Life has changed again. I left the walk on the 1st of February, a brother in a car accident, said the policeman on the phone, serious condition. The only train that day took me away from Porthmadog, winding its way around the coast and estuary into farmland then towns then Birmingham, the midlands, no distance to the horizon, buildings as far as the eye could see, and into the heart of Nottingham where, waiting for me, lay a brother, prone, the wise nurse at the end of the bed guiding him through his coma, machines beeping a jagged lullaby.
I've been there, waiting and watching as he moved again, as he talked again and as he walked again.
Before this, before the 1st of Febuary, my life was fixed and focused on one thing, completing the walk of thousands of miles I'd set myself. I walked through pain, through bad weather, up and over hundreds of hills, down into sheep lined valleys. My heart flew free above me, despite pain and privation I was happier than I could ever been in a job, in a house, in the snarings of a civilised life.
Now I'm torn, my focus ripped away from the walk and targeted on my brothers life, first his survival and then his achievements, his long term future.
I don't know where I am, coming back here, only that it's the only thing left to do. It feels like Rumplestiltskin in reverse. I'm returning from a dream to the same life, same mountains, same sea, same gossips in village shops, same ovarian cancer, same boots, same rucksack. It's only me that's changed; I've been to death and back again and now I'm different.
It all feels a bit futile now, this walk, this sunshine, these cancer charities. I'm sure it will change, I'll feel a bit different. I just need to keep acting as if this is normal and the jumble inside me will slowly unravel, leaving me free to enjoy the final thousand miles. Months of Welsh coastline still to come, another six rivers to follow and a target of ten thousand pounds to raise for charity. I'll do it because it's all there is.
I've been there, waiting and watching as he moved again, as he talked again and as he walked again.
Before this, before the 1st of Febuary, my life was fixed and focused on one thing, completing the walk of thousands of miles I'd set myself. I walked through pain, through bad weather, up and over hundreds of hills, down into sheep lined valleys. My heart flew free above me, despite pain and privation I was happier than I could ever been in a job, in a house, in the snarings of a civilised life.
Now I'm torn, my focus ripped away from the walk and targeted on my brothers life, first his survival and then his achievements, his long term future.
I don't know where I am, coming back here, only that it's the only thing left to do. It feels like Rumplestiltskin in reverse. I'm returning from a dream to the same life, same mountains, same sea, same gossips in village shops, same ovarian cancer, same boots, same rucksack. It's only me that's changed; I've been to death and back again and now I'm different.
It all feels a bit futile now, this walk, this sunshine, these cancer charities. I'm sure it will change, I'll feel a bit different. I just need to keep acting as if this is normal and the jumble inside me will slowly unravel, leaving me free to enjoy the final thousand miles. Months of Welsh coastline still to come, another six rivers to follow and a target of ten thousand pounds to raise for charity. I'll do it because it's all there is.
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