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Even on this road, some digital footprints are left behind. I use cookies to understand how you navigate my journal and to help Google Ads show you relevant content instead of random junk. By clicking "Accept All," you agree to the storage of cookies on your device for site analytics and personalized marketing. If you prefer to travel light, you can customize your settings. No tourist traps here—just the tech needed to keep this project running. Privacy Policy
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Do you remember when I wrote in my previous post ([link]) that I had to suspend my journey? The plan was simple, or so I thought: sink into the London grind, paint the walls of commercial giants, and grind out the ÂŁ16,000 needed for my ocean-going vessel. I was prepared for 119 days of monochromatic nights. But as of today, that plan is dead. I no longer have a job. I am back on the trail.
It’s been a week. Seven days since I swapped the dust of the coastal paths for the wet splatter of commercial paint. My journey has drastically decelerated—at least in terms of mileage. Instead of tracking the rugged British coastline, I’m pacing the sterile floors of TK Maxx stores under the hum of industrial ventilation. The trail is officially on hold, replaced by a brush and a roller. But in the grand calculus of this trip, these coming months of grind are an investment. I’m not just working; I’m buying my future freedom, one shift at a time.
As the saying goes: if you want to make the road laugh, tell it your plans. Yesterday, I was deconstructing the legend of Robin Hood; today, I’m sitting in a green FlixBus seat at Nottingham station, watching the rain-streaked world through the window. My plan hasn't just gone off the rails—it has evolved into something I didn't write into the original code.
I’ve decided to drop anchor in Nottingham for a week, maybe longer. My legs need the break after that 33-mile push from Leicester, and my laptop needs a stable Wi-Fi connection that doesn't cut out every time someone orders a burger. But while I’m here, I couldn't just sit in the corner of a Wetherspoons and ignore the green-clad ghost haunting every souvenir shop in this city.
I’ve officially made it to the land of the Sheriff—Nottingham.
Most people hear the name and immediately think of Robin Hood, the legendary outlaw in green tights, redistributing wealth in the depths of Sherwood Forest. But the reality of geography is a bit less romantic than the movies. The actual Sherwood Forest, or what’s left of it, sits about 20 miles north of where I am currently sitting.
I’ve been officially on the road for half a week now. Time out here doesn't move like it does in a "normal" life; it’s measured in miles, battery percentages, and the gaps between rain showers. Since leaving Cardiff last Tuesday—or was it Wednesday? the days are already blurring—I’ve covered about 47 miles.
