It’s a dangerous thing for a man like me to sit still for too long. When the world gets quiet and the weather gets good, the Road starts to whisper. At first, it’s a hum in the back of your mind. Then it becomes a physical itch in your feet. I don’t know exactly where I’m headed yet, but I know I can’t stay here. My backpack is already leaning against the wall, half-packed, waiting. It knows before I do.
The King’s Trail: 2,700 Miles of Salt and Grit There’s a rumor catching fire in the hiking community this week. They’re officially opening a massive new route: the King Charles III England Coast Path. We’re talking about 2,700 miles of raw coastline stretching across England, Wales, Cornwall, and up into Scotland.
Two thousand miles.
I sat there on that bench, finishing my cider, and started doing the math. At a solid pace, that’s about four to five months of constant motion. Four months of salt air, collapsing into a tent in the dunes, and waking up to the sound of the Atlantic hitting the cliffs. I’m seriously considering being one of the first lunatics to knock the whole thing out in one go. I’ve done long-haul treks before—I’ve got the scars and the worn-out boots to prove it—but this feels like a different beast. It’s not just a hike; it’s a siege.
I’m giving myself a few more days. I need to scavenge a bit more gear, scrape together whatever funds I can find, and pray to whatever gods of weather exist in the UK that this sun isn't just a cruel joke. If the window stays open, I’m gone.
The Blue Apostle of the Drunk Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. In my world, it’s one of the few days of the year where being a functioning alcoholic isn't judged—it's practically a civic duty. It’s a global celebration of the pour.
Cardiff was surprisingly restrained, though. Maybe it’s because it fell on a Tuesday. People with "real lives" and "proper jobs" tend to worry about things like Wednesday morning meetings. Me? As I sat there drinking, the day of the week felt irrelevant. When you live the way I do, every day is a good day to have a drink, and every Tuesday can be a holiday if you decide it is.
But while the world was busy painting itself green and drowning in Guinness, I got to thinking about the history of the man himself. Most people wearing plastic shamrocks don't realize that the original color of St. Patrick wasn't green at all. It was blue. Specifically, a shade now known as "St. Patrick’s Blue." We only switched to green during the Irish Rebellion in the 1700s to make a political point.
And the parades? They’re an American invention. The first recorded celebrations weren't in the muddy streets of Dublin, but in New York and Boston. It was the immigrants trying to find a piece of home in a city that didn't want them—a feeling I know all too well. Today, everyone from Chicago (where they dye the river a neon green that looks like toxic waste) to Tokyo joins in. They say "everyone is Irish on March 17th." I say everyone is just looking for an excuse to forget their troubles for a night.
The Lenten Loophole You ever wonder why a religious feast in the dead middle of Lent—the most miserable, restrictive time of the Christian calendar—became a worldwide bender? It’s simple: the Church, in a rare moment of mercy, officially lifted the restrictions on eating and drinking for this one day. It was a sanctioned "cheat day."
Think about that. For centuries, people would starve themselves and stay sober for weeks, only to be told: "Today, you can go wild." No wonder it stuck. It’s the same impulse that drives me to the road. You spend so much time contained, restricted by borders, by lack of money, by expectations, that when the gap opens, you have to run through it.
So, here I am in Cardiff, finishing the last of my supplies and watching the tide come in. The King Charles III path is sitting there, 2,700 miles of unknown territory, and my friend Martin’s words are echoing in my head again. The destination doesn't matter. Whether I hit the 2,700-mile mark or collapse halfway through a Cornish moor isn't the point.
The point is the going. The point is the grit under my fingernails and the grey sky over my head.
Stay tuned. The next time I write, I might be 50 miles deep into the salt spray.
Cheers, Kamil
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