navigation process.” They understand “navigation failure” which consists of a single missed turn prompting them to break out their computerized crutch. Hence, I usually ride solo rather than having to see the disappointment through my partners’ visors when I double back on our route. Madrid was no different than any other exercise in navigation for me. I showed up at my host’s house to his surprise (he expected me to call so that he could meet me out and guide me in). We spent the night talking about motorcycles and travel and the trip East I was planning for the autumn. What he and his family showed me was something that would become a theme throughout my trip: warm hospitality from strangers. Showing me to a cozy guest room with a soft bed, they bid me goodnight. Upon closing the door, I turned to the bed and rolled out my sleeping matt. This was not a vacation for comfort, and I had no intention on growing accustomed to any feelings of comfort or safety.
Waking up early the next day, I shrugged off my host’s surprise that I was leaving so quickly. Time dictates route, and I knew that leaving early would allow me plenty of off-freeway, mountain riding at my leisure. I was on the road before 9, and my only deadline was to make it to Santander before the following afternoon; I had a ferry to catch. Any hesitation, reluctance
or anxiety I felt about the trip evaporated when I entered the Cantabrian Mountains north of León. Approaching the Picos de Europa national park, I was met by ski resorts and mountain lakes and tourist buses. The landscape was stunning in contrast to the dry hills of Andalucia, but it was the narrow, deserted road cutting through the park’s rocky valley which reminded me of why I do what I do. The feeling hit me almost instantly when I rounded a curve and was greeted by a vertical cliff and a shady tree canopy. I was 8 years old again, back in New Jersey, trotting along the creek in Poricy Park. As far as I knew back then, the creek went on forever. I never made it to the river’s source, and the “fossils” that I found were from extinct creatures from the distant past. I didn’t have the answers, and my curiosity to knowledge ratio was more than a bit higher than it is today. Since my Poricy Park days, I’ve become a bit of a cynic. Instead of cracking things open and peeking inside, I tend to take educated guesses, dismissing my imagination and creativity. I no longer have time for curiosity as I have urgent paperwork on my desk. At home, there is laundry to be done, and certainly those tax records won’t update themselves. Those olden days are long gone, and it saddens me. Putting my feet down on a distant mountain range where I didn’t know what was around the next bend invigorated me, and my trip and love of travel quickly came into perspective. In our world, every problem has a forum. Someone has been there and suffered previously. Any challenge is met with a checklist and the consultation of a subject matter expert. Here, I was on my own. No checklist. No consultant. Alone to adapt and explore and face unknown problems and reap the benefits of taking the risks. In short, I was free. Even if only for a moment.
The crossing from Santander, Spain to Portsmouth, England can be summed up in one word: surprising. Boarding the ferry, I met about 50 UK riders all independently returning from their adventure South into Spain and Morocco. Some were in large groups. Some were riding alone.
Most had their wives with them. The common thread uniting them all and alienating me was age. I was the youngest rider by at least 10 years. Apparently, motorcycle travel is a hobby picked up later in life. Our ferry, M/V Pont Aven, was not exactly what I had expected. Despite having seen pictures, I was taken aback by its luxuriousness, space, and staff. I have never been on a cruise before, but this is what I imagine the ship would look like if I had. I had booked an inner 4-man berth which I luckily had to myself. Looking around the ship, there were movie theaters, bars, restaurants, cafes, duty free shops, pools and terraces. In the 25 hour transit, I drank cider and watched soccer, took four showers, and slept until my back hurt. I expected more of a dirty, cramped crossing. Instead, pretty hostesses served me Magner’s while I watched the ocean go by.
After two nights in London, I got bored and left. I had been staying with a motorcyclist who had ridden down to El Puerto last summer. We exchanged dozens of stories and partied some and ate plenty of Indian food. The downtime was enjoyable, but cities tire me, and I was anxious to head north to greener pastures. I had intended on staying three nights. The early departure
worked out nicely as it allowed me to break up my ride to Edinburgh into two legs. Acting on the suggestion of my host, I rode through The Peak District. I had never been to the English countryside before, and The Peak District is considered as country as it gets. Jane Austen kept coming to mind as I cruised through the sloping turns bordered by lounging livestock. I couldn’t imagine that this area was much different hundreds of years ago. The cottages looked ancient, and the scattered and remote gas stations could easily have been general stores and vegetable markets. Cows observed me as I passed, and, curious once again, I ducked down a few narrow farm lanes to find dirt roads and yellow meadows. At this point, I was blessed with beautiful weather, and I enjoyed the uncertainty of not having a destination for the day.
Proceeding the next day from Manchester, I faced the worst riding conditions of my life. This comes from someone who has ridden in it all: rain, wind, sleet, hail, lava, snow, ice. All the way to Carlisle, the driving wind and rain coming in from the West insisted on pushing me into the fast lane. I struggled to avoid overtaking traffic as the wind forced me to ride slow. With the right clothing, riding in the rain is inconvenient but not uncomfortable. After three years riding in Japan, I know that when I don’t bring gear, it rains. In this case, I was prepared for the inevitable downpour and was fairly comfortable in that regard. Over a long-sleeved t-shirt, I wore a Gerbing heated jacket which plugged into my bike’s electrical system. Over that I wore an armored motorcycle jacket. My hard candy shell was a Gortex “rain-proof” riding jacket. I found out later in the trip that nothing is actually “rain-proof”. All this gear protected me from the rain and cold. However, one cannot defend against the wind. I have heard from a few Spaniards that the suicide rate in Spain has a relation to the occurrence and strength of the Levante winds. I can believe this. In the open, the wind batters and beats you, causing you sudden fits of physical stress as you fend off the sporadic attacks. Under shelter, the wind bangs on the shutters and stresses your house. It’s impossible to rest and relax with the wind howling. At times, it feels as if fire and brimstone are surely not far behind. On a motorcycle, wind affects you much more severely. Nothing is more stressful than a strong wind mixed with heavy traffic. Riding a bike at highway speeds in itself takes a certain amount of concentration, physical stamina, and skill. With an intermittently strong crosswind, you remain physically tense, ready to correct your careening bike when a stiff wind catches you. Riding in these conditions in the best case is terrifying, and thoughts of gruesome death are hard to avoid. I feel safe in generalizing that motorcyclists dramatize what a roadway death would be like. It’s hard not to, as every rider has had close calls. Each time you mount up, you take the risk of serious bodily injury or death. But surely, it would be at highway speed. A truck would definitely be involved. Sudden death would be certain as it’s difficult envisioning yourself in a mangled mess entangled in something hard and cold and metal. I like to believe that I’m smarter than this. The close calls I’ve had have been the result of sudden lapses of judgment. The failure to check a blind spot. Parking. Misunderstanding the intentions of a young driver. Or simply not being visible enough. Not quite as dramatic and expected as a highway death. Mundane. But, unfortunately, just as dead. For a while, I rode strong, battling the wind with these thoughts rattling around in my head. After a few hours, serious fatigue set in and I was forced to stop and rest every half hour. Checking in with other riders performing the same ritual, I knew that the wind would die off a bit after rounding the point at Carlisle. If I could make it to there, I would be fine. And I was. As always.
After an early night at the pubs with my Edinburgh host, I was finally headed to my destination: Isle of Mull. Another day of terrible weather. Planning this trip, I had used an extremely simple but powerful internet weather application called Wunderground Trip Planner. It takes historical data for up to a 15 day period and displays pertinent information regarding a specific area. I knew that my chances of favorable weather were fair to good. To be exact, over a 10 year sample, I had a 28% chance of a cloudy day with average highs and lows being 54º and 47º respectively. Riding to Oban from Edinburgh, I began to believe that luck was not on my side. Following the 10 day forecast throughout my trip, I was not hopeful. It predicted rain for Mull and Skye for the duration of my visit. I was not extremely happy. I was riding through the beautiful Scottish Highlands, yet I had only 200 feet of visibility and soaking wet gloves. From a historic perspective, I can count on the negative outcome on a 50/50 chance. Against all odds, I won this time. As I neared Oban, the clouds parted, and I got my first views of the Scottish islands. For the first time since The Peak District, I stopped to take pictures. The ferry crossing from Oban to Craignure was a bit odd as I got a distinct “I live in the middle of nowhere” vibe from most of the passengers. Regardless, I enjoyed sitting on the upper deck in all my riding gear watching the clouds part for me. After 1700 miles, I was almost there.
Later on during my visit, my hosts and I got on the subject of the postal system on Mull. I had mentioned that I was surprised at the address that they had given me and that there were few street names and no numbers on any of the houses. Apparently, “Lynn from the fruit market in Southern Iona, Mull, UK” was more than enough information to get a parcel to the intended recipient. Coming in from Craignure, my instructions had been, “Drive 13 miles along the main road until you see a house labeled ‘Keelin Cottage.’” By this point, the skies had completely cleared, and all the locals and livestock that I passed were in good spirits. I was utterly floored by the terrain. Every 50 yards I stopped to take a picture of a loch or a sheep or a landmass framed by a puffy cloud. I had become the ultimate tourist in a matter of seconds. Giddy with the good weather and alien landscape, I drove my 13 miles with numerous stops along the way. Interestingly, the “main road” consisted of a crumbled asphalt path suitable for one car. Turnoffs popped up every few hundred yards leaving space for traffic on that side to pull off as
oncoming vehicles passed. And upon passing, everyone waves! I had entered the twilight zone, and they had broken out the good weather just for me. Arriving at Keelin Cottage, I was greeted by two extremely sweet Swedish girls who were kind enough to host me for three nights. They took me in and made me tea and we hiked up a hill to find the loch that sourced the creek water that ran behind her cottage. They were both vegetarians, and they both worked on an organic wool farm down the road. I later visited the farm to learn that “organic” meant more than just “carbon-based”. Initially, I had found the term silly. How could sheep not be organic? But, in actuality, my skepticism of the industry was very small-minded. The premise behind the farm, Ardalanish Weavers, was to promote the raising of native sheep breeds in their home environment. Economically and environmentally, this helps and protects Mull. Of course, there is a lot more to organic wool than just raising the sheep where they evolved. It involves moving all the processes required to spin, treat, and dye the wool to where the sheep are as well as designing and manufacturing the textiles there. Additionally, there are positive environmental impacts to this method of farming, but I didn’t ask any questions about that. I was too busy talking with the workers there. I was quite moved and interested in the attitudes, personalities, and visions of the workers, particularly the owners Minty and Aeneas. I’m not sure what I can say other than they are very clearly good people. Unassuming and welcoming, they made time to talk with a stranger who could not have been in sharper contrast with their daily lives. And I felt the distinct impression that they treat all their visitors like that. In fact, it seemed as if the entire island knew me.
Welcome to Mull, bring your own food. I awoke very early each morning I was there as the sun didn’t seem to disappear for more than a few hours at a time. Sunset was around 9pm, and the sky started getting light again before 4am. As a result (and to my delight), I was up early exploring the island each day. My first morning on Mull, I resolved to circumnavigate the island and have breakfast a few hours away in Tobermory. As the only town on Mull with a proper super-market, Tobermory surely would have any number of cafes and restaurants to dine in for breakfast. Wrong. Arriving, I checked the ferry schedule to Kilchoan, chatted with a few sturdy travelers on big KTM Adventure bikes, and dismounted to hunt down some food. Tobermory is a small ferry town with no more than 10 or 15 business. Walking down the main (and only) drag, I passed a number of little bed and breakfasts where people were dining. I didn’t want to go to a B&B. I wanted a less snooty and more biker-friendly place. There was nothing. I passed an Irish guy with an enormous rucksack and asked him if he knew of any good locations. He informed me he was “off his head” and that I should check in the bar that he had just emerged from. It was about eight in the morning. I had to revert to my fallback position of eating at a B&B. I checked in the three or four establishments there, and they all gave me the same line: “Sorry. Breakfast is for residents only.” With my nose pressed against the windows, I watched all the happy tourists eating their Scottish breakfasts without me. I didn’t put it all together until I got back to the cottage in Bunessen. Madde says to me, “John, did you ever think that maybe that drunk Irishman is the reason why only residents are allowed breakfast there?” Touché.
As far as my trip went, my visit in Mull was a serious change of pace. And in a good but strange way. I usually meet my hosts through a massive networking effort with my friends. We’re all connected through the people we know, and I’ve found that if I keep in contact with my friends and family, I can always find a place to stay anywhere in the world. In London, I stayed with Tristan, a web applications designer who had visited us last year on a similar excursion into Spain. In Manchester, I stayed in a hotel, but that was because it was an unplanned stop. In Edinburgh, I stayed with an American girl who was looking for advice on motorcycling into Africa; I think I gave her some valuable information when I told her the Morocco/Algeria land border was closed. I shared mutual friends with the Swedish girls, and my last host would be in Andorra: a writer for the Spanish motorcycle magazine Motoviva. For unplanned stops and the return trip, I would stay in hostels and hotels. Regardless, the standard procedure for meeting/staying with someone (in this order) is: arrive, settle, shower, dinner, pubs, sleep. For multiple night stays, there are slight variations to that pattern, but for the most part, the schedule remains set. In Mull, I quickly found my village’s only pub, but I was alone as my hosts weren’t the pub-going variety. Walking into Argyle Arms, I immediately felt like an intruder. The patrons, all locals, were in a loose circle around the bar, and as I found a table, all eyes were on me. I drank a cider, wrote in my journal, and left. While I’m certain the folks in the bar were just curious and likely very friendly, it made me feel like a tourist. And I don’t like to be a tourist. After extinguishing my bike (it caught on fire when I started it up outside the pub), I headed back to the cottage where Madde started a (controlled) fire and Anja knitted a sweater and I wrote in my journal and looked at my photos. I suddenly felt extremely old. But relaxed. I spent some time thinking about how I would get to the Isle of Skye. My trips usually involved some form of underestimation of distance or terrain. Naiveté at what I could do in a practical sense, if you will. For this trip, I originally had planned on going to Skye. However, as I couldn’t find anyone to host me there, I opted for Mull as a base of operations from which I could travel. I envisioned myself riding ferries between the islands, chatting with loggers and pretty Scottish girls, and being back in Mull before dark. In the real world, it doesn’t work like that. It takes time to traverse these tiny, twisty roads, and the ferries aren’t posted at the docks in preparation of your arrival. It involves long hours to travel short distances compounded by waiting for ferries. Island hopping seemed a lot more glamorous in my mind. Regardless, I decided that it would be a regret if I didn’t make it to Skye. So I said my goodbyes that night, packed and settled into bed for an early rise the following morning. I had a ferry to catch.
When I arrived at Lochaline the following morning after a short ferry ride, I felt relaxed and confident, and I honestly thought that I could make it to the Skye ferry in Mallaig in time to catch the 0930 departure. I moved quickly, and to this day, that ride was the most fun I’ve had on a motorcycle. Although the terrain was mostly flat, the road snaked through miles and miles of light forest hugging lochs and passing through tiny villages. I rode within my limits but with a high sense of urgency. I was amazed at the condition of the small single track road and the lack of traffic. Even this late in the morning as I rode, a light mist among the cows in the pastures and all the water I passed reflected a perfect image of the foothills on the other side. It was a tremendously picturesque area, and I chuckled to myself from time to time as I rounded corners at speed marveling at the grip of my Bridgestone tires instead of the natural majesty of my surroundings. In large degree, the beauty of this ride was not the lowing and browsing livestock against green hills or the placid lochs or the pleasant locals that waved as I passed. It was the pull of my single cylinder BMW as I leaned into a hairpin turn, or it was the throaty hum as I juiced the throttle in a short stretch of straight road. The F650GS is not a big bike. It’s a pack mule. A workhorse. On the open road, it’s capable of puttering along at 140kph for long distances with a full load in the side cases. With a top speed of 170kph, it can’t compete with the bigger touring bikes on the open road. Yet on these twisty, narrow, blind roads, the one cylinder adventure bikes and super motos hold their own. The torque and light weight allow for a fun, fast ride. Even with my gear strapped all over the bike, I believe I would have outpaced the F650GS’s older brother, the big boxer twin. With minutes to spare, I reached Mallaig and boarded the ferry.
I marked this ride to Skye as the pinnacle of my trip. For once I reached Skye, I knew that the trip was over. Everything is bigger in Skye, yet that is not necessarily a good thing. The features are dramatic with gigantic cliffs and largish foothills. The rock formations are reminiscent of some of the passes I’ve seen in California’s Sierra Nevadas, yet they are alone, making them stand out. The villages and towns are bigger, and one could even say that some are even cities. Yet the roads are also bigger. And the tourism industry is bigger. And the local desire to milk you for your money is bigger. In some places, I felt a little like prey. Where in Mull I could imagine my own history while overlooking a ruin, in Skye, it was spelled out for me printed on bronze plates at every touristic location of interest. I felt spoon-fed, and I wanted to go back to Mull where I felt more like a guest than a tourist. Nevertheless, I explored the island and bedded down in Kyleakin before heading out the next morning.
The return trip was a trying experience. Once I came to my mental turning point in Skye, I just wanted to be home. Yet I faced thousands of miles of riding. I left Skye before 6am and made the entire trip to London in one day. These 600+ mile days turned routine as I headed south. Originally, I intended to use the entire time to return, but at this point, I decided I was strong and patient enough to ride up to 12 hours a day. Staying in London again with Tristan and his roommates, I got the details for the
Chunnel and was off late the following morning. I didn’t make it into France until after one in the afternoon, and my luck changed almost the instant I rode off the train. The skies opened up, and it rained for my entire journey through France. You reach a point when you’re riding when you know you need to rest. I attest my survival to this sense. Riding south through the French countryside late at night, I knew I couldn’t reach my intended destination of Toulouse. It rained so hard and for so long that my rain gear was drenched. And with it, all my inner riding gear. I was exhausted, and I began looking for lodging around Orleans. It was late, around 10 or so, and it was raining. I was miserable as I continued to pull off at each sign marked with a bed. There was nothing. I imagined the scene in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure where the road signs were on tracks at the side of the road. Had it not been raining, I would have pulled into a field on the side of the highway and rolled out my matt, but unfortunately I didn’t have that option. I longed for a motor lodge with big neon lights flashing a “vacancy” sign, yet I was on an unlit country road in the middle of nowhere; motor lodges didn’t exist in the area. While I spell a story of desperation, this is not quite the case. I would never be so presumptuous as to say I am veteran or seasoned or even good. Even after 50 years of riding (if I make it that far), I will be humble in my self assessment. The moment I take for granted the lethality of riding will be the moment that I’m taken out by a small dog. Or a deep puddle. Or a novice driver. However, I would go so far as to say that I am accustomed. I am accustomed to riding long distances. I am accustomed to riding at night and in the rain and with a serious chill and in low light conditions. In this sense, I am smart enough to know when I am pushing myself too far. Riding south through France at this point, I was pushing my limits, and I knew I was reaching a critical point. A little bit further and I would have forced myself to find an overpass or doorway to sleep under. Call it poor planning. Call it stupidity. I call it exactly what I was looking for in this trip: adversity. In my life, there exist too many agencies and entities to fix my problems, and without some serious problems where no lifeline is available, I would be a pathetic ball of mush, incapable of helping myself. And just when I was about to resort to my second to last option of finding some public, dry place to curl up, a miracle happened. I find Châteauroux. In my journal that night, I write, “Like a desert oasis, Châteauroux rises on the horizon from the French countryside in all her neon glory.” 20 minutes later I am standing in front of a vending machine buying my room key. I was saved from an unpleasant night under the clouds.
My last planned stop for the trip was in Andorra. I had met a writer from MotoViva several months earlier when she came to Jerez to meet the press before the MotoGP. Her and I hit it off with bike stories and life stories and the love of riding. We vowed to meet up in Andorra or Catalonia. The
morning I left Châteauroux, the rain was worse than it had been the night before. My gear had largely dried out, but it was still slow going south into the Pyrenees. In Toulouse, I was sufficiently grumpy to text her and tell her not to come. Like me, she had no car, and would have traveled from Barcelona into the Andorra passes on a big Suzuki sport bike ill-suited for this type of weather. Soaked again, I pushed on. I mentioned earlier my continual underestimation of terrain and distances. In this vein, I underestimated how cold Andorra would be. In fact, I had not underestimated. I had done my homework. I knew that it would be cold. What I hadn’t counted on was being so wet. The combination landed me in mild hypothermia, and I was forced to stop once or twice to dry out and warm up. Coming out of the tunnel in the main pass, I was surprised by big, sloppy snow flakes. I smiled through my cracked, chapped lips or I knew in an hour, I would be riding in my t-shirt, gloves dangling from my mirrors, while my gear dried out in the Spanish sun. And that was a thought which came true. Once out of the mountains, I was in beautiful Catalonia where I re-fueled, took off my jacket, and started the final leg of my trip. In fact, I stayed one more night in a beautiful and cheap accommodation called Hotel Calatayud, but the return trip was largely uneventful.
Stopping in Sevilla the next day for a few hours to meet with friends, I recounted my trip. I couldn’t believe how “according to plan” it went. I had anticipated disaster, delay, and misery. Adversity. In actuality, it turned out almost exactly as planned. Which is something that I had not planned on. I believe that in travel, a plan is something to deviate from, but in this sense, it was well thought-out with the requisite amount of flexibility. I suppose you can say that luck was with me, as both my bike and I returned safely with no significant problems (although her electrical system hasn’t been the same since that fire i.e. blown fuses, etc.), but I have done several trips like this, and I always seem to come out on top. As I reflect now, reading my journal, I see this trip as a bit of a turning point in my life. To begin with, I am a confident person. Yet I feel a renewed confidence after the journey. I frequently think that I am the only one to stand in my way in regards to my goals and hopes, and I’m beginning to think that that doesn’t need to be the case. I am already planning other voyages to more remote and stranger destinations, and I can only hope that I can milk these trips for what they are worth as I did with my trip to Skye.
