Day 1 – I can’t help myself . . .

Once hooked, there is no escape. No going back to how things were. It’s pointless to resist. Almost impossible to rise above. Why put up a fight you know you’ll ultimately lose anyway? In today’s society there are so many opportunities for those ‘guilty pleasures’. Yet they often turn into ‘painful pleasures’.

Fortunately, the addiction of writing this 2 Cheeses blog, comes with no risk. Perhaps that’s why at the start of each new trip, I consider whether it’s actually worth continuing. What difference would it actually make if I stopped? Wouldn’t it be far simpler to down tools permanently? Free myself each evening from the process of having to think ‘what shall I write about’. Allow my mind during each day to be more fully absorbed in ‘the moment’, rather than wondering whether to take a certain photo, for the blog, or not. Would that omission derive more, or less pleasure?

Obviously, I haven’t put up much of a fight. The addiction of writing down random thoughts and observations does result in a certain amount of pleasure. Being able to hold on to thoughts for more than a few seconds, becomes more challenging as ageing progresses, so I’ve reached the conclusion that what little remains of that grey cerebral matter behind my eyebrows, needs some daily exercise. Besides which, it’s a way of recording memories that my brain can no longer hold on to. Scary!

Earlier. Very earlier. Due to a change of strategy, this morning’s unwelcome 5am alarm, didn’t find us bouncing out of bed all bright and breezy. It was dark and miserable outside. Inside too. Yet all of our own making. A Brittany Ferries 8.30am crossing from Poole, the culprit. A case of eliminating the long haul to Folkstone and the overnight stopover. The good idea, not feeling quite so good this early.

I imagine crossings of the English Channel, for the last couple of months, have been glass-like. Courtesy of our exceptional summer. Perhaps I should have heeded the logic of dynamic chance. Not assumed that it would be alright on our day. The longer the balmy summer lasted, the greater the chance of it breaking. But I’m an optimist. The forecast didn’t look good. In fact it looked bad. Being the owner of a stomach that turns itself inside out at just the thought of a rolling sea was already giving me colly-wobbles.

As it turned out, I survived – obviously. All passengers were forbidden from going up on deck due to the ‘inclement’ conditions. Not that that would have appealed to me anyway. For my part I spent most of the crossing with eyes closed, huddled on a corner seat.

We’re now pitched up about 95K south of Cherbourg at Camping Le Lac des Charmilles, Torigni-sur-Vire. A video call with grandson Jason and an indoor pool swim, the perfect tonic.