How do you combine a search for the ordinary with a search for great waters to paddle? Easy – do it in your own country, where the very fabric of the culture is woven into your DNA. Get lost in your own back garden.
Somewhere on the M6, just north of Birmingham, I start to consider myself to be in an exotic location. It’s the first time I’ve stopped the car since I left. In a service station people are wandering around with baseball caps and cheap sportswear on. The accent is thick; I don’t mean intellectually but you know the one I mean. The one that they don’t use in call centres because the rest of the UK somehow deems it unworthy. We continue north to Moffat, a beautiful town with a beautiful old hotel where the dog makes her presence known by standing up and placing her paws on the large oak reception counter. “Ooh you’re a big boy!” Coos the receptionist in a sweet Scottish lilt. The dog is leering directly into her face. “So, I’ve upgraded you, the room you booked isn’t really big enough for a dog like that”.
