It started with a coach to Bristol, then another to Birmingham. The plan was a simple connection to Coventry, but the Road decided I needed a wake-up call. I fell asleep at the station and watched my bus disappear into the night. So, I did what I do best: I walked. Birmingham to Coventry on foot. Then Coventry to Nuneaton, where I spent an entire day hiding in a public library like a digital ghost, charging my phone and laptop, before pushing through Hinckley to finally reach Leicester.
And that’s where I am now. Stuck.
The weather in Leicester has turned into a miserable, grey wall. It’s cold, it’s wet, and the sky looks like it’s forgotten what the sun looks like. There was a brief, flickering shadow of a chance to leave on Saturday, but like most shadows, it vanished before I could catch it. So, I’ve been wandering the streets of this city, wondering what the hell I’m doing and where I’m going next.
The Ten-Pound Miracle I was walking aimlessly, my mind a mess of logistics and cold dampness, when I saw it. A crisp £10 note lying on the pavement, abandoned. In this life, ten pounds isn't just money—it’s a godsend. It’s a ticket out. I picked it up and started doing the math: a bus ticket to Nottingham is about £6. That leaves £4. Enough for a beer. Enough for a moment of normalcy.
I ducked into a small off-license, looking for a cold one to celebrate my luck. I scanned the shelves—empty. No cans, no bottles, just dusty snacks and soda. I turned to leave, but the shopkeeper called out to me in English: "What are you looking for, my friend?"
"Beer," I replied, already halfway out the door.
He gestured me back with a sly grin. "I have beer. Come." He led me toward the back, into the storage room, away from the street-facing windows. "Sorry about the back-room service," he whispered. "I lost my alcohol license last week, so we keep it quiet."
He asked what I wanted. I chose a Birra Moretti. He emerged with two cold bottles and we started talking. Small talk at first—the weather, the city—until he asked where I was from.
"Poland," I said.
Then the world tilted. This man, an Algerian immigrant in the middle of a licensed-but-not-licensed shop in Leicester, started speaking to me in fluent Polish. Not just a few broken words, but real, conversational Polish.
The Polish-Algerian Joint We stood there in the back of the shop, hidden from the world, and we just talked. It turns out he had lived with Poles for years and picked up the language until it became second nature to him. There we were: a Polish nomad with 47 miles in his legs and an Algerian shopkeeper, speaking Polish in a hidden room in the English Midlands.
Then he looked at me and said, "Wait, I have a joint. Let’s smoke."
He pulled out some Moroccan hash, sparked it up, and passed it over. I cracked open the Moretti, and for a while, the rain outside didn't matter. The cold didn't matter. We stood there, sharing a smoke and a beer, speaking a language that belonged to neither of us by birth but united us in that moment.
It’s moments like these that remind me why I do this. You can plan your route, you can buy the best gear, and you can calculate your budget down to the last penny, but the Road will always provide something you didn't know you needed. I needed ten pounds, but I also needed that conversation. I needed to be reminded that the world is full of strange, kind, and unpredictable people.
The Road Ahead This is only the beginning. I’m still stuck in Leicester for the moment, waiting for the sky to clear enough to make the push toward Nottingham. I don't know what the next fifty miles will bring, but after the Algerian Connection, I’m ready for anything. Surprises like these are the only currency that really matters out here.
The journey continues. The destination is still a long way off, but as my friend Martin says: "It’s not the destination that matters, only the road." And today, the road smelled like Moroccan hash and tasted like a cold Birra Moretti.
Next Stop: Nottingham (hopefully).
Kamil
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