People ask why I’m still here, nursing a pint in a city I’ve already seen. The answer is as modern as it is frustrating: I’m at the mercy of a courier. I’m waiting for a package containing a new laptop. My old gear gave up the ghost miles ago, and if I’m going to document this 2,700-mile odyssey on my own CMS, I need a machine that won’t die the moment a Welsh mist hits it. It was supposed to arrive today, but we all know the dark comedy that is modern delivery services. So, I wait. I watch the door. I drink.
The Math of the Road I’ve spent the last few nights staring at maps until the lines blurred into a mess of blue and green. I did the math. If I really pushed myself—if I turned this journey into a military march—I could probably crush those 2,700 miles in two and a half months. But why? Why turn a life of freedom into a self-imposed prison of pace?
This isn't Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (a masterpiece, by the way, if you haven’t read it). I’m not racing against a clock or a wager at a gentlemen's club. This expedition is supposed to be an adventure, a pleasure, a slow burn of experiences. I’ve lived on the streets long enough to know that when you rush, you miss the very details that make the struggle worth it. I’m not looking to set a world record for speed; I’m looking to see the world as it actually is.
The Strategy of the South My route is set. I’m starting from the south. My first major objective is to circle the rugged toe of Cornwall, then push east along the southern coast of England, eventually swinging north toward Scotland and returning via the Irish Sea.
It’s a decision that has sparked some questions from the few people I’ve talked to. "Why Cornwall first?" they ask. "Isn't Wales closer?"
Sure, I’ve heard the stories. They say Cornwall has the most breathtaking beaches and the most dramatic cliffs in the UK. They say the light there is something a painter would die for. But to be honest, I couldn't care less about the scenery right now. My decision isn't aesthetic; it’s strategic. It’s about cold, hard survival.
With my current budget—or lack thereof—heading into the wilds of Wales would be a death sentence for this trip. If I turned west now, I’d hit Swansea, and then… a whole lot of nothing. Miles of beautiful, desolate, empty coastline where money is useless because there’s nowhere to spend it and no way to earn it.
The South, however, is densely packed with human settlements. Larger towns, busier ports, more opportunities to find a few days of work, or at the very least, more places where food and resources are accessible. By heading east first, I’m staying in the "safety zone" while I build up my reserves. I need to stockpile cash and supplies while I can.
Lightening the Load There’s also the matter of the British weather. By the time I circle back toward the more sparsely populated regions of the North and the Irish Sea, I’m betting on the season to turn. I’m hoping the sun will finally decide to stay, allowing me to ditch the heavy winter layers that currently take up half my backpack.
In this life, space is the only true luxury. Every gram of wool or Gore-Tex I can discard is a gram of food or water I can carry. I want to hit the lonely stretches of the trail when I’m lighter, faster, and better funded.
So, I sit here in Cardiff, waiting for a courier to bring me my window to the digital world. The pack is leaning against the table, the boots are laced, and the plan is etched in stone. Two days. Then, the pavement ends and the salt spray begins.
Martin once told me that the destination doesn't matter, only the journey. I’m about to put that theory to a 2,700-mile test.
Next stop: The Cornish Coast.
Kamil
Comments (0)
Leave a comment