Undissuaded by heavy rain, and having the day free, I hankered for a bus ride, distance no object. What could be more in accord with my temperament than a pilgrimage? In harmony with the Zen poet Basho, author of The Narrow Road to the Deep North. My destination this morning was “a small café in Rickmansworth”, immortalised by Douglas Adams in his foreword to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy:
And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, one girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever.
This is not her story.
If I too sat there on my own, in the same café (assuming it was not entirely fictional), with the rain beating on the window, would a revelation of equal immensity be vouchsafed to me? Would the world come to an end before I could tell you about it in my blog? It was worth a try. In any case, I have fond memories of visits to Rickmansworth. The very name of the place hints at a town superficially ordinary yet secretly special. Which it is. Perhaps Adams chose it for that reason. He was sensitive to place-names. Check out The Meaning of Liff (sic) which he co-authored.
I could have persevered in my adventure but the bus had been cancelled and I wasn’t dressed warmly enough. Walking back from the bus station, an image of home appeared to my inward eye, in a sort of golden light. “The Englishman’s home is his castle”: surely a proverb invented by an Englishman, for tell me a nation which sees it otherwise! My house is long and narrow, one room wide, like a small yacht with cabins above and below. On either side it is joined to other identical houses, in what we call a Terrace. It is rather dark, something which bothered me at first. But we grow into the shortcomings of those we love, and see their virtues instead.
Two days later:
I’m clinging to this snailshell of home now. We’re about to leave for a week’s vacation. I don’t have a fear of flying. It’s exhilarating to be in the aircraft. But I have a fear of something, a nameless physical anxiety, with nothing mental to associate with it. My mind races. Tickets; passports; directions; security; officialdom. All this is the complete opposite of home, or walking on two feet in one’s own neighbourhood. I don’t really want to leave at all! The spirit of adventure has shrivelled in me, as if I might never return, or this home might not be here waiting when I do.
Later still:
It’s fortunate that moods change. Are not the pictures we paint—and call reality—composed largely of mood, as solid as silk spun from moonbeams?
a wayfarer’s notes 
I hope your changed mood means that you've again embraced your adventure/vacation and are having a wonderful time!
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enjoy my friend and return full of words
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I've always thought that Rickmansworth sounds like a jaded 70s prog rocker. I once worked for a short while in Watford (as one should only ever do) and my boss from Rickmansworth, so although I'm not aware of having ever been there I judge it by how I recall him, neither young nor old, artificial with pretensions that outdo its substance.
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thanks for these, I just paid for 10 minutes in internet bar at hotel in Spain. Not enough time really. Awkward keyboard–Spanish. Note to self: must manage my Internet addiction.
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Awesome post. Indeed, it is our perspective by which we live and breathe – like life is an infinitely faceted diamond, and we all get to see the whole of it through our own, unique lense. Surely, our moods have a great deal to do with our perspectives.
I wrote a post about that once… I'll have to dig it up.
Well, I guess I never posted about it. Either that, or my search thingy is busted. Whichever the case, I came across this post and this quote from it I thought I'd share with you:
“It’s true that faith in something that is non-existent does not make something non-existent suddenly exist. However, not believing in something real just because it’s hard to feel or understand, doesn’t make it any less real.”
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Now I’m back. As to the vacation, it gave a perspective on things. If it had been just my decision, I would have stayed home, but I am not the one who has to go to work in an office 5 days a week and needs a complete break and has never seen anything of the world except Jamaica & England.
scot, thanks, I am full of words, & will give birth some time in the next few days!
dba – you wouldn't by any chance be thinking of Rick Wakeman?
Tim, I shall follow up your link. Whilst in Spain I read Conrad's first novel (Almayer's Folly) and started reading a biography of George Bernard Shaw by Colin Wilson. Both books having an angle on the extent to which we create our own reality.
In particular Wilson labels Shaw a romantic who was unusually capable of objectivity. These words—real, unreal, subjective, objective—they’re so easily confused!
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Great post Vincent, really gives me the sense of a mood, a feeling of being in the rain, in the pub, waiting for the fates to do their thing, thinking it all thru, eyes unveiling the mysteries….all the while, snug, comfortable but on the edge of uneasy (unlike at home), hot tea in my cup while the silk of the moonbeams is spun around and in me. I may paint that, I really enjoyed the words there that capture the reality, or is the unreality? Thanks Vincent, your posts, your writing is wonderfully pleasurable and stimulating.
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