I wrote this on Sunday 26th February 2917, while flying over Northern Spain.
As I write these words, I’m 33,000 feet above the Earth, making my way over the clouds, under the blazing sun, to a volcanic island off the west coast of Africa.
Sat by the window, I can see smatterings of pulsing clouds below me, whispering through the sky, suspended mid-air. They are scattered like puddles, their fluffiness sweeping calmly across the open blue skies. I wonder if anyone down on the ground is looking at the same cloud am I. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Below that, I see mountain ranges undulating, their majesty sublime even from up here. I can practically hear their call ‘Come climb me!’ I wish I could. The sky is a dazzling and blazing pure blue, the kind of skies I dream of throughout the winter months back home in England.
Instead, I am in a tin-can aeroplane, leant against the window, the strong and trusty wing of our air ship jutting out to the right of me. The engine churning, the air hostesses asking if I want a snack. I should probably eat my sandwich. The air conditioning is a little too cold; I can’t wait to be by the pool, bathing myself in the warm and charming light of the sun.
I think we’ll be landing soon; we’re about three hours into the flight. I’ve been reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. I’m 100 pages in. It’s fascinating and heart-wrenching and is making me want to bare my soul to the Pacific Crest Trail. Maybe one day I will.
But for now, I’m high in the sky, shooting towards a sunny isle at over 300 miles an hour.
I can’t wait to land.