I’ve never been an early riser. Midnight has often been the most valuable time of the day for me, a time full of silences and opportunities. The early bird catches the worm, they say, but consider it from the worm’s perspective. I bet it’s not such a light-hearted expression in wormworld. “Remember the early worm,” they’ll whisper to each other as they slither past.
Not that worms whisper, of course ... at least I haven’t heard them... but maybe I just haven’t been listening ... Are worms actually capable of making any sound? If a worm on-looker noticed two worms speeding towards an icy intersection from opposite directions, and was convinced they would crash head on if they weren’t warned of the danger, would it simply watch on in aloof silence? Perhaps there is no other role for the worm to take than mute witness. Perhaps such questions are interminably - though silently - debated in worm ethics classes, yet remain obstinately unresolved. Of course, if the worm had a video camera - and we engaged in a little (h)armless anthropomorphism - the appropriate, socially-sanctioned course of action becomes clear - get it on tape! What is the value of two worms’ lives when compared to the priceless panacea of Funniest Home Tragedies? Maybe worms are cleverer than us. Maybe silence is golden. Or maybe silence just means not getting a mouthful of dirt.
But now the night held no promises. It was just darkness. A lonely vacuum of silence, emptiness, with too many hours to fill. It was to be endured until the first rays of sunshine brought not hope, but a sense of accomplishment. I had survived another day, another night, and surely each day must get easier ...
The days were slightly better. At least I still had the house to build. I still had something to do. At times I could even imagine nothing had changed. As long as I focused on the physical work, not thinking beyond the next nail, the next piece of the timber puzzle, I could believe, for a minute, that I was still moving forward. That there was still a goal I wanted to reach, a point at which life would somehow make sense. But at the end of each day, as I stood in front of the shed surveying my day’s work, the jumble of patchwork squares which would one day be a house - my house - seemed to offer more pain than hope. Its emptiness an almost physical burden, weighing me down. And it offered no protection from the encroaching night.
Marion came around to pick up her belongings. Anything she wanted, she could have. I didn’t care. Nothing meant anything anymore. They were just things cluttering up my life. Replaceable things. Things which would wear out one day, so what was the point of treasuring them? She’d moved into a house in Ettrick and wanted to make it ‘homey’. Fine, this house would never be a home, so why not?
We tried to settle things amicably. I would keep enough money to pay outstanding bills, she would take the rest. It was fair. It was reasonable. But I hated the fairness of it, the reasonableness. I envied her sudden freedom. Her bewildering choices. She could leave in any direction, go anywhere, do anything. I was trapped, and I felt I had been trapped ... by her! She had wanted to live here, despite my reservations. She had wanted kittens, despite my protests. Now she was leaving, while I had to go on building, go on living here, by myself. The house was valueless until it was a house, but I could no longer expect to finish now that I had no finances.
So we parted. Soon she had found someone to replace me, someone to stave off the loneliness. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t do it alone. Though we still saw each other occasionally, an unbearable distance had opened between us. We were two strangers suddenly introduced at a party by a well-meaning host who thought we had so much in common. But we had too much in common, and there was only an awkward silence. My building tales were painful reminders of the life she had abandoned. Her half-hearted tales of her new life were unbearably sad. So, gradually, we stopped seeing each other, and eventually she left to Dunedin.
Meanwhile, there was still a house to be built. I’d come too far to abandon it just yet. Once it was closed in, I could reconsider my options. Not that I could name any option at that moment, but I was sure they would eventually present themselves. After all, I had had a life before Marion. A good life. We had only been together five years, and the last couple hadn’t been wonderful ones, so there was no reason to expect my future to be any less rosy than my past (especially my immediate past). No reason at all ... except for the all-pervading feeling that half of me had wilted and died.
We’d thought we were destined to be together - forever. After all, an entire world had lain between us, and yet Fate, masquerading as free choice, had somehow, magically, contrived to bring us both to a small village in Ireland at the same time. Not that we’d ever believed in happy endings or Hollywood fairytales, but the sheer improbability of our meeting - the million paths foregone, the untold obstacles overcome, the bewildering kaleidoscope of choices ignored to create that moment - had always made us feel it had been pre-ordained. That it was simply meant to be.
What could I believe now? Could the building blocks of destiny be assembled in an infinite number of patterns, or was it a cosmic jigsaw where every piece had its allotted place? Was Fate truly fickle, allowing us a single opportunity to grasp our true destiny, or was opportunity’s twin always waiting around the next corner? Were we all riding the rails aboard our own karma train, throwing random switches at every junction until we reached the end of the line, or was chance waiting patiently at every station?
If our meeting had been pre-ordained, then this must also have been pre-ordained. But I couldn’t believe this was somehow meant to be. That there was some greater purpose to all this misery. That eventually I’d come to realise it had all been a valuable ‘learning experience’. What value was experiencing emptiness? What value was learning what happens once your tears have run dry? How could this make me a better person, when I hardly believed I’d ever be more than half a person again?
No, this wasn’t Fate, this was Life catching us unaware. This was us making mistakes, taking each other for granted, taking the future for granted. So sure we were supposed to be together, that we’d ignored every sign that it was all coming apart. We were two pieces cut from the same fabric then sewn together to form a single, seamless garment - no longer you and me, but a mystical, eternal WE. Who could blame us for believing all those loose threads were simply frayed edges - entirely normal wear and tear?
So when had it all started to unravel?
Raene and I had been travelling together for a year when we decided to celebrate our anniversary by splitting up for a few months. Ireland seemed like the perfect place for a holiday apart. It was a relatively easy hitching country (often more a case of waiting for a car to come than waiting for one to stop, and no long walks to the beginning of some motorway... though such walks can be quite educational, offering rare insights in the worst a city has to offer), and apart from having to listen to the private troubles of male drivers, a relatively safe country for women to hitch alone.
Raene quickly found a job as a nanny with the Dingle doctor’s family Dingle being the name of a small fishing village north of Killarney, not some peculiar Irish affliction or a Celtic witch doctor. But even though I’m a Pisces, working in the local fish factory held no appeal whatsoever, so I headed north.
In summer, Ireland is full of Americans rediscovering their lost heritage, all dressed in green with feet tapping in clumsy pursuit of the local rhythm. In winter, when the world has scurried back to its warm cities, the countryside is deathly quiet, with only the grey bowron sea and the tin-whistle wind marking time with my passing as I hugged the coast. It was slow progress, and despite my usual aversion to walking, I often found myself enjoyably ambling along stone-walled lanes, urged on by slit-eyed sheep.
Walking while hitching is like accepting lifts while tramping - you still get to where you’re going, but it’s missing the point. Hitching is all about hitching. It’s about putting your destiny in the slim hands of chance and playing the odds. There are no definites, no guarantees, no timetables, only the certainty that you’re going to get somewhere ... eventually. Sometimes even that can begin to look shaky.
After three days hitching beneath the midnight sun, high up in the Arctic Circle where cars are scarcer than red-nosed reindeer, having managed to travel less than thirty kilometres, most of it through sparse, golden tundra, before coming to an ignominious, and seemingly permanent, fullstop in a patch of forest just across the Finnish border, we could have been forgiven had we opted to trade-in our thumbs for bus tickets, especially since two days earlier we’d left the sanctity of the highway to enjoy a brief respite from the unrelenting glare at the precise moment the elderly German couple we’d accompanied for three days through Norway decided to pass by heading south.
But although hitching relies on the unfaithful marriage between luck and perseverance, you can improve the odds through technique (though being a woman is often all the technique you need). Motorists can be divided into three categories - those who always stop (about 1%); those who occasionally stop depending on the situation, their mood, or the hitcher’s appearance (about 9%); and those who never stop (an overwhelming 90%).
So, at the most, you’ve only got a 1-in-10 chance that the driver of the next car is even open to consider your proposal. There’s nothing you can do to entice the nevers to stop, and the always will stop even if you’ve fallen asleep on the side of the road. But there’s an entire encyclopedia of reasons why an occasional doesn’t stop ... this time.
It’s a question of neutralising as many as possible.
By wearing bright/light clothes. Black is a sinister colour for many, often indicating a dark or gloomy character; and army camouflage gear indicates no character at all.
By looking clean and tidy. Even the suspicion they might be spending the next two hours in a cramped cabin with one of the great unwashed is enough to deter even the most regular of occasionals.
By looking friendly. Most occasionals pick up hitchers for the conversation, not for an argument.
By resisting displays of aggression or anger. Smiling and waving - even while cursing them with pain and pestilence under your breath - is a more productive strategy than hurling stones or abuse simply because of the guilt and/or goodwill it may engender. It has been known to cause guilt-ridden drivers to return, or to influence the decision of approaching drivers to stop, and it may predispose drivers to stop next time, or even for the next hitcher ... which may not be a comfort at that moment, but it may influence the overall odds.
By standing in a convenient spot. Ideally on a flat, straight stretch of road, where traffic has to slow down, with enough space for a car to pull off the road without rolling down an embankment or parking illegally. Police in most countries seem to consider hitchers a traffic hazard, but because it is seldom illegal, they often take out their frustrations on any driver foolish enough to infringe minor traffic regulations while stopping.
And by ensuring you’re clearly visible. Giving the drivers ample time to assess your adherence to the above standards, and to peruse their excuse portfolio. An occasional likes to have an excuse for not picking you up - even when that excuse is simply that they don’t feel like stopping - and there’s a bewildering array of signals they use to ensure you understand the particular excuse they’ve selected. There’s the lateral “I’m-taking-the-next-turn-off” wave. The over-the-shoulder “We’re-full-and-the-children-bite-and-the-dog-is-carsick” thumb jerk. The furtive “My-husband/wife/mother/father-doesn’t-let-me-pick-up-strangers” finger-point. And the slow “I-can’t-think-of-a-single-reason-why-I’m-not-stopping-but-I’m-not” shrug.
Some nevers use false signals in a misguided attempt to seem like occasionals, but these are rarely successful as they are usually wildly inappropriate to the situation - such as signalling a turn-off when the only exit possible is via submarine; impossible to accurately interpret - such as the grinning “I’m-so-happy-I’ve-got-a-car / What-a-clown-for-thinking-I-might-stop” head nod; or just plain stupid - such as the exuberant “Good-on-you-for-trying-something-so-futile” raised thumb.
I’ve never found walking much use when hitch-hiking, so I long ago dropped the hiking part. Not only doesn’t it get you to your destination any faster (unless your destination is less than a day’s walk away), but under normal circumstances, it tends to seriously undermine your liftability. Because the only car in an hour invariably appears after you’re past that long, clear straight and just as the road starts dodging between shadow-encrusted curves - so there’s not enough time for the occasionals to size you up. If it does miraculously appear on the straight, it’s usually the first passing opportunity they’ve had after three hours stuck behind seven lorries, two tractors and a gypsy caravan, so unless there’s a perfect place to make a pit stop, there’s no way any driver’s going to risk losing pole position. So it’s usually better to find the most ideal location available, and wait. And often the best place is, coincidentally, within metres of where your last lift dropped you.
But Ireland was different. Traffic was sparse (and the few cars passing by were never going far), the scenery was breathtaking, and because I had no destination in mind, I was always within walking distance of where I wanted to go. The longest trips were usually no further than the next village (often perched on coughing tractors or squeezed between bales of hay), with many journeys prolonged by rambling detours and generous Guinness sojourns. And it was on one such detour that I ended up in Doolin.
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