April 9: Made it to London

We made it! Thankfully, this is much less of a claim than it might have been.

Our journey was as good as possible, mashallah. Despite our pessimism, one gate change and not actually appearing on the “departures” board until 50 minutes before notional take-off, West Jet left a mere 40 minutes late.

Carey upgraded us to Premium, a real treat. Neither of us got any sleep, but we were comfortable and able to indulge in some “free” midnight snacks. The food was noticeably better and the booze, should we have wanted it, plentiful. We also got orange “priority” tags on our bags: so effective that our bags were among the first 6 onto the carousel.

As usual, we have 3 bags: 1 which Gareth will keep for us and 2 small ones for camino portage. We do better each time. All our bags are under 15kg, even with our “fancy clothes” (7 nights’ dinner wear for the Queen Mary 2). Simplifying is somewhat offset by picnic gear, first aid materials, laundry supplies, weather gear etc., but our camino bags will be under 12 kg each, for over 70 days’ travel. We are definitely getting the hang of it.

Nevertheless, Carey got a serious work out steering 2 bags onto the tube; through a line change; onto the overground and, finally, through the park to Gareth’s. I only had to wrangle 1, but the 3 escalators and 6 sets of stairs provided ample cardio.

I watched “Meadowlarks” on the plane. I cried, several times. It is a powerful movie, if rather a blunt instrument. I haven’t watched a movie or read a novel in the last 4 years or so. Since retirement, many things have surfaced for me. I hold it together in the daytime, although not, apparently, when I sleep. Poor old Carey has many stories about my screaming in my sleep. I also kick and struggle, or so he tells me. In fact, we recently bought an American King-size bed, so that WHEN I kick, Carey can continue to slumber. The screaming, not so much, but (again apparently), he only has to touch me, tell me it’s ok and I settle and shut up. I had/have no idea about any of this. But, from Carey’s frequently haggard look in the mornings before the new bed, I accept it is so. Anyway, I am rarely strong enough to release control of my emotions to an author and director. But, as we leave to walk, I decided it was time to open the door a crack. It was a moving film and a good way to start a contemplative journey.

I am writing at Gareth’s kitchen table. He is cooking a creamy mushroom pasta. We are on our second bottle of (Spanish) red. There were grissini, olives, fresh basil and mozzarella: a feast of friendship, family.

Gareth had left us a card on the table for our arrival. It said “Welcome Home”. Certainly, here, with him, is one of them.