by Biddy Wells
David, aided by alcohol, started venting a despair that I hadn’t really understood was troubling him quite so deeply. In front of his friends, he began to direct his rant at me – perhaps because I had slipped into a despondent and rather pathetic state, focussing on what I saw as the hopelessness of our situation, about which he felt responsible and powerless. It was humiliating. He was shouting, saying things that I had never heard him say before; he was angry that I was in a distressed state and concluded that I must be mentally deranged. He repeated this assertion several times. Were these his real, unguarded feelings about me, or was it just the drink talking? It’s hard to know. I couldn’t help him or stop him, and I couldn’t listen to him any more. The evening ended with me leaving him to grapple with whatever demons had appeared for him. The next day David did not appear, so I cancelled our planned roast dinner with his family and left our home, taking with me the expensive leg of lamb we’d bought. It was a nightmarish weekend, though the lamb was good. After spending some time with friends, I came to realise I had been unhappy for a while, and so had David. It seemed we had come to the end of the road.
Two friends surprised me by their response to our split. One warned that we should not give up on what he saw as a very strong, loving relationship, and urged us to work through this difficulty. The other, a dear old friend, counselled caution, advising against the burning of bridges. She suggested we make a commitment to each other before I left on my travels and allow some time and space to come between us, with a view to reassessing the situation later. We took all this advice seriously and did exactly what my old friend had suggested. When I left Wales some months later, it was unclear whether we would remain together, but the door was not closed.
Once I had got used to the idea that I was going it alone, something had arisen in me that made it seem ludicrous that it could be any other way. After a couple of weeks on the road, I found my own rhythm and a sense of self-sufficiency I had not really experienced before. Yet during our Skype conversation I felt a familiar frustration come alive again. David talked about all the work that he had to get through; he seemed stressed, which I understood, but he was so distant – almost cold. I wondered what, if anything, was holding us together, and what was so attractive back home? I knew it wasn’t the weather. Like me, David had been happy to be alone for a while. Maybe he had realised he liked it better than being with me. I guess I wanted him to stop making excuses and just tell me the truth: that he was happier without me and didn’t want to visit me. Did I want him to? I wasn’t sure. It was all so tangled up.
Sitting on the sunny terrace in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by flowers and serenaded by birdsong, I felt strong within myself despite my disappointment. My feelings didn’t swallow me up – this was progress. Meanwhile, Felipe had not turned up and I had still not heard from him. I was relieved – I needed time alone to allow things to settle.
*
I wake in the dark in a state of mild panic, thinking about yesterday’s conversation with David. Am I anxious, angry, or both? I reflect on yesterday evening when I talked with my Swedish friends about my feelings, and was given this to think about: what if I totally accepted David as he is and didn’t try to sway him or change him? What would that mean for me? It was a perceptive question. Do I want him to be different from how he is? I guess I have done. I have to admit that letting him be and accepting that he might not want to visit would mean I would have to rely more on my own resources – not look to him for security, validation or love. I am afraid that without my directions, he might make a decision that would be painful for me, but more than that, it would signify the end of our relationship, whose survival is hanging in the balance anyway. I don’t think I am ready for that degree of finality. Even though I am not sure what I want, knowing that we are committed to each other, loving one another from afar, gives me a sense of security.
Actually, I am doing just fine on my own, but I can see that the notion ‘I am loved’is important. What does it mean to be loved from afar? It’s an idea, a comforting thought, but does love really get transmitted through the air, like radio waves, or Wi-Fi? Does it travel across space? Thoughts are so powerful that I can feel loved or unloved, and therefore happy or unhappy. ‘I am loved’ is a thought that I have when I believe that someone loves me, and I have a sense of wellbeing that comes from that. But actually, ‘I am love’ is also a thought, or belief, that depends on nobody else at all. What would happen if I believed that?
I make a pot of tea and sit for a while. Things start to become clear. I realise that I can be free. I can relinquish all responsibility and let David get on with his own life. Why had I thought it was my job to guide him and try to save our relationship, anyway? I have to let go of my attachment to the outcome and have faith that I will be all right, whatever might happen. I know for certain that I only want him to come if he truly, freely chooses that himself. I’m not going to give him any clues to help him decide. I feel calm again.
Having given myself all this space and the challenge to face my fear of striking out on my own, my perspective has changed. I find it easier to see the bigger picture. I want to throw everything to the wind and see how it settles. What is there to lose? I cannot lose security, because I have that here within myself – I have proved that – and what I have to gain is strength and clarity. I am ready to face the truth – there’s nothing to fear. What stands in the way of this open-handed, open-hearted attitude is my anxiety about the future – a future that does not exist but is a projection into an imagined reality. If I stay here in this moment, everything is fine. So stay here, I will.
The experience I am having on this roadtrip could be seen as temporary and unreal because it seems like a holiday from my normal life. But that is not true. This is reality – this is real – and the rest is imagined. I left my job and my home with no agenda – no plan to pick it up again later. My old job is now filled by someone else, and my home turned out to be a short-term situation that has also been taken over by another. In fact, isn’t everything temporary? It might last a long time, but it’s never permanent. Suddenly I feel elated, released, present.
*
It was a wrench to leave the safe little bubble of the campsite. Everyone had become familiar during the time I was there, never leaving the confines of the site except to take a walk around the neighbouring forest or go to the nearby shop. I hadn’t driven my van for two weeks, and now, getting back on the road seemed slightly daunting. However, I climbed in and started her up.
After lunch in Porto Covo, I drove to Odeceixe. There was a campsite which was open but deserted, and five miles from the village. There were no views and the amenities were closed for the winter. I decided against it, though it was getting late. I was told there was another campsite a few miles north, so I tried that, but it was the same story. It seemed pointless paying for a campsite where I would be the only camper.
I decided to take a look at the nearby beach and wound down a long steep hill. In the car park were two campervans. One was a blue and white Talbot with British plates. I cheerily said hello to the woman standing in the doorway, who looked about my age, but got little more than a grunt in reply. Her male companion smiled weakly. The other van, an aged red Renault, was occupied by an amiable young French couple who invited me to join in with their game, in which we aimed wooden blocks at circles drawn in the gravel. It was a strange variation on boules, and I finished in third place (apparently) though I found the scoring system unfathomable. We shared wine and stories and I went to bed feeling very positive about my first experience of free camping. I wanted to tell David I was safe, but there was no mobile signal, so I was forced to let it go. Being unable to contact him is not a bad thing at the moment. David and I are in such different places: I am on the road, having an adventure in the sun, while he remains in his world, which consists mostly of work and bad weather. During the night, a vehicle arrived and noisily manoeuvred around the car park. I woke with a start, but af
ter a few moments of worrying about who was arriving in the small hours, and wondering if I was safe, I drifted back to sleep.
Next morning, I discovered my new neighbours were three young travellers in a bright green German van, which had been home-converted into a camper. I’ve seen more hand-made campers like that in Portugal than in France, where shiny, white, factory-fitted motorhomes are more the norm. The two German men and Portuguese woman travelling in the green van were students on a short trip from Lisbon. We chatted and drank coffee in the warm November sun, looking out across the empty beach as it gradually disappeared under the jade tide with its bright white breakers. They told me of a wonderful restaurant they had eaten at the night before in a tiny fishing village, just a few miles away. I must go there, they told me. The woman touched my arm several times while she talked enthusiastically about wild beaches and places where I could camp for free along the west coast, which she urged me to visit. I’ve noticed that Portuguese people seem to be very tactile. Often a waiter or stranger will gently grasp my arm whilst talking. Maybe I look unsteady! It feels friendly, though. I felt such warmth from this young woman as she scribbled a map for me, and I was touched that it mattered to her that I enjoyed my time in this fabulous part of her country. Sadly, my new acquaintances had to leave then, but the information would be useful. People come and go and it’s easy to get talking, have a meaningful moment, let it go and move on. It’s not about holding on – more about being in the flow. But it might have been fun to stow away in that bright green home-spun camper and have an adventure with this happy trio.
After waving them goodbye, I had a wonderful swim in the surf: my first sea-swim since I was with my Welsh friends. The sea was quite wild, yet clear and not too cold. I dried off in the sun and sat down to a moment of quiet contemplation in my fold-up chair next to Myfanwy. After a few blissful minutes, a man I guessed to be in his sixties approached. I hadn’t noticed him before, and, continuing in the spirit of free camping friendliness that had been so easy and enjoyable that morning, I greeted him with a smile. He came and leant on the fence near to me, not bothering with a greeting, but instead carrying on as if we had been in the middle of a conversation and had already established that our worldviews were in concord. He wanted me to listen to his tale of woe, all about how terrible it was that, back home in Holland, he was forced, through taxation, to share his considerable wealth with people less fortunate than himself. ‘It is my money,’ he said, ‘and it is my country.’
Particularly irksome to him were immigrants from war-torn Syria. It simply didn’t seem fair to him that the rich should have to fork out for the poor. What he said struck me as ridiculous. Here we were in this wonderful country, enjoying the natural world and more freedom than many people dream of. There’s a generosity of spirit that grows from that – at least, there is for me. I asked him what he would do if he found himself in a position similar to the refugees he was complaining about. Wouldn’t he want to get to a safer place and protect his family, just like them? After all, he was free to spend his winter in sunny Portugal, escaping, like me, the gloomy weather of northern Europe. Can we imagine a life in which that was not possible? I found myself feeling simply grateful, so very grateful that I was in my shoes, not anyone else’s (and particularly his). All that wealth, and he was so miserable! My question seemed not to touch him and he continued his point, but I really didn’t have the inclination to listen to him. So I fixed my eyes on a bird sitting on a low bush just behind him.
‘Look!’ I said, ‘a pretty little bird!’ He looked disappointed and bemused, and just walked away. That easy!
*
This morning was perfection. I packed up and drove away from my first free camping spot, passing the couple in the Talbot van, whom I had not noticed or thought about whilst I had been busy falling in love with this magical place: the beach, the cliffs, even the gravelly car park, the green-van-people and the French couple. I drove up the hill, and after stocking up at a supermarket, I visited a wild and beautiful beach a few miles away. There were a few people about: families, sunbathers, surfers out in the distant swell, and a young couple with surfboards and wetsuits doing warm-up exercises on the sand. The waves were magnificent, and I spent a long time standing in the shallow tide just feeling them (very powerful) and watching to see if it was safe (I thought so).
I hurry up to the car park and get my board from the van. It’s a cartoon-covered child’s boogie board, but I don’t care. I run past the proper-looking surfy couple, who are still stretching their limbs, and straight into the sea. I start wading out. This is a strange beach; it gets a little deeper and then shallower. I am quite a way out but only up to my knees. Now to my ankles again! A little further and I am thigh-deep. It feels safe, even though the waves are coming from both sides, crisscrossing wildly. It’s like a big jacuzzi. The waves are fast, good for boogie-boarding, and I get whooshed along, shrieking and grinning like an idiot, like a child. Yes, I feel like a child, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. Nobody knows me, and if they did, I would still not care. Out I go, time after time, to catch a suitable wave. The surfy couple are in the water, now further out than me, waiting with all the other real surfers for a proper wave on which to glide.
I am getting thrown about by the interweaving waves as I come in at speed towards the beach. It’s extremely difficult to make a dignified exit from the water when you are upside-down, being scraped along the sand and rolled around like a pair of trainers in a washing machine! I hardly dare look down to see how my costume has been redistributed. I have been sand-blasted, salt-scrubbed and stone-washed. The surfy pair are still waiting for their first ride.
While I was gliding along on the fabulous wild ocean, I thought how great it would feel to be sharing these moments with someone:, a friend, my kids, someone to shriek and laugh with. But it’s a bit like going to the cinema: it’s not really a sociable activity. Once it starts you can’t be chatting, can’t make eye contact. You can only hang on to the board, being in the moment, experiencing it, and maybe talk about it afterwards.
Later, feeling intensely refreshed and alive and somewhat battered, I went in search of the restaurant that had been recommended by the lovely Portuguese woman. I found myself in a tiny fishing village – no shops or bars, just one restaurant, specialising in… fish! I decided to take myself out to dinner. After booking a table I parked up on the little road overlooking the sea, and met a Belgian couple in one of those ubiquitous white campervans. It was very modern and smart, dwarfing little Myfanwy and making her look extremely humble in contrast. They told me they had noticed me several times along the way and had got to the stage of giving me a cheery wave, but I had never responded. They guessed correctly that I didn’t recognise them because their van was ordinary, like all the others, whereas my ancient van was fascinating to them. They insisted I come round for a drink after my dinner.
At seven, I went to the restaurant to take my table for one. The restaurant was crowded with couples and families, and there I was, eating alone. I felt fine and, oddly, not at all lonesome. I kept finding myself smiling and chuckling. Everything seemed rather amusing. I must have looked slightly mad, sitting alone and quietly laughing to myself. I was brought a sample of octopus salad to try, which was really a meal in itself along with the bread, fish pates and cheese – an appetiser that comes as standard in Portuguese restaurants. Obviously a few glasses of Vinho Verde were needed, for the sake of authenticity. Everything was so perfect and delicious that I couldn’t help grinning. For the first time ever, I was enjoying being complete and alone at the same time. The couple on the next table were having a disagreement and looking daggers at each other. This I seemed to find very funny indeed, and, pretending not to notice them, I stared out of the window, straight ahead at my reflection, stifling further laughter. What was happening? What was this feeling? It was like being in love – a feeling of deep joy that wants to burst out; a deep sense of well-being that makes you feel generous towards a
ll humankind. I felt I was seeing life from a new perspective, with a greater tolerance and benevolence. I felt high but sober, and completely complete.
The next course arrived. I had asked for just one small sea bream and here were two, expertly grilled and accompanied by perfect vegetables and the best sautéed potatoes I have ever had. Portuguese chips are nearly always fantastic, in my experience. I took things very slowly and managed to eat just about everything. Of course, there’s always room for ice cream and coffee. Afterwards, I thought of how I would love to go there again with David, who I knew would love it too. But David’s visit was by no means certain.
I strolled along to the Belgians’ swanky camper and was welcomed warmly. They were delighted to show me around their impressive motorhome, which was even more palatial inside: two flat-screen TVs, white leather upholstery, a freezer, gold taps, possibly a burglar alarm, and anything else you can think of that might belong in such a posh mobile mansion. No jacuzzi, though, which was a bit of a letdown.
Of course, they wanted to know all about Myfanwy, too. How did I manage? Did I feel safe? Did I have a toilet? I didn’t tell them I had a flushing guzunder, though I do, and wouldn’t want to be without it. There seems to be a genuine mutual respect and camaraderie among the campervan fraternity, regardless of the van’s size, state or value. Being on the road is a great leveller and we all look out for one another. I immediately forgot the names of the Belgian couple, possibly as a result of drinking quite a lot of wine with dinner, but I found them to be kindly people. As the evening got late, talking became tiring, partly because we were using our inadequate bits of each other’s language and partly because I seem to love peace and quiet more than anything these days. So I retreated to my cosy little home on wheels, and slept like a log.
