Left at half eleven, arrived at twenty past five, saw cloud. It is still one of the better nights I have had.
The plan, such as it was
A forecast suggesting clear skies four hundred miles north, a tank of fuel, and a flask. The forecast was wrong by about sixty miles and three hours, which I knew by two in the morning and decided to ignore.
The part that was actually the point
Empty motorway between one and four is a different country. No decisions, no overtaking, nothing to look at — just the road arriving and a long uninterrupted stretch of thinking, which I do not otherwise get.
I did not drive four hundred miles for the sky. I drove four hundred miles for the four hours of nobody being able to reach me.
What I would do again
- Sleep in the afternoon first. I did not, and the drive home was genuinely unsafe for the first hour.
- Take the flask seriously. Nothing is open. Nothing at all.
- Go anyway when the forecast turns. The sky was the pretext. The pretext does not have to deliver.
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