Where Skylarks Sing

By Patrick Davies

Reaching a major crossroads in 2021, Patrick Davies did the only thing he could think of – he set off alone with a pair of walking boots and a tent to walk the length of Britain in the hope of finding escape and answers. 

 

To many, Patrick appeared to have it all – a loving family, an enviable career that took him around the world, a rewarding future clearly mapped out. Then everything abruptly changed. He found himself returning to Britain without a job or a home to discover a family reeling from his father's dementia diagnosis and a country tearing itself apart after Brexit. 

 

In sharing his 1400-mile journey from the southernmost point of England to the northern tip of Scotland, Patrick explores issues of identity and belonging, anticipatory grief and the meaning of home against the backdrop of a world turned upside down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caravan Books UK
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781838251239

Book preview

Title Page

PATRICK DAVIES

WHERE

SKYLARKS

SING



Caravan logo B&W FINAL.jpg

CARAVAN BOOKS

Copyright

CARAVAN BOOKS

Published by Caravan Books, 2023

Copyright © Patrick J Davies, 2023

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability although some names and details have been changed or omitted to protect the privacy of individuals.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

ISBN: 978-1-8382512-3-9

patrickjdavies.com

Dedication

For mum and dad

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Map

Epigraph

Prologue

1. Adrift

2. Beginnings…

3. …and Endings

4. The Lizard

5. Land’s End

6. A New Start

7. Heat

8. Rollercoasters

9. Grief

10. Broken Glass

11. Flatlands

12. Another Country

13. A State of Mind

14. 500 Miles

15. Weathered

16. North West

17. Identity

18. Lakes

19. Borders

20. West Highland Ways

21. The Long Glen

22. The Last Stretch

23. Two Ends

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Walk Data

Map

Route Map v3 FINAL.jpg

Epigraph

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are bright'ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

To a Skylark, Percy Bysshe Shelley, 182

Prologue

Where’s home? he asked. It was a straightforward question. But one which, at that moment, felt hard to answer.

I’d been chatting to a man walking his dog on Perranporth beach for a few minutes before I was unexpectedly thrown by what he asked. I paused, following his black Labrador as it bounded gleefully through puddles left by the receding tide in pursuit of a sodden yellow tennis ball. The early morning light was painting the wide sands and distant wave crests of the Atlantic Ocean in beautiful pastel shades under a cloudless, soft-blue sky. The rising sun, still low over the horizon, cast long shadows from the sand dunes framing the back of the beach and gave their tops a rich, golden hue. As the dog returned, ball proudly in its mouth to demand another throw, I began to reply.

I’ve been living in a caravan in my parents’ garden in Cheshire since the start of the pandemic last year.

It didn’t really feel like an answer to the question.

Oh, the man replied with a gently quizzical look before leaning down to try to wrest the ball from his dog’s mouth.

I explained about my dad having Alzheimer’s Disease, being on a visit to see my parents just as the first Covid lockdown was announced in March 2020 and agreeing to stay for a while to help out. What we’d all expected to be an arrangement lasting just a few weeks had quickly become 16 months before I left to walk from one end of the country to the other.

Sorry about your dad. That can’t be easy.

I nodded.

The man’s young Labrador was relishing the game of tug too much and refused to release the ball. Growling playfully, it dropped down low on its front legs to pull even more strongly against its owner’s grip, shaking its head vigorously from side to side to try to free its cherished toy.

Thanks.

I paused again not knowing what more to say. Where was home now? When was the last time I could genuinely call somewhere home? What was home anyway? What was belonging? I wasn’t sure I had an answer. Maybe that was the real reason why I had gone for a walk.

After a commanding ‘leave it!’, the Labrador finally dropped the ball from its drooling jaw, then immediately leapt off the sand and started spinning excitedly in circles waiting for another throw.

Well, I’d better press on before it gets too hot, I said hoping to avoid any more questions.

Good luck.

The dog walker launched the ball back down the beach, sending the Labrador hurtling across the wet sand in a spray of salt water as it headed to the landing zone where the tide met the beach.

I waved before turning north towards Ligger Point.

Thanks. Enjoy your walk.

You too, the man said, setting off to follow his dog. I hope you make it to Scotland.

1. Adrift

By the spring of 2021, one year into the Covid pandemic, I was beginning to feel lost. I knew I had to do something to get back on track, to find fresh goals, a new purpose; to break a frustrating cycle of indecision. The trouble was, I didn’t know what I should do, or even where to begin to focus my energy. I was stuck.

The first months of the pandemic had been a welcome diversion from life before the virus, at least for me. Months of semi-isolation in a two-berth caravan parked on my parents’ drive had given me time to finish the book I’d been writing for 18 months. I’d also felt useful, helping to care for my dad and trying to keep both parents safe from a new disease which was spreading around the planet at breakneck speed.

The arrival of Covid had somehow plucked me out of the swirling currents of a decision I’d taken two years earlier and dropped me into calmer, parallel waters, like a safe haven in a storm. Everyone’s life had been turned upside down by the virus. Nothing was the same. Expectations had changed. So, for a while at least, I was able to relax and take one day at a time, ignoring the consequences of the choice I’d made. With the pressure off, I didn’t have to worry about the future. The priority had been simple – to get through the pandemic unscathed with mum and dad.

After I agreed to stay with my parents in March 2020, we quickly established a new lockdown routine. I worked in the caravan for much of the day during the week, joining mum and dad for meals and some evening television viewing. On weekends, we would drive a short distance to go for a walk together on the edge of the Peak District or in the countryside around affluent Alderley Edge where almost every old farmhouse and cottage has been converted into a millionaire’s mansion, not always tastefully.

There was something positive about the simpler, less frenetic pandemic lifestyle, having more time to appreciate the outdoors, to re-connect with nature, to be with family, all of which the pace of life before Covid had so often prevented. With dad’s dementia, I was conscious too that time wasn’t on our side. The relentless progress of the disease would only be one way. In the three years since his formal diagnosis in 2017, dad had already become more confused and needed increasing support with everyday tasks. And yet Alzheimer’s had not yet taken away all of who he was. I felt fortunate to be able to spend more time with him and mum before the illness took greater hold.

During the first months of Covid, I was in a good place. Writing kept me busy. Helping mum and dad was rewarding too. I became something of a DIY ninja, fixing their 20-year-old washing machine for less than £25 after watching a few YouTube videos. Dad and I re-organised the garage, repaired and repainted the garden shed and replaced a rotten fence panel that had blown over in a storm. I helped mum with her small vegetable patch, producing crops of fresh lettuce, rhubarb, beans, strawberries and raspberries which tasted so much better than anything bought in the local supermarket. I had a sense of achievement, albeit in a way far removed from life before Covid.

That first pandemic Christmas was more fun than expected too. I knew I was fortunate despite all the restrictions. Many people were having it much worse, spending it alone, separated from family and friends or ill with Covid. Christmas morning was unusually sunny, with a hard frost coating everything in a sparkling blanket of ice crystals, a picture-postcard winter scene. With plans scrapped to get together with my brother and his family for the day, we went for a walk. It could have been a winter hike of my childhood, although then I would have been complaining bitterly about being dragged out to get some fresh air. I wasn’t complaining now. I’d inherited my parents’ love of the great outdoors. We talked and laughed, enjoying a much more peaceful Christmas day than normal perhaps a little too much.

As the pandemic moved into its second year, things began to change. Another full lockdown seemed tougher than before and, with the book finished, I no longer had the distraction of writing. When restrictions were ultimately lifted and life slowly began to restart, I felt like I was being picked up by the lapels and dropped back into turbulent pre-Covid waters. The pandemic hadn’t brought an end to the world as we knew it. It had just pushed a global pause button. The questions I’d successfully avoided for almost a year started to bubble back to the surface followed quickly by gnawing self-doubt. Once again, I started to wonder whether I’d made a serious mistake.

In January 2018, I’d come to the end of almost five years working at the British Embassy in Washington DC, what was to be the last instalment in a 25-year diplomatic career. After considerable soul searching, I decided to leave the Foreign Office, to make a fresh start. I had a loose plan to write a book about America, but nothing much more than that.

Dad’s diagnosis a month earlier had brought everything into clearer focus. Life now felt shorter and more uncertain. I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to continue working in an organisation where the jobs demanded long hours or where I could be sent to the other side of the world when dad was only going to get worse, not better, and would need more support. I also feared being assigned to a role working on the government’s new top priority, delivering Brexit, which I didn’t believe in. I opted to move on.

The first weeks of new-found freedom flew by. I filled my time travelling and catching up with friends. After six months, I took myself to a campsite in California to start work on the book. It wasn’t until several months later that anxiety started to rear its discomforting head. However much I was enjoying writing, it didn’t feel like a sustainable career choice. I’d never managed to get on the property ladder with a single civil service salary. Now, without a regular income, that was going to be even harder. I missed the camaraderie of colleagues too. I began to wonder whether I’d been wrong to turn away from my diplomatic career.

By the second half of 2019, I’d started to look for another job. The problem was, I had no idea what I wanted to do. The Foreign Office had been so much more than a ‘normal’ career. It was a vocation, a way of life. Struggling to determine what might fill the gap, I applied for a variety of roles and secured a handful of interviews. When nothing had worked out before Covid hit in early 2020, I was restless and on edge. Two years after leaving government service, I still didn’t know where the next chapter in my life was heading. I was running out of ideas.

At the same time, Britain was tearing itself apart over Brexit. I’d spent my career proudly promoting the UK and everything it stood for – democracy, human rights, good governance and the rule of law; being a force for good in the world. Now, the country was increasingly angry, divided and inward-looking. Most of our allies were mystified; our enemies were rubbing their hands with glee. The whole thing was deeply unsettling and only added to my sense of dislocation and unease. After the year-long escape of Covid, I found myself in turmoil again, with all the same issues still unresolved and a growing feeling of frustration for failing to move on.

I’d never really given much thought to what defines who we are, gives us meaning and purpose in our lives and provides a sense of belonging; those essential anchors which hold us in place, allowing us to ride out the inevitable storms that come our way, trying to blow us off course. Now, they were vividly apparent: job, family, home and country, the elemental grounding on which we build our lives.

I had, perhaps rather rashly, cut one of the anchors by leaving the Foreign Office without much of a plan. Dad’s illness had weakened the hold of another with its blunt reminder that nothing is permanent, that life can be cruel. It came with an inevitable role reversal of parent and child, and an inescapable feeling of grief and loss.

I hadn’t ever worried too much about ‘home’ when my job was taking me all over the world. The excitement of being somewhere different every few years had been enough. Now, I hankered after a renewed sense of belonging. Years of being a nomad had left me without a strong attachment to any particular place and friends scattered around the world. Nowhere really felt like home.

Britain, meanwhile, was at war with itself and seemingly committed to unnecessary acts of self-harm. Feeling like an alien in my own country, I struggled to understand how we had ended up on such a destructive path. How had millions chosen a future that would inevitably be worse, or, at the very least, so much harder just to tread water? With the country so polarised, it was tough to be optimistic about the future.

In other words, by the spring of 2021, with my anchors cut or weakened, I was starting to come adrift.

2. Beginnings…

Douglas has a suggestion for what you should do, Kathryn said, passing me a generously filled glass of white wine.

It was a Friday evening in late May 2021. I had not long arrived in Wells to spend the weekend with friends. What should have been a three-hour journey had taken more than six thanks to heavy rain and the sheer volume of traffic on the first day of Covid travel restrictions being eased. I’d cursed myself when crawling through the notorious M5/M6 interchange in Birmingham for not foreseeing the traffic jams and choosing a different time to travel.

What’s his idea? I asked, taking a first sip of a crisp, Sauvignon Blanc and beginning to relax.

He’ll tell you himself, Kathryn replied as she put the finishing touches to dinner.

I’d known Kathryn and Douglas for more than 15 years having met in Warsaw in the mid 2000s. They often joked that I was their ‘third child’ which was quite endearing, but also slightly disturbing for what it said about my need for continued ‘parental’ guidance. Their two genuine children, both under six when we were in Poland, were now grown up.

I’d come to rely on Kathryn and Douglas a lot, particularly after leaving the Foreign Office. Both had been endlessly patient and encouraging when I’d battled with indecision after stepping away from my job. It wasn’t unusual for them to come up with suggestions for what I could do instead.

So, what’s your idea? I asked when we sat down for dinner.

You should go for a walk, Douglas replied in a deadpan sort of way before pausing to take a mouthful of pasta.

I scratched my head, wondering where this was going.

A walk?

Yeah, a walk, from one end of the country to the other.

Kathryn and Douglas had made all sorts of suggestions before: buying a van to give tours of all the vineyards now in the south west of England thanks to climate change; opening a sourdough bakery; even starting a YouTube TV show – ‘Pat and Kat do…’ – which we joked would quickly go viral with its increasingly extreme assignments: a ‘Challenge Anneka’ for the 21st century. All the same, Douglas’ latest proposal sounded pretty outlandish.

OK. Now why would I do that?

Well, you could chat to people along the way and then write a book about post-Brexit Britain. It would be great.

I took another sip of wine, pondering the suggestion.

I’m not sure about that. It’s a very long way for a start.

I think it’s a brilliant idea, Kathryn said enthusiastically. It’d be fab to do and it’s right up your street. You love hiking and politics.

Imagine all the interesting conversations you’d have along the way, Douglas added. It’d be fascinating.

I’ll give you that. But I’d have to visit the Brexit heartlands like Stoke-on-Trent, Sunderland and Middlesbrough. They aren’t your typical hiking destinations. I’m not sure walking through struggling, post-industrial cities would be much fun either.

You’d have to keep your views to yourself, that’s for sure.

Kathryn raised her eyebrows and laughed.

You know what you’re like; you have to tell people what you think, and you’ve got no poker face whatsoever.

True, I replied. So, the walk could be interesting and messy!

We left it at that.

When I returned to Cheshire at the end of the weekend, Douglas’ idea started to percolate quietly. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself being drawn to his suggestion. I started reading accounts online of people who had walked the length of the country. I discovered a young former civil servant on Instagram who was in the process of hiking from Land’s End to John O’Groats, posting stunning photographs and interesting stories about his experiences. There was something romantic about the whole thing, of heading off with nothing more than a backpack to cross the country.

As time went on, the idea grew in appeal, not to write a book about post-Brexit Britain, but as a personal journey. Perhaps it would be a chance to re-connect with a country from which I’d so often been absent and which now felt increasingly alien. Perhaps the time away alone, deep in the British countryside, would help me work out what I wanted to do with my life. Perhaps it would help me to come to terms with dad’s illness. Or perhaps it was just about having a plan at all, anything to stop my drifting.

With the idea getting under my skin, I bought an ‘End to End Trail’ guidebook to learn more about how to prepare for such a big undertaking, what equipment I would need and how long it would take. The ‘safety’ section contained sobering warnings about the dangers of venturing into remote areas unless competent at navigating in bad weather. It advised against relying on anyone being nearby in an emergency, and banking on having a mobile phone signal to call for help. Then there were the risks of crossing fast flowing rivers, drinking from streams that might be contaminated and the annoyances of midges, ticks and mosquitos. It was a daunting read. Yet, I still wasn’t deterred.

I decided that if I were to walk, I wouldn’t want to do what most others had done – the relatively direct route from Land’s End to John O’Groats across the Midlands, up the Pennines, bypassing Wales. Setting out to cross mainland Britain only to miss out one of its three countries entirely didn’t feel right. I’d also want a purpose beyond the physical challenge, to give me a focus, to keep me motivated.

I came across a blog by someone who’d hiked from one end of the country to the other raising money for charity, adding the ‘Three Peaks’, the highest mountains in each of mainland Britain’s three nations – Snowdon in Wales, Scafell Pike in the Lake District, and Ben Nevis in Scotland – as an extra twist. I found another by someone who had walked from the southernmost point on the British mainland to the most northern, rather than between the somewhat arbitrary points of Land’s End and John O’Groats, which just happen to be the two settlements on the British mainland which are furthest apart. Combining these routes and raising money for Alzheimer’s research had the makings of a decent plan.

As it was already summer, I skipped over the parts in the guidebook about advance fitness training. I was in reasonable shape after lockdown. Some long-distance hikers online argued that pre-training wasn’t necessary – fitness would come naturally over the first few weeks. I went with that. As for broken-in walking boots, I was convinced I’d get blisters whatever shoes I wore. I didn’t want to overthink the whole thing and create unnecessary delay.

I took the decision to try to walk the length of Britain a few days later. Douglas’ idea had somehow gained a life of its own. The more I thought about it, the more enticing it became. I felt a strong draw to getting outside, to being on my own with a backpack taking on the country.

When I announced the plan to Kathryn and Douglas shortly afterwards, I was met with some incredulity.

What? You’re going to walk this year? Kathryn said, not even attempting to conceal her surprise. "We weren’t thinking about this year."

Well, it’s only a walk, I replied. It’s not crossing the Sahara or climbing Everest. If I start in July, I should be able to finish before the weather turns.

Don’t you need to prepare, or even train a little? Kathryn asked.

Douglas remained quiet.

It’s a walk, I repeated. How hard can it be? It’s just a case of putting one foot in front of the other.

I could tell Kathryn wasn’t convinced. She was rarely speechless. But, right then, she didn’t seem to know what more to say.

Well, great, Douglas said, finally breaking his silence. I think it’s a fantastic plan. Good for you. You can pop in to see us when you get to Wells.

3. …and Endings

Telling mum and dad about what I was planning was surprisingly hard. I’d build myself up to have the conversation only to chicken out at the last minute when the moment didn’t feel quite right. I was wracked with guilt about leaving them after spending months together during the pandemic. Having become part of the routine, part of the furniture in my parents’ lives, my departure wouldn’t be easy, particularly for mum.

The house was going to be quieter and more lonely with me gone. Alzheimer’s had already taken away much of dad’s ability to make conversation. Dad could be difficult with mum too, snapping at her attempts to help him with basic tasks and aggressively resisting suggestions for what he might do to keep himself busy.

After more than 55 years of marriage, mum was perhaps a more painful reminder of what he was losing to dementia. Their relationship had inevitably changed significantly as the disease took its unrelenting hold. Dad was frustrated by his loss of independence and control. Mum struggled with dad’s negativity and the depressing reality that the situation would only get worse. The whole thing could feel desperately unfair.

At the same time, I was frustrated with myself. I needed to do something to get my life back on track as the pandemic restrictions eased. Why was it so difficult to have what should be a simple conversation? I knew my parents would be upset if they thought they were holding me back.

With the date rapidly approaching for when I hoped to set off, I had to bite the bullet and explain what I was planning. Leaving it any longer would make the announcement even more of a shock than it was already going to be. Finishing dinner one evening in late June, I finally managed to find the words.

I’m thinking of going for a walk, from the southernmost point in the country to the most northern, to raise money for Alzheimer’s research.

Mum seemed surprisingly unfazed.

Do you mean this year? she asked calmly. Is there time before the weather turns?

I think so. If I start soon.

I probably didn’t sound very convincing having done so little to prepare.

Dad was bubbling with enthusiasm.

That’s great, he said. Can I come and carry your bags?

I played along for a moment.

A number of very reasonable questions followed: How long will it take? Where will you stay? Wouldn’t next year be better?

I didn’t have good answers to these or many other questions. Part of telling my parents was to vocalise the concept; to make the walk ‘real’. Once the idea was out in the open, it would gain momentum naturally.

Later in the evening when I wandered into the kitchen, mum followed and poured herself a glass of water from the filter jug by the sink.

Thanks for telling us about your walk, she said, stoically. I knew you’d have to leave after lockdown. Forgive me for not asking about your plans. I didn’t want to think about you going, of being alone with your dad.

In an instant, air vanished from my lungs. I couldn’t speak. I could hardly breathe. Seeing a parent so vulnerable was heart-breaking. I felt terrible for announcing I was leaving, but relieved that my plan was, at last, out in the open.

It’s a wonderful idea, mum continued. You have to get on with your life and Alzheimer’s research is a great cause.

We hugged in silence before I said goodnight and headed across the garden to the caravan.

With the idea finally exposed, I could press on with preparations. I had many of the essentials: a small backpacking tent; a down sleeping bag; a self-inflating sleeping mat; a cheap cagoule; a meths stove; and waterproof trousers. But I was going to have to buy some lightweight outdoor gear if the walk was to be manageable, even if I wanted to keep costs down.

Over the next three weeks, I scoured the internet for tips on long-distance hiking and recommendations for equipment. Frustrating Brexit and Covid shortages of everything from outdoor clothing to camping gas made sourcing difficult. At times, I thought mum and Kathryn might have been right – delaying until 2022 would have been a better idea, to allow more time to prepare.

Undeterred, I spent half a day in Manchester searching for leather walking boots that might be strong enough to last the whole distance. I wanted to avoid breaking in a second pair halfway across the country if I could. Having confused myself trying on so many different options, I plumped, somewhat arbitrarily, for a traditional style that seemed comfortable and robust, hoping they would do the job. I simply didn’t have time to make another shopping trip into the city.

After countless hours of online searching, I found an ultra-light backpack in a ski shop in the French Pyrenees, the only place in Europe with stock. I ordered a folding solar panel to keep my mobile phone charged. As I couldn’t possibly carry paper maps for the whole journey, I’d be relying on a hiking app for route planning and navigation. I sourced a filter for treating water from streams and a small plastic trowel for toileting in the wild.

The ‘End to End Trail’ guidebook includes advice on packing for a multi-day trek. In essence, it is to be ruthless in taking only what is genuinely essential, including just one spare pair of underpants. The guidebook’s author, Andy Robinson, describes his kit list in full: a change of clothes, two pairs of walking socks, a waterproof coat, a water container, a toothbrush (cut down to half size), a disposable razor, half a bar of soap, travel toothpaste, an ultralight towel, a penknife, sun cream, insect repellent, blister plasters, toilet paper and a book to read.

My essentials for a three-month trip didn’t look like much when laid out on my parents’ dining room floor. I’d cut back as far as I thought sensible, but still had much more than recommended. It was obvious from just a quick glance that getting everything into my new backpack wouldn’t be easy. I got a set of scales from the kitchen and weighed the items one by one, marking down the results. The total came to 15 kilos, not including food or water which would add another five.

Trying to carry 20 kilos every day for three months – close to double the weight of expert Andy Robinson’s pack – wasn’t going to work. I reviewed my packing list again, reluctantly ditching a couple of items of clothing, sacrificing a small travel pillow and even cutting out the lining of my waterproof trousers to save more weight. The result, 600 grams less, wasn’t much. But it was better than nothing.

As I was mulling over the situation, mum came in and surveyed the chaos.

How’s it going?

OK, I said, trying not to sound concerned. I still seem to have too much stuff. But I’m not sure what more I can cut without leaving something important behind.

Why don’t you try packing everything and seeing how the rucksack feels? You can then decide if you need to cut some more.

I nodded and set about gathering up all the items from the floor, putting them into waterproof bags and placing them into my rucksack. Miraculously, everything just about fit. I found a set of bathroom scales, weighed myself first then heaved the rucksack onto my back and weighed myself again.

Andy Robinson’s warning was ringing in my ears as just over 14 kilos pressed uncomfortably into my lower back through the backpack frame: ‘A lot of people really find it difficult to separate what is necessary from what is nice to have. What is not nice is a great weight on your shoulders’. I appeared to be failing his very first test.

Moving outside to get a sense of how the rucksack would feel when walking, I paced back and forth on the lawn adjusting the straps to find the most comfortable position.

That looks really heavy, dad said with a grin after following mum into the garden. You’ll be shorter by the time you get back.

Thanks dad.

How is it? mum asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

Not too bad really.

I was trying to sound convincing again.

I’m sure I’ll get used to it.

Before I could return indoors, mum stopped me with a wave of her hand.

Stay there for a minute. We must have a photo.

I posed for a ‘before’ picture, trying not to looked too pained. I still wasn’t ready to travel with just one spare pair of underpants to save a few more grams, whatever Andy Robinson recommended. That was a step too far.

Less than three weeks after announcing my plans, mum and dad drove me the 15 miles to my brother’s house late one afternoon in early July. Paul and his wife Vicki were going to Cornwall for their annual summer camping holiday and had offered to give me a lift to Lizard Point.

We arrived to find the car and caravan on the drive and Vicki just making a start on the packing. Paul was in the box room upstairs finishing off some work calls.

Don’t hang around to see us off, I said to mum. It doesn’t look like we’ll be leaving for a while yet.

Dad gave a wave and wandered back to the car. I wasn’t sure he really understood I was going to be away for three months. Mum, however, squeezed my hand and gave