Gulp

By Nigel Walker

“Action is the only remedy to indifference” - Elie Wiesel, Night

A true story of parenthood that one experiences abandonment and solitude.

When life no longer belongs to you, you need to disappear. This journey takes the reader on a journey, of one man's story of survival, inspiration, self-discovery and reinvention.

Nigel walker, a Salford-born artist, chronicles his experiences of the hopelessness of an uprooted life that is less than ordinary, and a journey half way across the world. Taking a tourist's view of the countries he visits with no real destination, he comes to understand the importance of the self and community.

Devoting his life to painting and capturing the essence of people, he returns home to host his first major solo exhibition, A Tourist In Your Own City at the Salford Art Gallery & Museum, the former home to L.S. Lowry's works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nigel Walker
• Release date: May 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311377449

Book preview

Something to Be

Somewhere along the way, you lose track of what you are fighting for. It is hard to understand how this can be allowed to happen – it can be hard to live through.

I lost myself. As one grows older, the years seem to blur into one another, but some remain sharply etched into our memory.

All my yesterdays and tomorrows mean nothing to me at this point in life – this is a test of character to make a decision as time goes by, but it is not getting easier as I can no longer look to myself for support.

Tomorrow will shock the world – life should not be like this. There are some things in life we should never have to endure. I mean it’s really dumb.

I am piecing together the fragments of my dreams to interpret the nightmares – it is an affair of the heart, but it feels like I am clubbing myself to death. I see and feel things differently now – you definitely cannot help but feel that way.

‘Hell is other people,’ the philosopher, Jean-Paul-Sartre wrote.

Why do people act so dreadfully?

I want to push my daughter, Isobel, around on a Sunday afternoon and have to worry about her health. Unfortunately, it seems I never will. It never thought for a second that her mother would be frantic, but I no longer care for her. She has done me such wrong and I’m not going to be all phony about her either.

My wandering mind has proven to be my own salvation as it has done little but question my behaviour. I went through all this stuff, trying to express some empathy, but I was the only one listening.

You have to understand that these actions of mine were assigned to me. They’re simply products of a continuing – oh, hell, I don’t know.

I have contemplated my responsibilities – I think I should be credited for showing a degree of creative flair.

I mean my soul was being scrutinised here.

I was going through a very real, selfish, uncontrollable phase.

There is here a legitimate claim for emotional distress, grievance and even legal review and, at least at the level of professionalism, a right to some dignity – self-expression and the opportunity for creativity.

I sort of feel like screaming this sometimes. I am very surprised things should be allowed to go on like this. These standards of welfare clearly acknowledge that a human being is something more than just her case study. It seems to me that once all this is over, it will lead to further exclusion, making me less of a human.

It is clearly perceived that participants may be induced to cooperation by threats of punishment and penalty, and these negative sanctions. I am not overlooking the officially view here, not least when external incentives are offered, but the underlining factor here is judgment and prejudice – the time and the spirit controlling well-being. I’m making a plea here for some dignity. It is not possible to access where my heart really lies; I tacitly accept suggestions that I might motivate me.

I learnt a long time age to accept assumptions about myself as being perfectly natural and due to this stigma, most people are unaware. I have much talent too and yet never once has that been considered. Just my being a man suggested enough.

There is a threshold point where a person has suffered damage or injury. If I were unable to make my own repairs and define the problem as one of personal injury with little or no positive help available that was not detrimental to my wellbeing, I think we could have resolved this situation so much easier. I really do.

The cultivation of trustworthy disinterestedness inevitably has destroyed my social status – I found the courts willing to overlook that as they concentrated solely on the social differences that I found myself being judged by. What is best for my daughter was assessed in relation to her mother’s requests to have me totally removed from her life.

It is a hard battle to have to fight, quite bizarre, and, as the years past, I simply became less human. Silence followed me everywhere.

This fight felt terribly one-sided and no-one was interested in anything except what my child’s mother wanted. I lost myself in her fight – I became ‘he’.

Leaving England

In the universe of the imagination in which we all belong, we may not always know where we are going, but we require no visas and need not worry about packing (it could hardly have felt more stupid).

My leaving England like this, running away from my baby and looking into my past was enough to push any man over the edge, but I needed to find answers to some of my problems that Emma had felt strongly about. I took on board all she had said – it was a road I was determined to go down. I trusted her still and I wanted to relieve her of any fear, so the best thing I could do was clear off. It never dawned on me that the problems might not have been about me because I trusted her.

The ferry crossing looked so daunting – I thought about it for a moment and my reluctance to brood annoyed me. I stopped at the petrol station right at the point of passport control and I was nervous as hell, so I did not stop for petrol, but to compose myself as I was pretty scared. I didn’t stop at the pumps, but tucked the Panther and the caravan tight up against a wall. I bought myself an energy drink and got into the caravan and held my head in my hands, stooped with my back to the kiosk. I was looking at my feet in my new mobile home, silhouetted against the White Cliffs of Dover – it was the saddest sight I had ever witnessed. I had nowhere to be.

Movement was brisk – coaches, heavy goods vehicles and endless lines of mundane Vauxhalls, BMWs and Fords lined up waiting to board the ferry. At passport control I handed over my passport and realised I had no insurance documents for the car or caravan – nothing other than my passport for that matter. All I had to do was just get on this ferry and I felt like a criminal.

I was doing this so I could make my own corrections – all I was concerned with was moving away and leaving. I convinced myself Emma would understand – it was Emma I was running away from.

Thinking has led me to fantasise – I watched the sky for a long time, trying to put things right in my head. Escapism can crack you up and it’s something that drives me crazy now still. The problem with fantasising is that you find yourself courting favour in words.

‘None of this seemed like my fault.’

I suspect I am in the majority with that statement, but you would hardly know it. It leaves you with quite a lot of disappointment and being deeply suspicious of being on your own. Everything that I once was, has been driven out of me. My life over the past six years had seen me sitting behind a desk in a very unpleasant nine-to-five existence. I was doing this and it was really special, but I felt lost.

Not fantasising, not mixing, just dwelling on the past I could not escape. I was a fraud. The dreams I once had now nothing. I am afraid of all this interference and political correctness. I could feel the hurt in my eyes back then making me tired. How can man function when he has no pride of place? You cannot imagine how sorry I was getting, running through all this stuff.

I had wept for my freedom – the freedom of my mind. I have a heavy heart; I can feel myself gradually disappearing. I have gone through this stuff for so long now you would have thought there would have been a change. I have been living in the past for too long, always going back and today nothing has changed, no moving forward: ‘Man born free but everywhere in chains.’ All my love has been lost to my daughter and rather than feeling alive on this journey with anger and grief, I felt numb, empty and distant.

Blaming yourself and feeling unnecessarily guilty about things would not be a recommended survival strategy. I have worked hard on this kind of stuff – even when I was too tired, I wanted to know.

The future must now see me travel a different path – a different path I need not have travelled. Passport control felt like forever – my heart was at rest. I was a young man and this sort of life had always appealed to me, yet it was hardly a journey I was looking forward to as exciting as it was. My heart was just not on it. I knew I could not change my life.

I was flagged through and, within about twenty minutes, we were moving and I was sat having coffee in the restaurant, but I felt like puking. I was dissatisfied that I’d managed to get on.

I had five thousand pound in my pocket and a further seven thousand in a bank account, plus my car and caravan which I was sure would provide me with the possibility of a trouble free adventure for as long as I needed. I did not want my troubles to spoil this – after all, I knew they would still be there when I returned. Only the troubles were in my head and not made good by what was in my pocket. I could not escape, I just froze. I could see the stern of the ship and right into the arcade room, but this was as far as I thought. I felt like a little kid – I was so lost, sitting there convincing myself that this was the right thing to do/ I started to consider my adventure. I thought nothing of where I was going – this was only going to be a temporary reprieve and escape from being a new parent and facing Christmas alone.

It started to feel like it could be a great adventure by now with the caravan and ferry, just getting this far, and my mind’s troubles seemed somehow secondary just for that second – if only for that second, I felt normal for November.

The crossing itself was totally uneventful – my mind chose to draw a complete blank. I just sat there with my coffee and looked out to sea. My mind was numb to the noise around me and to my environment, remaining this way throughout the whole journey. I tried to embrace my emotions for the adventure that lay ahead of me, but I was distracted by this beautiful looking young couple with their daughter who came and sat right down beside me. It made me feel like crying. I kept looking at her with this big stupid smile and all. I’m sure the parents noticed something was wrong. I read the papers and magazines so as not to look so gormless:

Headlines:

Woman in sumo wrestler’s suit assaulted her ex-girlfriend in a gay pub after she waved at a man dressed as a Snickers bar.

Headless Body in Topless Bar.

He Bit her on the Bum so She Sued Him.

Apparently, the story was about a court case where a woman sued a man because while she was sitting at a bar, he came up and bit her in the butt.

In the National Geographic news story meanwhile, there was an image of a shark attacking a helicopter that turned out to be the story of the year and a fake too.

Another listed the major events of 2002: The queen mother dies.

On this day, Michael Jackson receives the artist of the century award at the American Music Awards.

UK declared free of foot and mouth cattle disease.

British schoolgirl, Amanda Dowler, is abducted in broad daylight on her way home from Heathside School in Walton-on-Thames, Surrey.

The Netherlands legalises euthanasia.

For the rest of the crossing, I starred at the sea, which was quite rough, if I remember rightly. I felt like such a phony and was relieved to exit and drive on into France on the left hand side – this made me feel like I had travelled a long way already.

I drove south on from Calais E15 Lens – Reims – Troyes and made a few errors on roundabouts and general nuances associated with anyone towing a caravan for the first time.

I left the long A1 motorway – it was so goddamn boring and decided to drive not on the motorway, but to go through all the villages. After all, I was not really heading anywhere. I was a tourist. There was nobody at the other end waiting for me. That sounds really crazy, but I don’t mean it to. I don’t know what I mean – lost, I suppose. The drive went through Chaumount, Langres and Besancon and I followed the general direction south and signs for Dijon. The adventure started once I got off the motorway. I managed to join the mountains and drive right on through the Lons-le-Saunier Parc Naturel Regional du Haut Jura Alps without too much trouble, all the way into Switzerland.

I had no set destination, so the driving was quite a delight. I was trying to drive the craziness out of myself. Roof down and letting the fresh air freeze my face. I camped and consulted my map each new morning, trying to think of a fixed destination. Using the caravan and surviving in nature, collecting water from rivers, gypsy-like.

Referring to the map, Lake Geneva seemed to jump out at me as a first real stop.

I figured that driving through the Alps, I could make it to Lake Geneva eventually, I guess.

As I hit the Alps, the B roads were magnificent, bending and twisting forever up and up. Campsites were all likely to be closed as the season had already finished, but I followed campsite signs on the route. I figured that was as good a thing to do as any. On these roads, the caravan started to rub and smoke and this, in turn, pulled the Panther out of line – the prop shaft dropped out and the steering went light and the sensation going downhill of being pushed from behind took some getting used to. This was a bad idea as the adventure was almost over before it had begun.

I stopped at a local tourist bureau for information in this little village somewhere. There was the most delightful young lady working behind the counter whose eyes lit up when she saw the eccentric Englishman in his Panther sports car – the look on her face made me see myself through the eyes of others and I convinced myself I looked good. This was going to be a fantasy adventure James Bond-like, that was all I could think. I entered the tourist information chalet and she just couldn’t stop staring at me, the car and the caravan – it was like the circus had come to town. I had been staring at the floor for too long and I think I looked too excited when I engaged with her. I convinced myself I must have been the first new face she had seen in quite a while; she was so impressed. I told myself. Anyway, that’s how my mind was working.

I had driven for six days sleeping in the caravan here and there, but never anywhere official. I had not really seen anything tourist-like – everywhere here seemed so remote, so barren, so isolated. I seemed to be the only person walking through the street. So I was delighted on entering this village that a decent tourist office was there and I pulled up outside.

I wanted to camp there for a couple of days, just because of her smile. I had only really slept by the roadside so far and I needed to rest up awhile and clean up. I asked the girl behind the counter for some assistance, but hoped she would take me home instead. I was all flirty, I guess. I just did not care anymore.

After she had made a few phone calls, she told me I could park for free on the campsite literally at the back of the tourist office. I did not object and clearly this was going to be a big tourist destination for campers anyway there were power points for mobile homes everywhere, literally hundreds – it was just not in season, so the whole park was free.

I figured my chances were good to ask the lady in the tourist office out for dinner. I could get to know her, maybe stay here for a while. She went on to tell me all the campsites in the mountains were all out of season, which I though was a really dumb thing to say – clearly anyone could tell everything was all closed. She was kind of peculiar in a way, but cute as hell and I thought I was doing her a huge favour and all. It was all fake as I had no confidence inside – I was just outwardly majestic.

Camping was free so I did not complain that there would be no facilities open – I was welcome to stop if I liked, she told me. The person she had phoned was the owner and he wouldn’t mind me staying just for one night.

So I parked up and headed off into town, hoping to meet up with the tourist office woman. I think I was quite desperate for company by now which I am sure you can understand. There was no week stay on offer, so I had one night only – my new life would not start here.

I thought my lifestyle looked amazing – I was already on the mend, so I went looking for her. I felt amazing, just looking at the car, if you want to know the truth – looking back now with the caravan, it was fabulous. Amazing. I mean.

My car looked and sounded like a 1930’s Aston Martin – all long running boards and huge chrome headlights. Very romantic. Pulling this mini period caravan, it proved to be my greatest companion. I would sit there just looking at it all – never once did she let me down, I mean the car. The tourist office had closed by the time I pitched and I never saw the girl again.

The car would eventually break in two – well, the car never broke; rather, I let it down, driving on twisting back roads and towing a caravan the car was not designed for. It practically took all my money.

The car got fixed though – it was I that broke in the end.

I broke the car to the tune of 4700 Swiss Francs, but before I tell you all about that, I must tell you what it felt like whilst it lasted.

I loved driving through the little unspoiled villages and catching sight of my transport in shop windows. I mean, it was amazing. I’m not kidding. I had owned this car for five years and never really driven it – that was the romance, the caravan was just because I needed somewhere to live and I had located a similar aged caravan in old English white, like the car, all fitted out with art supplies because I was going to become an artist. I think it must have looked amazing and that was all part of the mental breakdown – the building of pride, I guess. A normal human being would think about all sorts of practicalities and I was just like a child thinking it looked amazing, nothing more. It could have been so perfect if that lady would have packed in her job and come with me – that fantasy annoyed me a bit as I felt more alone once I noticed it in myself. I did not really have anything to do when I stopped. Just looking at the car and sleeping in the caravan, collecting water and generally taking care of the property in the caravan as I took pictures and kept a diary.

This beautiful old English white Panther with its roof down was my companion. Peaceful, beautiful, ambient music seeping out and over my head from the CD player – not too loud to be intrusive, but just loud enough to compliment the Panther V6 engine tone. It was so terrific. Unfortunately, I was having all these stupid conversations still in my head.

I always had Isobel and Emma on my mind in Switzerland, by my side in the car and later, sliding down the mountain on skis.

Isobel was there always, but not Emma – at some point, I left her behind, I had my life back slowly, but it took time to clear my mind and absorb my environment – after all, that what this journey into the Alps was all about, the altitude and the impact it has on your senses. The needs to be in something that’s bigger than you are.

I was in love with my car, you understand – it’s a man thing. Only now I had no home – this now was my life. That is what I had done by leaving England and it just started to sink in and it felt wonderful, not painful or sad anymore.

She, the Panther car, brought me more pleasure than anything in my life so far. I do not regret anything about this time – it was a dream lifestyle opportunity and everything could be brilliant.

I owned the Panther – I owned her and she was mine. She never asked for anything and she never told me I got her down. There’s a lot to be said about a man and his life.

I had to admit the recent work carried out made her look beautiful – she was stunning; she was faultless. It blew me away, seeing the caravan in tow when I caught my reflection. I could not help but smile at my eccentric reflection. I looked like something out of The Great Gatsby. I really did get into the swing of things, listening to Frank Sinatra and Matt Monro with the roof mostly down and forgetting about the caravan.

That is what it was all about in the end. Catching moments along the way – moments of absolute joy. If I saw someone, I spoke to him or her. It was very nice for me to wake up every day and just say to myself, ‘You just want to be happy.’ I got my moments, anyway.

Yes, I felt proud – not proud of who I was, but proud of the image I had.

When I was preparing for this getaway, I kept saying to myself, ‘Once I crossed the Channel, I was going to make this work.’

People in the villages would stand glued to the spot when they caught sight of me. It felt good – it just seems like such a long time ago now. It upsets me now I know though – my just leaving like that which resulted in her fear that I was setting up a new life and she worried the authorities that I would kidnap my own daughter and had a panic button installed by the police. If I had known she would do that, I would not have gone. It has kind of spoiled the memories now, if I’m honest.

Life was for living and I felt like I had reinvented myself.

I don’t mean in a big-headed kind of way or in a narcissistic way – I mean through all these looks of envy and polite curiosity.

I thought about how Emma and her attitude towards this car – she would have hated all of the attention. She would have hated all of this and that made me feel even better. The days were good driving.

In the evenings when I camped, I often felt like I was stranded on an island where there was nobody else about, not a soul. I guess I didn’t really mind. I convinced myself sooner or later, I would hit a party town, but it was never like that through the mountain villages and Parc Natural Regional de la Vanoise Grenoble.

I needed more distractions than I was getting – my mind was constantly going back to Emma and Isobel who was I supposed to be escaping.

As tired as I was, I kept on and the places were fine – it was me that was broken. I left the back roads and headed on towards Geneva, somewhere a lot more sophisticated.

I plucked up the courage to ask a girl if she fancied joining me – I was a real phony when I knew it was not real.

I mean, I thought I was that cool, regardless of whether I felt lousy or not. I was happy, I guess, and I felt I looked it and not simply odd. I used to be such a daydreamer – I thought about the tourist office girl when I asked the second girl out and how cool it would be for her and for me. Regardless of the fact I was not actually going anywhere, I was getting quite excited about the adventure. I thought girls would just about announce their loyalty to the car and the lifestyle image it projected – the car made me feel better looking.

For me to be ‘that guy’ who turns her life around became my fantasy – that I could have a new life, maybe anywhere. I was Darcy, this image of a rich gent who calls into town and whisks the pretty young women away to the most beautiful destinations in Europe. I felt like I had all the trappings to make it happen, but my mind was honestly not good. I just did not know it at the time. All in the entire thing was a bit phony.

I never did ask in the end. I would have hated it if she said yes.

I thought it would sound a little bit crazy to her, but I convinced myself she would say yes and I did not want to let another woman down. I swear though, I nearly did ask. I began to imagine the woman getting all excited and telling her friends and parents – I went through the whole fantasy until I freaked them out. Then I thought about all the villagers chasing me out of town, running behind the caravan and throwing stones and sticks at the Panther as they tried to catch me, screaming, ‘You should be with your child!’

I could not look at myself like I was some big shot for very long. In the end, I just stayed in the caravan and rested. In the morning, I had to find water to wash. I really did lose myself in nature, and I found I liked living like this. I had to wash in rivers some mornings and I have never seen such rapids once I started to climb into the Alps. It was fantastic, but I was alone so nobody saw me and my machinery was starting to let me down.

It was a mad experience that brought me joys. My life had certainly changed, that was for sure. It was quite exciting.

I collected water and returned to the caravan where I washed in the sink. The caravan had a shower, but I had packed it so tightly that was rendered totally useless. Hence I had to use the water from the river and I liked that.

I packed up and drove on until I hit another village where I parked outside a small restaurant and had dinner. That was lousy alone and I was always thinking like this. I treated myself to a good hearty meal, wolfed it down and paid the bill, so I could dash back into the caravan where I rolled myself a nice joint and I had a big sob.

I jumped back into the Panther and flicked through my thoughts, trying to stop myself thinking and, by now, talking to Emma. This felt even more nauseating.

As I drove on, I have no doubt that had I been with Emma still, probably by now we would have started rowing. It was a terrible time – I am not kidding.

I felt sad again – it was pretty difficult. I always felt sad when I was thinking about Emma. I mean, it felt phony. I would have to pull myself together in readiness for the gruelling drive ahead. It started to snow like hell. I made myself comfortable and looked down the long bonnet of the Panther – my baby (now that kills me).

I was back outside another eaterie again, pulling the roof up as the snow turned heavy.

There was thick fog all around – unbeknownst to me, I had been so preoccupied talking to myself that I was in the clouds, at 2400m.

I had been driving slowly up and up through the Alps and now here I was right up in the clouds. I don’t know why, but I got a real feeling of achievement being up there.

I felt light-headed and it wasn’t view ether – that was obscured by rising heat and fog – it was the altitude. It was a whole different ball game. I was mentally shattered. Physically and mentally exhausted. I needed my wits about me to drive in this environment as this was different. I put my flying jacket and goggles back on; I put the roof down as the cab was steaming up too much and headed on my way. No sooner had I turned the corner and there was the Swiss border, with a road block and a cabin and you could tell I was stoned – the caravan stank of cannabis and there was no warning for the border approaching and no options to reverse. I thought they going to strip search me right in the middle of nowhere with nothing for miles and then, without warning, I was surrounded by officers in uniform – not a pleasant sight on top of the mountains. I thought this was going to be the end of my journey.

For a minute, I felt like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, feeling illegal – I wanted to ram the barriers and make my getaway.

These guys looked serious in their uniforms with their guns, a 4x4 police vehicle and there I was in this fairly heavy sleety weather with the top up, windows and gauges steamed up and glasses too, come to think of it. It was really lousy weather for towing a caravan and I was all red-eyed. I think I was nervous, but maybe I just gave up – surrendered myself, as it were. They wanted to go inside the caravan and I felt completely empty. It was a nightmare situation, though it is sort of amusing now, I guess. The caravan was still stinking of dope, it was terrible. I really did not want to be arrested or anything like that – not here, not now. I was hardly into the Alps. I mean the adventure was only just starting. I remember I couldn’t stop this nervous laughing – there was no hiding the facts.

The guards didn’t speak much English and they were irritated that I seemed to draw a total blank when they addressed me in Swiss French. I had no insurance documents; I knew exactly what he was asking, even if did if I did not understand his noises.

I do not know why they never did go into the caravan, but, boy, was I nervous. They never did anything – not that I was bothered once I got through. I had nowhere to go to. The barrier just opened up and they just let me through and walked off. Part of me even wanted to stop.

I kind of like the barrier because it had to be operated by the guard – one of them nodded as if to say go on and that was it. On your way, son.

‘Merci,’ I said then and I thought I shouldn’t have said that, but it was the only French I knew anyway so I carried on without too much bother. The climate remained the same dark grey and black, with wet and reflective high sided mountains and water everywhere. It was bleak temperature-wise – it had to be in the minus something or other. I was delighted to have got through into this, a new environment and a new country. I must have driven for another hundred miles or more before I stopped again, continuously round and round up and down through heavy rainfall and all.

The Panther and I were really struggling, but I kept going, tired because I was lost with no energy to actually draw me further to a destination I had to visit when there was none other than going backwards.

The dashboard water gauge looked like it was about to burst. There was smoke billowing out of the radiator and the caravan kept bottoming out on the bends – it was a crazy route to pull a caravan. The caravan was smoking the tires and the cold wind now felt more like being slapped across the face. And I just sat there like some crazy guy, saying to myself, ‘This is like Hannibal and his elephants.’ The only thing I could do, the only thing I cared to do, was open up the caravan and skin up until the temperature of the car had dropped.

That was the extent of my depression. I guess I could have just as easily have driven over the edge, but I sat there waiting, if you know what I mean. I tried putting the roof up for a while, but it steamed up all too quickly. This car was not designed for this weather or towing.

It took days to get to Geneva – eventually I ended up on the E39 main route for Lac Lemon.

I had never had to reverse a caravan before, but I was expected to this one time before I got to Geneva. I ended up having to drive over the roundabout island to do a really big turning circle so I could turn around here. I knew if I took a wrong turn I would have to unhinge the caravan and turn it around manually by hand. I was paranoid as hell the police would track my registration when I had no insurance and I felt all the colour drain out of my face.

Anyway, once the mountain roads levelled out a bit, the thing ran pretty smoothly until I hit the city. It was disgusting how I treated the Panther, dragging a caravan through this mess. It was a huge relief when the roads levelled out a bit and stopped twisting and turning. I mean, I really had had enough. It just seemed to go on and on forever at some points, but I was no more relieved to be in the city because it was inappropriate behaviour.

The Panther was no longer struggling and really that was all that mattered. It had pulled its back out up the steep inclines. We had some pretty scary moments coming down the other side, let me tell you.

City traffic – at last some flat lands. But, before I could act, I was right in the centre of Geneva with all this traffic all of a sudden. My route was all wrong. I looked like the circus had come to town. I was no longer this cool English gent. I think I let it drop for a while and hung my head in shame – by now, the brakes were locking up on the left and almost pulling me into parked cars. A caravan in rush hour traffic being towed by a narrow sports car with English plates on and on the wrong side of the road without any headlight realignment stickers – no doubt it was terrible. I’m not kidding – no insurance, no papers and clueless too.

Once in Geneva, I followed the E39 lakeside road running around Lake Geneva. I was really pleased that I’d reached my destination.

I continued onto Montreux until I came face-to-face with a statue of Freddie Mercury and the home to many Swiss watch manufacturers. I just seemed to happen upon Montreux and turned left at the lights, past Nestlé HQ. It was exactly where I wanted to be – finally, I was somewhere I was pleased with myself. Lake Geneva.

I stopped outside the Grand Hotel in Montreux that overlooks the lake – it was so beautiful, so peaceful and grand. I went in and asked at reception for information, using the excuse to take a peek inside. The receptionist was the most stuck-up cow you ever did see. When I said camping, she didn’t look satisfied either. Half-turning away, she said,

‘Camping in Montreux – it is not possible.’

‘What do you mean?’, I said all joking like.

‘You cannot camp here,’ she continued.

‘You don’t say.’

I thought, does she think I am asking to hook up the caravan electrics from the car park? Surely not.

I felt like acting all stupid, like this was not a very helpful receptionist.

I just wanted to take a look inside as reception and the hotel were so beautiful from the outside, but really I was just in need of information about where I could park on the lake and possibly run my face under a hot water tap. I always do stuff like look at nice buildings and all with a genuine curiosity and interest – a quick in and out is enough to make me happy.

The doorman never opened my door for me when I left as he did when I entered – he just looked gob-smacked at my flamboyancy when taking in the details, the doors, the chandeliers the paintings, the carpets and everything. It was so much more than I ever noticed before. I was quite comical in a dumb way.

‘Could you run me a bath, dear boy’? I said as I left.

I didn’t like the receptionist’s attitude much – I mean, stuck-up little madam. There was clearly something new about me that I had not figured – I was no longer a nine-to-five shirt and tie type of guy. Now I was Stig of the Dump. I must have looked incredibly weird to her.

She would have been of no use to me in a caravan, I said to myself. False nails and nice clothes were all well out of my pay range.

Luckily, another porter was more helpful – he pointed me in the right direction: ‘Carry on to the end of the lake about twenty minutes to the Parc Natural Regional Gruyere Pays d’Enhaut and there you will see the harbour. There are camping facilities there.’ So that is what and where my first base camp would be – I did it, living on Lake Geneva with Phil Collins, Lewis Hamilton and where Etoni Buggati drove one of his early two seater sports cars into the lake. That year, they were planning to try to get it out after eighty years in the water – a delicate process, but they did it and it now sits in the museum.

I camped on Lake Geneva (or Lac Lemon, as it is correctly named) alone for three weeks. There were a bunch of other people there, but they kind of ignored me and, as were only there at the weekends, it did not bother me much not talking with any of them. I just drove endlessly throughout Switzerland, exploring its fine horology history. It was a fine destination, but I felt very alone with no smiles and everything seemed to cost the earth. Other than catching glances from people when I was behind the wheel in the Panther, I was still pretty much the loneliest person I have ever seen. I just seemed to be spending money as if it were for free. I lost all the skills I had to communicate and became increasingly insecure.

I set the caravan up as close to the water’s edge as possible. It was really beautiful – the water was so still you could almost see the mountains upside down in it. With the mountains as a backdrop, it really was a good place to park, heaven in terms of the views compared to the rooms on offer in the town at three times the cost.

I felt exhausted, but strangely now I had arrived and settled somewhere, it was a relief to have stopped. I remember that feeling of having made it to a destination that made the emptiness subside.

I was calm again and less frantic.

I had been stoned, smoking cannabis throughout the whole journey and it dawned on me that actually I had travelled quite a long distance and I’d had no trouble whatsoever thus far. I reflected that the whole journey through back roads to here was a mammoth one – you would just not do it if time was important to you. I considered it to be an achievement to have got to where I had and that alone helped me to feel less beaten up, showing somehow that I was capable and able to survive alone, outside of mainstream decision makers.

Whilst I was there, I made enquires as to just where best should I head for the ski season and camping at altitude. When I asked people about winter camping, they all found it quite amusing – that’s why I stayed so long on the lake. In the end, nobody would take me seriously. They just said it was not possible to camp in the ski resorts – it would be too cold, too extreme. I was advised to stay where I was and use the mountain trains to take me into the Alps each day.

The lake was calm and I was ready for the severity of a winter in the mountains, but I really was disappointed. The trouble with me was the impending doom that lay ahead excited me – I wanted to feel what it would be like to live above the cloud level. I was not intimidated – I did not care about the craziness. Was it going to be just like heaven? I mean, I really felt alive just thinking about it.

I found a location some further two hours into the mountains – a closed camp at the top in Villas sur Olon where a 4x4 had delivered the caravan and the Panther struggled along behind. Snowed in, I lived for a total of six months there. This is where, I guess, I began to really turn the screws and questioned myself – and oh, yes, it was extreme, it was crazy.

The Panther would eventually be encased in plastic sheeting to stop animals burrowing inside and the car had to be covered to preserve it somehow, I was making it up as I went along, my survival.

I ate out every day and treated myself to chocolate and fresh bread – this proved to be an absolute delight, a simple life and one of my favourite memories. I only have positive memories of that place now.

Up there, I was half dead already, so I guess I never noticed the craziness at all. In my eyes I was the daring Englishman on his long winter vacation – the artist, the book writer, the outsider. I would pause so people in the village could catch sight of me in the Panther if only to be taken in by them and invited into their company for the evening. It worked – people were interested in the car and that kind of thing anyway. I had convinced myself I ought to work so I had appointments and rendezvous to meet new friends and I always asked new people out.

I let out to everybody, just to be noticed, always with the roof down on the panther and my head tightly wrapped up with wraparound shades.

I liked myself back, then even though I wasn’t well. Before the car was put to bed, I fitted snow chains to it and used it for unadulterated pleasure. She worked well up there for a while anyway. At least until the real heavy snow came. It’s amazing just how quickly a meter of snow falls. Roads became like slalom tracks with two meter high walls of snow sculpted out by the tractors used in roadworks, making paths and burying poles to measure the depth of snow.

I hated being alone and in isolation – I wanted to be seen. I needed to be seen. It was pathetic really. I was lonely and I could not stop thinking about why I was there.

On two occasions, I had a couple of chalet honeys by my side, girls I picked up close to the campsite holding their snowboards above their heads – a good memory, snowboards tied to the exposed spare wheel with bungee cords holding them to the car.

Everything about the image of the car for the girls I am sure felt like a sanitary towel advert with the fresh free wind in their hair. My alpine adventure continued on a high, just with the sheer thrill of being in the Panther, I swear to God. I was not enough, the car did the trick.

It seems quite amusing now, I guess. It would have been quite impossible to strike up a relationship as I lived in a caravan like a bum. When everyone else was shouting out compliments, the reality was the size of a shoe box, frozen throughout the night and almost impossible conditions. A woman would have been a good idea, but I doubt I could have found one who would have been able to survive the cold where I was then. That’s when the caravan felt sad. A caravan knee-deep in snow, but I never shared my problems with anyone – well, not at first anyway. It was none of their business. The last thing I wanted to do was open up. Behind my wraparound shades, I could always feel the tears. I tried not to let my heart be shown, at least not at first, but it came out in the end.

‘So what do you do for a living?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Why can you not see your daughter?’

The questions I just did not want to answer – their intrusive nature seemed motiveless. It was I who was just happy to see how much joy I was bringing other people because I drove an eccentric car. It helped settle the patterns in my mind to not talk about me for a while anyway. Looking back now, it seems somehow to have translated itself into some kind of Alan Partridge sketch.

I guess I really acted the complete prat, giving joyrides. I didn’t care really – their boyfriends would look at me with a sideways glance later if we met up again by accident. I could see there were times when other people thought I was not right. I spoke to people, then I ignored them completely.

I think that experience has been reduced by my current state – the walking away, I mean. Infectious ill-feeling induced by the continuing nature of all of this, I am not sure if I did well or not – my mind draws a blank. Surely when I was there doing it, I looked all right. That’s the beauty of the mountains – you meet and feel the best you could ever imagine. I think it’s the altitude – it does something to you. Boy, did it amuse me that I was living there. I immediately felt better once I stopped thinking about the past. I think once I arrived at my destination, I did feel better.

It must have been the altitude or the weed I was smoking – I do not know. I was really a friendly chap, far more friendly than I would normally be. I was one of the two anyway.

The Panther was the narcissism in me, I guess. People on foot would point. It was an enormous, ungovernable pleasure, for no reason other than it looked cool.

I smoked furiously and repeated the same one-liners to the ladies in my company. ‘We can do whatever you like – let your mind be free and decide whatever you want to do. You can do it, we can do it right now – go anywhere, do anything.’

I carried this attitude on and later I nearly talked myself into driving this Transylvanian girl back to Slovakia. Yes, I was quite mad.

This is just how I felt, having left the shores of England and arrived untroubled by any authority. I felt James Bond-like. Looking back, I do not think I once took a guy out in the car. I really was a sleaze bag. My Panther was my moment of intimacy, even more so when alone. She really was my true love. She certainly improved matters and I used her to focus my mind. I have no doubt half the time some of the girls were not really interested in me, it was the car – it was like she did all the legwork for me, took all the pleasure and left me outside.

The whole drive since the ferry docked I had been chuckling like an infant child waving goodbye to England, laughing into the air. I was out of my miserable life, out on the open road, a free man, and the scenery was stunning – what was there not to like? Now, I was sure, Emma was having the space she felt she needed. I would at least allow her her life.

It felt good and, what’s more, I didn’t take any further notice of police once I’d settled down the paranoia of being illegal.

I stepped on the gas and no analysis was necessary – what I am trying to say is, I chilled out and really focused on settling into something else for the ski