Crossing The English Channel With Your Thumb.
Reminiscing on a tale of uncertainty, fear, joy, adventure and alcohol as we hitch from Bedford, England to Brugge, Belgium.
It was supposed to be a quick stroll from the bar to the ATM and back, but it turned into a pivotal moment in both our lives that would send us through a roller-coaster of various emotions that spanned three days, which would have usually been spent in a cubicle staring at a computer screen working on various marketing campaigns for myself and repairing bikes in a dark workshop for Nick.
I always talked to many of my close friends about the idea of hitchhiking and unconventional travel in general, and before long it consumed me. I trusted in the kindness of strangers to carry me from one place to another and was desperate to try it. I read books by the likes of Eckhart Tolle and Tom Thumb that, although are a world apart, follow down a similar vein that only fuelled these urges.
The only thing stopping me was uncertainty and fear, two concrete boots that destroy many acts of creation and great ventures before they even start.
Once you get a few beers in you and shake hands on a deal made with a good friend you've known since you were 10 years old, however, you’re then duty bound by an unspoken law to stick to your word and actually do it.
It was my fault, really. It was all I ever blabbed on about; making bold claims that I would travel parts of Europe without spending any money at all in the summer that was soon to reach me. By confiding in Nick, however, I found an accomplice to join me. We would hitchhike to Europe together. The deal was done.
Summer rolled around before I knew it and at 6:00 AM on a Monday morning in June 2012 I woke up in my then-girlfriend’s house, who we will refer to as “the ex” for the rest of this writing, with a mixture of feelings brewing. Nick met me outside of the front door just as my friend Matt pulled up in his van that would give us our first lift to Thurrock services on the M25 motorway.
The only preparations I made were a few safety essentials such as a florescent jacket and an atlas as well as the white lies I spun to protect my family and “the ex”. They think I met someone on a carpool website that agreed to pick us up from Thurrock and take us over the channel on his way back to some Scandinavian country I randomly chose from thin-air. The reactions I got when I came clean on our return were quite unexpected.
At Thurrock services we enjoyed what we thought could have been our last decent breakfast for awhile (it wasn't) and got ourselves some more supplies — namely some pens and a piece of cardboard to write our destination on.
As we approached the lorry park we met two punks named Dego and Del, who had just arrived from Europe themselves, hitchhiking their way back up home to Scotland. Dego had been doing this for 30 years and after sharing tales of the road as well as some sound road advice the initial impossibility of our adventure seemed a lot more laughable. I was wondering what it was I was even worrying about in the first place.
We made our way to Maidstone services on the M20 thanks to a very kind couple in their late 50's (school librarian and train driver respectively) who educated us in the art of terrifying school children. As we got out of the car I was completely unaware I was about to enter the longest four hours of my life.
The weather was fantastic during our adventure but you can’t imagine how hard it is to keep your spirits up after the countless “no mate’s” and chunks of passing abuse as jocks & disgruntled lorry drivers drove us by. It was only when we approached Niko, a graphic designer from Antwerpen, that the fourth hour gave us hope.
We drove down the last stretch of England towards Dover ferry port and, although fearing we wouldn't be allowed on the boat, discovered that P&O ferries don’t mind taking on extra passengers as long as we had valid passports and left the ferry with Niko as well. From this point onward the poor guy was duty bound to babysit us until we reached France.
After finishing off a self-deserved pint of Stella Artois with Nick, I took to the outside of the ferry to look out at a barely visible France on the horizon. A couple of hours ago I was fretting and cursing, about to give up and figure a way back to London, now I felt amazing.
It’s been over a year and a half since I stood on top of the ferry that day, but I can still feel my heart leaping when I think about that moment. I was crossing the English channel on a very large boat after meeting some incredible people and it was only 12 hours ago that I walked out of the front door. To pack that much excitement into such a short amount of time was new to me and to use a commonly attributed word such as “rewarding” would be an understatement.
When we arrived in Calais we were making very good time, so Niko offered to take us all the way to Brugge, Belgium, which is exactly where we were aiming to go. I guess we made good road companions and made an otherwise dull journey from tending to his sick mother into an unexpected twist to tell his wife when he arrived home.
Ever since this trip I've learned not to expect things to go a certain way, of places, events and, most importantly, people. As we walked through the streets of Brugge at 10:00 PM I was certain we would be sleeping in the same hostel I did when I stayed the previous year, having a quiet beer nearby and then getting some kip to venture out into Brugge early the next morning. This was not what the universe had in store for us as, when you lack preparation and embrace the full force of uncertainty, you’ll often find that people who are a bit more forward thinking than you will book up all the rooms in the hostel you wanted to stay in.
What we actually did was share the only double bed available in the most raucous, filthy hostel the grand city of Brugge had to offer. And we loved every moment of it. Before succumbing to the inevitable debauchery the hostel bar had to offer, we grabbed a bottle of cherry beer, Kriek, and sat down by the canal to enjoy some silence and reflect on how the day went.
We ended up drinking far too much that night but did end up meeting some great characters: two lads who cycled from Basingstoke and caked the toilet walls with their insides after insisting they drink the strongest shot the barman could create; two loud and energetic Germans who arranged a tour for some other kids that loved to drink beer and play handball; the barmen who were just happy to be working there and socialise with everyone.
When you walk out of your front door and keep going for awhile, you eventually end up in an entirely different part of the planet where, although everything seems familiar, is actually a world apart from where you come from. You can enjoy the company of perfect strangers without it seeming weird or even facing hostility for attempting to do so and this, more than anything, was a welcome change.
The next day we had to find another bed to sleep in, and this time we shared a dorm room on the outskirts of town with Juan Manuel and Cesar, a Uruguayan and Ecuadorian respectively. We took them to our new favourite drinking hole and talked about the wonders of the universe, the ego as well as other spiritual “mumbo jumbo” that I struggled to converse with back home.
The next morning I woke up to see the sun starting its light up above me. I’d ended up on the hostel grounds but was not in my bed, laying on a path that ran between one of the dorm blocks and a patch of grass. Making my way back inside, I had a quick nap before we headed out towards Amsterdam.
The long and short of this next part is we did hitchhike out of Brugge, but we also hitchhiked back in too. The reason simply being that Nick and I were far too hungover and couldn't find a good spot to hitch along the motorway to Antwerpen. Plus, as the incredibly kind ladies who took us back into the centre of Brugge told us, the train to Amsterdam was only 25 euro. It seemed like a no brainer at the time.
Did we fail? To some, I guess we did, but did we accomplish something regardless? Certainly. I learned some new lessons for next time and although our trip to Amsterdam was short lived I got to know it properly the following year anyway.
What’s the point of this article? To resurface and indulge in old memories and feelings in a selfish manner? I can’t deny reliving each step I took on that journey with every word I just wrote. But I’d much rather think it’s a way of proving to you that, despite what the world may want you to believe, your concrete boots are usually self-imposed. You can cover great distances if you accept uncertainty and take it all slowly.
When I returned home, I came clean to my family. They laughed and thought I was mad to try it but were happy I had a good time. “The ex”, however, didn’t share the encouragement. Whether it was because I lied or because she didn't like the idea of me hitchhiking, I don’t remember. These two reactions were the complete opposite I was expecting to get from each party — such is the way of expectation.
In around February 2013, Nick and I had dinner with a couple of friends of ours as I, once again, indulged in the thought of taking another journey. What shocked me during this round of “tough talk” was not that our friends STILL wouldn't believe what we did is possible but the reaction to my insistence that I'm living proof that it is possible, that I've already done it once before. This is what they said. Are you ready for this?
“I’d like to see you try and do it again.”
Incredible.
As the needle passes another notch and 2013 comes to an end, I face the new year with new uncertainties that pose even greater risks. I now know that although those concrete boots will try and drown me, if I can travel an ocean for the heavy investment of £0.00 including invisible VAT, I can probably do anything.
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