A ray of sunshine woke me. I turned away and continued to snooze. The warmth on the back of my neck was uncomfortable. I reached over to the side table and felt for my harmonica. I picked it up and guided it to my mouth. I wailed the bluesman lament until my eyes were ready to open. My unruly hair tangled the tune. I rose from the chaos and looked through the window. The beautiful green lawns so carefully tended by my father stretched to the perimeter hedge and beyond lay the farmers fields. A house martin swept through the sky and zoomed towards my window. He navigated into the corner of the recess where he perched on the beginnings of a nest. Dried remains from last year's weather-beaten home contrasted with the fresh pea size lumps of mud which he layed like tiny irregular bricks. Was this the very same plot where he had broken through the fragile egg shell, stretched forth his tender neck and opened his virgin beak in desperation for sustenance? Now returned from his North African odyssey to Englands green and pleasant land he laboured dilligently. Soon his family would be installed and the circle of life consolidated. I threw off my covers and moved my feet to the floor. Sat on the edge of my bed I woke my visage to the world. Like the miniscule martin I too must spread my wings. I would continue his Northern course. Spring was in the air. Like the highland harebells thrusting through the cold soil I would break for the border. This morning's shower would be my last for some time. I packed my change of clothes, sleeping bag and carry mat. I breakfasted on a poached egg on toast. Along the stony track, up to the lane and onto the main road and out with the thumb. Who would stop for this rambling soul? A ford sierra pulled over. A friendly man on his way to Lancaster. He admired my adventurous spirit. He dropped me at the small linear settlement of Forton. I turned off the main road down a little lane not unlike the little lane from which I had not long emerged to begin my hitch-hike. It may appear that I was diverging from the route to Scotland but the alternative path takes unusual twists and turns. I wound my way around a dog's leg between the hedges and beneath a farmer's bridge. Then from the country road I approached an imposing metal barrier emblazoned with a no-entry sign. Sliding around its edge through a thorny hedge I entered the motorway service station. Now the job really gets under way. I gently walked over to the petrol pumps and as a driver returned to his car I politely asked him if he was heading North.
No - was his reply. I retreated.
Sorry - he added.
Realistically he could be headed in no other direction. To derail a leading question with a false answer was fair play. To politely retreat was a good performance. My presence was being noticed. I asked a lady. It was unlikely she would take me. This allowed me an even politer withdrawal. Next I approached a well dressed serious looking man. Tall and strong, he looked confident. I once again enquired if he was heading North.
I am - he proffered.
Any chance of a lift? - dropped the formality, but still cordially allowed a refusal.
Where are you going?
Scotland.
Inverness?
Yes.- I replied.
Hop in.
Success!!