Going to ground
On the occasional need to hide from the world
A couple of days ago I got on a ferry in Palma, Mallorca, and sat still for the entire seven-and-a-half hours it took us to get to Barcelona. I think I only stood up once, during that whole time, to go to the loo, and walk a brief circuit of the only deck space I could find. Then I sat down again. By the time we docked my glutes were sore, and there was a stiffness around the fronts of my hips, but that soon dissipated as I rode my bike through Barcelona’s twilight traffic towards Sants Estació, and I felt no regret at having spent that extraordinary amount of time stationary. I had needed it.
I have spent significant parts of my life in transit over the last 15 years, and recently I’ve begun to be as fascinated by the processes and habits of travel itself, as I have the places I visit and pass through. And I think this periodic need to hole up, chill out, hunker down, go to ground, and temporarily hide from the world is one of its more under-acknowledged features.
I had travelled to Mallorca by train and boat, leaving Sheffield on Monday evening, sleeping for a few hours in London, then getting up at 4.45 to catch the Eurostar to Paris. There I had spent a frenetic (but wonderful) afternoon riding around with a friend, had dinner, and then once again got up early, this time for a train to Barcelona, where I would later get on an overnight ferry to Palma.
Just as I had done in Paris, I set myself a plan of seeing as much of Barcelona as I could in an afternoon. And so I had already visited the Botanic Gardens, viewed the cathedral, and refreshed myself at the city’s best ice cream shop when I arrived at an exhibition of street photography (warmly recommended by a friend), reached for my wallet to buy a ticket, and found that it was no longer in my pocket.
