SiduriWalks

Dear James, (14/08/2016: Sofia, Bulgaria) I miss you! I've felt so close to you for some of this journey and so far from you for other of it. I do hope that next year we can walk a few days together through Bulgarian mountains or Georgian valleys - something like that. Here follows an account of why I am cutting my journey short this year, and what it's taken for me to make this decision. For days now I've been hovering on the edge of social media not-quite-ready to tell the world of my shift in plans. And it has to come out now - I'm in Sofia in the middle of hostel culture, distressed by the free drinks and the jovial fake generosity and the cool kids in the garden and the endless beer. In Sofia waiting to catch a plane tomorrow, back to England. I should not be here; I should be crossing the mountains down into Southern Bulgaria on the way to the Turkish border. And it came about like this: First squished-together scenario involves a strange town called Ploiești within which is situated an even stranger hostel. Within this hostel I made the acquaintance of Bucharest native, gypsy lesbian, D., who introduced herself to me as a thief, laid bare the workings of said hostel, (brothel, den of thieves) and warned me against them, said to keep my money around my waist at all times. This sounds like good advice, and I could have listened, but I messed up on the last morning. Of course I did. Isn't that how all folk tales work? I went to the bathroom and left my money belt in the dorm. I feel somewhat now as if I did it to test them - who knows? In any case, when I looked again I was lacking 100 lei. Cue a long period of waiting and wondering how to do this, I eventually decided to call the hostel's bluff. If you don't refund my entire two-night-stay's cost, I'll call the police on this institution. I meant it. I was furious. And entitled. And just damn well lacking in cash (my bank card having been blocked the day before, due to fraud committed on it, on a thousand pounds' worth of car insurance, no less.). If there had been no fraud I might even have left them their ill-gotten gains, foolish as I felt for having not followed instructions. D., my guardian angel, thank you for your guidance and friendship. It's with me still. I won't forget our conversation, my gradual realisation that 'I understand but I don't speak' meant 'I understand you perfectly but I would rather listen and infer and laugh.' You remind me of another quiet beauty that I know. Older than their years, far more observant and analytical than they'd have you know. I wish you well across the wires and the waves. So Ploiești lost me some money, gained me a slowly-healing ankle, and I set off to Bucharest, wondering quite how to manage this cashless situation. There I had the pleasure of the company of H., couchsurfing host extraordinaire, who sans hesitation gave me the keys to his flat and let me loose to wash my clothes and sort my stuff. A low key, much needed period of relaxation in the middle of a glorious city of concrete, grass and bygone grandeur. It was hot and drew me in, and I found myself in love with another city, this time a slower greener one; one with wide roads and parks; less queer presence, more space to be who you wish. I still miss it, weeks later. (There I also discovered I would not be able to fix the cashlessness from abroad, and my idea to come home started forming.) From there, I headed south down sticky Tarmac roads past reminders of the Turkish presence in Romania in the form of truckstops by the names of 'Istanbul Petrol', 'Bursa Gaz' and the like. Stopped in on one; everyone was Turkish. They, of course, thought I was mad and had to ask me at least five times what exactly I was doing showing up at their truckstop on foot in Romania speaking Turkish. I hope I am become tiny legend among Turkish truck drivers, if only so I never have to navigate that explanation again. Maybe I even have a coined name and an epithet. The Lady of the Large Ankle? Little needs saying about exiting Romania, except that it was painful. I got attached, there was some breaking away trauma, I survived. (It honestly was that dramatic.) The two-kilometre stomp across the Friendship Bridge was not a pleasant one, but mainly for the reason that there were repairs on the pedestrian part of the bridge so my best bet was to stroll large down the middle of the road thereon. I made it intact, though my phone almost went over the edge as I tried to take a photo. By the by. Ruse. The Bulgarian border town. Beauty after chaos. I spent a night here and pressed on, despite wishing I could stay longer. Unexpected calm, helpfulness and generosity from folks who were absolutely not called upon to even notice me. My language crisis came crashing in that day; after understanding that there was nothing in this language that I could apply from others I supposedly know. (Today came the first wonderful moment of recognition when I heard 'chanta' and understood it to mean 'bag'. Thank you dear Arabic and Turkish. It's tiny moments like these...) [Skipping over a three day increasingly painful walk on a steadily failing ankle - how was two days' rest ever going to be enough? - down into mid-Bulgaria to the old capital Veliko Tărnovo, where I spent a good restful time with a couchsurfing host, P. Decision to go 'home' and fix my finances and foot was made the evening of arrival there, when my boot was painful to remove and flights to England from Sofia were cheaper than continuing to Istanbul.] So, sitting in Sofia sun, I'm happy to be coming back to England - if it only means a space to breathe and see missed people. Sorry that this letter is a little of a letdown! I'm happy to be able to start next year's walk from mid-Bulgaria. (Come with me!) A challenge; an excuse to find a little more of a road into the language. Love to you, and see you in less than a week I hope. B.

Dearest Helen, (Friday 29th July, near Câmpina) I do hope you're well in Istanbul. The media has dropped all talk of post-coup anything, and people are just about back to daily life again, it seems (how can you ever really 'go back to normal'?). Meanwhile this letter is about a week late, it being last Friday I promised it you. Since we talked then, I've seen sheepdogs - Romanian shepherd dogs that look like wolves crossed with bears crossed with collies -, got over a mountain, networked like crazy and seen my family. Romania is putting out feelers towards keeping me, even as I work towards her borders. I suppose this is a post about Home. Home as a too-heavy rucksack carried over a mountain, an impediment to movement; Home as boots, the road; Home as your monthlong break in Australia, and your return to the Istanbul I know you love; Home too as a cabana 2,500 metres above sea level, bunked down in a room prepared for 36 people, width no more than fifty centimetres to call my own; Home in Brașov with my mum and sister and how we terrorized the streets; Home as a long-loved monster of a City far away from me struck by power games and political chokehold. They are all home, or if they are not we are still searching. The forward and upward motion towards finding a home two days ago was more than I had bargained for. Tuesday had started a trek, ill-organised by me, which took us into the mountains and then out again to Râșnov, over black runs on ski fields (barked at by sheepdogs, rain came down as we started the descent of course) and up a stream where I, childish, fell and skinned my knee and shin. I don't have the requisite coordination for this! Second day in, we walked up... and up. Through forests - green deciduous first, then pines and firs as the air got heavier. (My bag got heavier.) Eventually, we emerged in a hanging valley - glacial landscapes, oh what magic they hold - so green, such Swiss charm, so unthreatening, and learnt that the choice of ways up to our one-night-home was either the summer route (longer, danger of avalanches!), or the winter route (short, steep: we could see just how steep if we strained our eyes southwestward). After water refills (three litres to bring with me on the climb - peaks and plateaux have no water sources), we headed up the valley. Green at first, I wasn't troubled, and even as I saw the path heading more steeply than I'd comprehended earlier up into the clouds with a nice dose of scree and some rocks I saw no way of hauling my bag-bulk up around (it was raining again now; lessons in coincidence - if it can happen, of course it will, and I should be able to translate that into Turkish). In short, we climbed it, H. with apparent ease, I with clenched teeth and terror as the rain made handholds harder to keep and scree more likely to come skittering down. Took us fortyfive minutes all told, and looking down I still can't believe I got up it. H. has photos - I have none. A word on my hiking partner, H. I was clueless - she was graceful; I misrepresented myself somewhat - she tactfully took over and nudged our hike in the right direction; she told tales - I listened to her eloquent storytelling; I fell over walking up a stream - she helped me up a difficult rock. In short, I owe her somewhat. What a travel companion - a wonder. And we had a good three days together, despite my ineptitude, culminating in a meal bought on empty stomachs made and eaten in the kitchen of our pensiune in the town of Sinaia, joined by yet another phenomenal woman, the lovely N., who I still have to get to know. And will, I have no doubt. Shortly, we made it up the summit of Mount Omu, which may or may not be the ninth highest peak in Romania, and this information is neither here nor there. We (in our search for Home) are looking for the human elements. So we find in the cabana at the summit, cold people, card-players, gender studies graduates, silent but friendly Swedes, and rest, that all-important ingredient. Rest came as the sun set, as it must in the mountains, and we, packed firmly into our bunks, had no choice whether to resist or not. Despite my aching feet I fell too, eventually, gratefully. And morning. And the sunrise. And our descent to Sinaia. I could describe all this to you, but it'll lose much in the telling, and the pine forests won't tell you their smell, and the frustrations of maps not matching waymarks won't come through, the small terrors of crossing fallen track, the threat of a pinching blister on the left instep, the gratitude for a shared piece of capsicum, the first snag of wifi on arrival in town, the meeting of a friend of a friend in a strange town. These things, maybe all are elements of Home. As I recall them now, at least they will be carried with me, and that's a homemaking of sorts, isn't it? Their formation into stories of their own a welcome mat thrown down? So be well in your Istanbul, give the beautiful cat babies(-no-longer) a hug from me - and I'll see you in a month back there. Keep a corner of your Home for me! With love -- B.

'Let's get out of here Past the atmosphere Squint your eyes and no one dies or goes to jail Past the silver bridge In nothing but a onesie and a veil' (Andrew Bird for the escapism, of course) Dear Gözde (19/7/16: Near Fagaraş) It's your hour, day-in, day-out fulfilled, you finished my walk with me today, heading down the hill to the valley village of Bradeni. So you're next in my alphabet and I owe you this for your company, however fictional it may be. Shared fictions are my favorite - a world built in an idle moment comes to mean something the more it's visited. So my story, as I hunker down in the warm, dry back bedroom of the 'town hall' of Bradeni (I brazenly walked in earlier and asked them if I could sleep somewhere - and sure enough, I could) comes from four nights and three nights ago, and it's less in the overall greatness than in the details. I have no artifice, here, but I hope I can provide you with escapism of some kind. First, the detail is in the late but finally sure deterioration of my feet. Each step, that day, was punctuated by what could have been a scream within the marrow of my toes' phalanxes. The heat was extreme (later they tell me it was 36 centigrade at 1600 hours, since we're in it for precision), my feet swelled frighteningly, and as I crossed the border between one district (Alba) and another (Sibiu) I ate my by-now warm sandwiches - given by my kind hosts of the night before who pressed upon me food, beer and a free hotel room to rest in - thinking just of how to rise above the foot pain, an exercise that had me instead inhabiting, expanding, the discomfort. I was never very good at meditation. Given an hour, it was time to move on; given, too, the arrival of workers' trucks and uneasy conversation. My German got a workout - we're coming to the heart of Transylvania, where everyone has at least some German and harks back to the days of the Transylvanian Saxons who built church upon church but left during Ceaucescu's dictatorship. All towns and villages have three names, Romanian over Hungarian over German. By 1700 hours I was in Șeica Mica, a hilltop village, mostly farms, some factories, and close to tears from near-sunstroke and the toll on my toes (can't-waste-water, must-preserve, my heartbeat chanted up the hill). A woman came out of her shop and brought me water and orange fizz, sugar and ice, and I told her (probably in German, but all languages taste the same at the day's zenith) I needed somewhere to stay. Never have I seen a village respond so quickly, and in such heat; people asked other people who sent the message along with boys on bikes, and in half an hour it had been arranged that I would sleep in the 'casa parochiala' (what I suppose translates as church rooms), behind the German church, looking up at the bell tower. The sky was dark now, ready for a storm, and I gladly showered and changed my cruel boots for sandals in my new accommodations. Unknown to me it had also been arranged that I have dinner with a woman, N., and her husband and granddaughter, so I went with her when she came for me and we talked nothings in basic German till her granddaughter took over in her perfect American English. A. is ten, tall, confident and polite - she showed me around her grandparents' garden with grace, pointing out the rows of carrots and peas excitedly, then suggesting we ascend to the lookout post at the top of the hill. When the clock reached 2000 hours, she looked uncomfortable: it turned out I had overstayed my welcome, because the current favourite 'telenovela' had just started, something Turkish of course. Everyone watches it; everyone says 'oh! Merhaba' to me when I say I'm going to Turkey. I was unaware that Turkish series got quite this much attention. So I headed HOME (thus say doormats, universally, regardless of whether or not it is one's domicile) and wrote in the sixteenth guest book since the beginning of my journey, and slept. Oh, how I slept. The next day to stay with A.'s mum and dad in the central town of Mediaș. They took me along for a birthday meal, homemade wine, Chinese food of such quality, jokes in translation... Generosity abounds. How am I worthy? I hope I can provide you with a little escapism through this - just a little, I don't pretend towards more than that - and some assurance that you are often at my side, too. But it's difficult to locate you amidst the chaos - next time you want some tiny peace, find me on my road? Exercise self-care against the City meanwhile; love strongly; look after those who need you. With you, with love -- B.

Dear Frances (Sighisoara 17/7. Late.) Writing this from leafy green, terra cotta safety on the hill behind Sighisoara. Came in today with blisters I still haven't dared to examine craving my attention, promptly snatched a ten-minute bath (the first full-size one I've come across this journey) and am now writing this outside as the rain pours down. There's a certain satisfaction to sitting under corrugated plastic listening to the drumming of the rain - I haven't had to sleep outside in any rainstorms for the last month, which reminds me just how lucky I've been, both in terms of people willing to host me, and in terms of infrequency of unfavourable weather. I have a tale for you, one of Seventh Day Adventist Roma generosity, after a long road and some negative energy. Featuring watermelons and a fiercely creative tiny child! The road was getting longer, lonelier and fairly unbearable as I stumbled into Alba Iulia after two nights of being told, no, I couldn't possibly sleep here, or here. 'It's too dangerous.' 'Well ok, but are there any hotels?' 'No hotels, no. In Deva.' (Having just come from Deva, I was unwilling to go back there. Twenty kilometres is a long distance to undo when your poor tired feet are the means by which you covered it.) That night, I had slept-woken-slept in the train station, half-wakeful with my feet over my pack and my hand on my mini-tazer. I wouldn't recommend it. So uphill to Alba Iulia was a struggle, and coming into town I sort of broke. Spirit, body, everything. Still, what breaks that easily must be easily fixed, too, and contact and a little encouragement from friends over Facebook (how did we do it before? I was so easily bolstered!) had me back up and exploring the citadel and sharing stories with the host of the hostel, a music student with a passion for Scotland, and Glasgow in particular. Forward to the next day, refreshed, I looked on my route to Blaj (30km or so) to be a challenge, a step forward, rather than a nonsense struggle onward, which it had started to become. On the road at 11 it was already 28 degrees or so and I was pushing myself onward with song (some mashup of misremembered nineties songs that fit together perfectly, somehow) when I was interrupted and called back by a girl in Roma dress from behind a huge gate into a farm building complex. She wanted me to come in, and accordingly enticed me with watermelon. (I'd do anything, most likely, for a few slices of perfectly ripe watermelon on a hot day. I'm sure a bumper crop of them would save the world at its last breath.) I was introduced to everyone - a group of Roma seventh day Adventists (the men were out looking for work, the women and children pursuing daily tasks around the house) who had bought the land they lived on outside village and were settling, gradually. I found their presence easy and welcoming; they didn't mind my filth. So then followed the questions: Where are you going? (Not 'where are you from?' which my fellow foreign Istanbul-dwellers know well, and if they are like me, shrink from. I now refuse to answer, saying things like 'nowhere', 'istanbul', 'my mother'.) What are you doing? Why? Where is your family? Do you want to sleep? Do you want to stay with us? Do you believe in a God? Are you married? What aren't you married? Will you give luck to the (six day old!) baby by pinching his nose and toes three times? (This one came early on and I was confused, but consented! In return they gave me a white scarf, both for luck and to protect my monstrously sunburnt neck from more of the sun's glare, it seemed.) Can I wash your clothes? (Enthusiastically accepted; I always need my clothes washed. Handwashing garments is never enough.) While we waited for my clothes to dry, they dressed me in beautiful fabrics, chosen by their youngest but one. When it was suggested we dress me up, she led me to the wardrobe and chose two skirts for me. One was magnificent, all colours you could possibly imagine, threads of gold and silver running through, heavy but full of motion, glorious to wear. The other skirt was white and silver, a heavy, ornate thing that looked wonderful but felt formal and uncomfortable. I posed for photos with the children and two of the women, but they didn't want their images splashed across the Internet, so I've put one of only myself up. Aware it seems culturally appropriative, however, with context (I was clothesless!) it makes sense. Briefly, then, we sang all sorts of things, a capella, including Amazing Grace (we all made up our own words; the drone was taken by the tiny champion who chose my skirts). Chicken soup materialised; my short time with my hosts had to end if I was to finish my journey in time, but before that it was required that I eat. A lot. So I went on my way, buoyant from companionship and generosity, neck newly protected from the sun. Pretty sure I'll never have such chicken soup again, either. This missive comes with love to you - and Dave - and I'm looking so forward to seeing you both for festivities Septembertime. Be well, give my love to London, too. B.

Ilia - 9/7/16 Dear Ezster and Emese, I miss you. What times were had, at Lake Lugas! And I'm going to do the thing where I look back on previous times and think, 'oh it was so balmy and beautiful then, back in Hungary; so easy' and think about how hard things are now, and sigh. And it won't be untrue. It won't be true either, because Romania (România - who knew that diacritic held such power?! The resulting syllable is pretty much unpronounceable - I learnt the word for 'dog' yesterday and it twists your throat in every direction all at once...) has given me so much. Shelter when I thought none was forthcoming, laughter and welcome when I didn't understand anything said and we all talked with hands and bodies instead, around a fire and a cauldron making soup. I learnt how to tie a scarf at each corner to shield my head from the sun, I've been given so much food I've had to throw some away to keep the weight of my pack down, I've spent the evening trying to tune an ancient violin and playing it badly to a backyard of chickens, kittens and rabbits. Seemed appropriate. And at the same time, the heady days of freedom and ease of movement available to me in Hungary are no longer. There are (except in the mountains) no hiking paths, no cycle paths, and I've walked 200km along roadsides, battling lorries and lorry drivers disapproval and aggressiveness against my being there (this I understand; I shouldn't be walking along the side of a busy road. What fool does that and expects to be greeted warmly?). And then there are the hitchhike hopefuls. They get to me the most, with their grins and their beckoning arms. Always male; always slightly threatening because of their masculinity. And I'm still here, and still walking. That has to be good, right? I've been exceedingly lucky so far - only one instance where I wasn't a good judge; or maybe I was high on the previous two nights of gorgeous welcome. But I showed up at a bar, as usual, told them of my situation, and a nice man, speaking no language but Romanian, called his daughter who explained to me in German that he'd host me - he had a huge house, his wife had died, his children had moved out. We went to his home, I took his daughter's number, he gave me a tour round his house, gave me cherries, washed my clothes. And I felt safe enough, so went to bed, though clutching my pepper spray, as I do every night. Such is life on the Road! At midnight I was woken by angry, drunken cries and a female voice trying to calm them, and as I scrambled out of my sleeping bag they both entered the room, he in his underwear, she restraining him. My saviour was his daughter, and she led me, hand in hand, back to her house where I was given pizza and put to bed. It was unnerving, but not traumatic, and I'm still thinking through it, building up my barriers a little higher, trying to speed up my judgements. It shouldn't have needed that prompt, but it was a pretty mild one, even if I did lose a chunk of my stuff in the hurried exodus from his house. (And even that has its upside - my bag is so much lighter!) I keep harping on about going into the mountains, but the truth is that I'm not even nearly there yet - at least in terms of altitude; I'm two days away by my map's reckoning, so we will see. The days of campsites are beginning, which is wonderful for my purse and my sense of safety. But kind of sad in terms of letting go of this wonderful culture of hospitality that I barely even touched the surface of. After Budapest... Let's see how it all works out. Eszter, I hope your move to Barcelona is preceding smoothly, and that once you arrive you make stories and music aplenty! Emese, enjoy your summer in lovely Szeged, send my wishes to Jesus and Ludas for me, host people and collect stories. I promise you teaching anecdotes - in exchange for yours! So glad am I to have met you two on my way - I can do only this and write you a piece of my journey so far. You're with me, of course, here in strange little Ilia, coming into Deva, by the Mureș (Maros, of course, really, since it's coming from you over the border to me). With love -- B.

Trajan Vuia, 6/7/14 Dearest Deniz, I was so excited to write to you for D, but the truth is that the last week, since entry to Romania, has been too full of occurrences and meetings to digest just yet. That coupled with the outside news, that I mostly receive while alone. Currently chewing on it all, let's say. Instead, I wrote you a litany of things lost on the road. It's accurate to the feeling out here, accurate to the heady freedom and the sunburnt arms and the steady feeling of growing success as my Romanian comprehension becomes more and more solid. All is very well, but it's a journey and these states are fragile at best! Anything could leave, at any moment. N.B. Losses of items listed here mean nothing except that their leaving me was of momentary or longer significance. It is not important what else has gone in other directions! One Turkish phone, too heavy to carry useless; in fact rather a leaving than a loss A half-full gas canister and my stove, sorely missed yet (it's been sandwiches and apples weeks long now, and we need not talk about the cold canned goods!) My only paper book, poetry given me by a love long gone; I guess it went to join her Three socks; all from different pairs, and with my torn trousers and mismatched socks I wander on A hundred Romanian Lei, one paper note, enough for five or six days' food; flew from my wallet one afternoon last week One charger; O! campsite full of mosquitoes and long grass, where did you sneak this off to? One battery pack; left in a yurt in the back garden of a bartender Two bottles of mosquito repellent spray; I miss these sorely (and irritably, too) Shorts, a shirt, some underwear, a crop of cherries, a can of pepper spray and my water bladder, all gone to the dark of a night that I stayed with a man who drank his decency away. I ran, at 2am, with a saviour and her velvet velcro dog, slept in a bed with her daughter, cried my thanks at them in the morning as they led me apologetically to the latrine in the garden with the ducks. 'Come and visit again in August. Our bathroom will be ready then,' they smiled Then the ability to feel in my left big toe! And finally the number, written in blue Bic on a steadily disintegrating napkin, of a wonderful man, met in Györ, hailed from Constanța, who promised me help and support through Romania. A large loss this one The obvious losses too: Istanbul Pride, the bombings, Brexit, the summer with friends or family, and I feel each keenly in my separation, so much so I'm almost welcoming the jokes about the EU in Romanian of which I understand only the barest details. It's been a bad summer already, July not even really kicked in yet. Anything to connect, anything... ...but I'll gain the mountains tomorrow, clawing my way inward and upward. I'm writing from the garden of my (incidental) hosts tonight beside a busy road, ducks and geese my companions for thought, an apple orchard growing up around me. Peace, I suppose (And then, from an old lady who plucked me aside and told me in heavy, slow, Romanian, 'There are bad men in the Serpentine.' Magic/God is afoot... Something is buzzing with possibility, maybe it's the mountains!) With love, along leylines, to you and yours my dear. I'll be back to Istanbul on the click of the calendar over to September. Be well -- B.

Dearest Clair From Tuesday. Today this is sent from just outside Timisoara. Writing this from a corner of a room in an old farm building. Town: Sanpetru Mare, population: tiny. (And before this, a hotel; before that, a mosquito- choked campsite by the brownest, slowest-flowing river; before that five days with dear hosts and new friends in beautiful Szeged and a lakeside cottage in Serbia.) I was passing through Sanpetru, intending to go 5 more kilometres to my designated stop (where to sleep, who knew?) and stopped for a 4pm lemonade. A tradition by now, of course, in this heat, born of necessity. A girl - Anka - was intrigued and barked some questions at me, changing to German when I didn't understand her Romanian. Some minutes of exchange later, she told me I must sleep at her house, and she doesn't seem the type to argue with. So here I am, a patient of fierce generosity. She fed me and watered me, and bade me sit and watch National Geographic with her mum. I am attempting to eat sunflower seeds and drawing sounds of disapproval from them as I fail, time after time. But how do I deserve this hospitality? How dare I wander round these countries that I don't belong in seeking out the pockets of generosity that exist among the cruelty and the toxic masculinity and the daily narratives of fear - and most obviously in this case, the poverty. Anka's husband is a construction worker in France, and he hasn't sent any money to them for two months. She says all food they have in the house is on credit, but at least the house belongs to them. And yet she's happy to host me, with the occasional return to a refrain of 'why, I don't understand why you're going on foot?'. And I don't know how to move away from this. Not when I can't return the favour. It's different when you are the guest of people you can invite to your home in Istanbul, who applaud your walk, who understand that it isn't willful stupidity (or not all of it anyway) that is driving you south east. In this country of no campsites though, I am going to come to depend on these lemonade afternoon instances, and wear my gratitude on my sleeve. The only word I know in Romanian is 'multu mesc' (thank you) and I guess I better use it often. Along with song, and pantomime. They go a long way. Working backwards, on the eve of Brexit, as I arrived in Szeged to my incredible hosts Emese and Jesús, you asked me to write to you of blackbirds. I was, duly, thinking about a crow-inspired ballet Mark Morris Dance Company -style, choreographed to something by John Cage, minimalist, the shadows approaching and receding. As we made our way to Serbia for the weekend, these were my thoughts at the border when I learnt of the split. Joking heartily with the border control guy I felt panic in my fingers and toes; restless leg syndrome is panic's tiny cousin. Crows hopping on my extremities. I'm not ready to talk about it yet; reading everyone on Facebook with their views and their certainty is exhausting. You see, I feel like I voted to remain because I don't like change. My vote feels motivationally empty. I know I did what felt right, but I'm feeling increasingly unable to deal with democracy, and how it's being employed to manipulate. It isn't corruption; it's something more insidious. I don't know enough. My ten-per-cent of a cent. In any case, Romania, two days in, is full of light and grace. The long straight roads of Hungary are still here, familiar enough, the heat is the same strong hot dryth (!) beating down and I am not suffering in the slightest. Fruit trees line the paths through villages, though I miss the avenues of cherries in Hungary and instead it's green, sour, apples and tiny plums here. Oh, and people keep giving me bananas. This is how it goes, for now. I do hope you're doing well, Czech trip of yours underway. May your road be kind. All love, B.

B., for Budapest I guess. And Bea. Dearest Bea, This comes with all my love and best wishes for your people over this public missive - I hope you don't object! To update, I arrived in Budapest on weary feet on Monday, with my pack sawing into my shoulders slightly and a need to be with people I care about. So I climbed aboard a slow train to Brno, Czech Republic and spent the next few days with G., university friend and longtime critic and confidant. I've been going for two weeks, and neither have been eventful really. The most important thing to report is the aloneness and how it boosts you up. How movement along this path on your own feet is a freedom I can't describe. How patterns of thought while walking are so good for the soul and the blood, with their allowances for silence for reflection, for their changes of direction meaning changes in focus or thought, new angles, perhaps an exclamation of realisation or understanding. I've taken to reading David Foster Wallace essays as I walk, if I'm using a cycle path or similar where it's all mapped out for me (so spoiler, so lucky). And today downloaded Finnegan's Wake for the words to help me on my way south towards Kecskemet. The trouble is that then this aloneness - so freeing before - crushes you instantly when you finally snag some wifi early in the morning in a coffee shop where no one speaks English and no one knows you and you find out about the Pulse Orlando shooting. More to the point, you're alone and you're queer, and all you've seen for days is the river and the blossom trees with the clouds that seem to rise up out of them, and all of a sudden your community, your spaces (that you've shirked your duty to and wandered off from for a summer, irresponsible) are being attacked. And instead of unfettering your mind, thinking about building communities, constructing woodland houses, helping out people who can't help themselves (if I could when I could), there was grief and anger and analysis and finger-pointing, and the inevitable idea to bomb Daesh harder. I'm shrugging, and I'm torn, and I'm feeling pretty small. (I won't be anywhere near a Pride this year either. Nowhere to shout my anger, express my joy, cry my support, fight the hordes of riot police and bigots they're sending against us.) However - I've been collecting contacts and people, and have reactivated my couchsurfing account. It seems the ideal and the necessary time to be casting about for networks. Maybe they'll be those that can help build cabins in the forest, or show me where to find them? Despite the sad and slightly fearful tone of this, I'm fine, I'm fighting and I'm striding out. The weather is breezy and glorious, and I'm following the unending Danube still. Movement! I miss you, and I'm still so grateful to the safety and love of your home last summer when both X. and I were broken and bruised. It touched me, and healed enough to set me up for the first part of this walk. Do come and visit in Istanbul this year - you're always welcome. With love, B.

Dear Alex I'm sorry I didn't ask your permission before posting this - but I feel that since it's merely a construct you won't be too perturbed at this letter's direction to you. So it's been a week on the road. Two days in Slovakia, which I enjoyed immensely, perhaps mainly because my feet didn't hurt and there was cheap beer everywhere you turned. That and a huge unforgiving rainstorm while Bratislava-bound with my mum, in which we got drenched and elicited concern and pitying looks from others. We continued warm though, if a little Gray-Gardens-esque. Summer showers; little better. We crossed the border, too, on a thunderstorm, though this one was dry and fork-lightening-spattered. Down the Danube the border is obvious - Slovak care for rollerbladers and cyclists gives way to intense greenery and undefined paths; whither they lead you have to guess (and we were lucky!). Hungary is polarising - such kindness and such stern disapproval I have felt. Two nights ago at a campsite I was given a 'stuck' (we speak in terrible German - it is comfortable for all) for free because of my walking goals, and last night I camped grudgingly at a 'lux' campsite for 17€. And the mosquitoes... And the steak-sized cheese, fried, you warned me about. I've become more carnivorous this last year, but mostly ask for vegetarian options. And it is all true :) I plan to go to Bicske, the site of a refugee camp, tomorrow. I will write more, sometime. Thank you, meanwhile, for being the first of my alphabet envoyees! With love, B.

I've been resting in Munich, at the insistence of Zaki, who came to visit me on my way south east. It wasn't willing at all, I have this drive to move, resulting in directionlessness precisely I suppose when I don't find myself making headway. Unsurprisingly, Munich is too expensive. Surprisingly, I found it like able. We're now south of Munich, on the Starnberger See, wealth fairly threatening to swallow us, lakewater warm enough and welcome for swimming, the Innsbrucker Alps visible and not for climbing, and I'll start walking properly again tomorrow. Autumn is rising, I'm beginning to worry about the cold. It'll become a more pressing issue as i go, for sure. Have made a promise to myself - to slow down a little. It was beginning to feel panicky, my progress.

Spectacular dyspraxia as I and my limbs go walking in different directions. Starring also the fabulous Rita from Taiwan. (at Jugendherberge Tübingen)

Strasbourg, midday, late August. Overdue words on feelings and movement. Been talking with my hostess about sea-voyages (she travelled back to France from Argentina on a cargo boat and I'm green with envy and overwhelmed with admiration, too) and thinking, pes vs pons, about how mad we pilgrims are. Who packs small kilos of necessities and traipses off into the wilds of, well, Europe without need? (Admittedly it hasn't been very wild yet, the off-road peak of this barely-formed adventure being hills and Douglas firs in Belgium and fighting through a wood despairing southwards, but, when my main comfort, French, is no longer the linguistic currency, as of ten kilometres from here, I feel sure it'll present more wilderness, willingly.) In any case, I'm five hundred kilometres away from Calais, avec les pieds abîmés, about to cross into the fourth country on my route, and not that far away from the fifth. Days are often long roads of asphalt, and in the last few it's been the smell of hot asphalt which has driven me on, kind of blinded, towards the possible campsites at the end of the day. I'm using Google Maps to find places to sleep, and there are places in rural France where that doesn't fly - they've closed, they're now a sports club, etc. Still, it's been one night and one night only on a roundabout, and one other night on a bench in a train station after a truly unfortunate experience. It involved police. And a man who hit me. That's enough to know, and more than I really want to go into now. Not knowing where sleep will come the night approaching is something I've never had to deal with before, and considering what lies between me and complete vulnerability to the elements/other hostility is just two layers of poly-something-something, it doesn't bear too much thinking about. You just launch yourself on it, you know. Forward motion, attention to basic needs. A lot of the impetus, this movement onward, has been from a desire to get away from England. It was unforeseen, but the slow, warm summer of love and dialogue and preparation I'd planned was not to be, and, despite health approval by the NHS (I love it so, I owe it my life, I pray its dissolution be not quite so imminent as it seems it may), I spent a few months alienating those dear to me while trying to please everyone and failing quite spectacularly, and wallowing in a depression that I still haven't quite pinned down. In short, on July 29th, if I hadn't got on that bus to Calais, I don't know what I'd be doing now. It's frightening to think. I did what I had to. When you're wending your little singular way into, and quickly out of, people's lives like I am now, you forget how odd you must seem to those who are static, who've built up their lives in tiny hamlets in Alsace, who see you on the road and wave their arms in disbelief at the load your carrying and demand that you join them for lunch (c'est du lapin! On partage ce qu'on a!') or catch you confused by new roads and no visible campsite and invite you to stay the night in their daughters' old attic room and talk hours at you about blood group diets until they see your face fall and true, dark, exhaustion make its home there, then bundle you upstairs and care for you like you're a sick infant. I've been so well looked after on the road, and these people, I can't give them anything to thank them - except maybe the memory of an odd English girl who, somewhere in the conversation, insisted on bringing up Kurdistan and third wave feminism. I probably waved my hands around ridiculously, it gets worse the less of a language I have. (I learnt that in Belgium they have done away with the awful soixante-dix, quatre-vingts French numbers, and have replaced them with the (evident, ready) solution of septante, ottante and nonnante. Overwhelming joy.) (As eating half-unfrozen cheese with a beautiful Belgian dentiste at midnight.) (And sharing food and stories with three cyclists at a lakeside camping. They were self-possessed and intelligent, full of humour, sensitivity and plans. I was humbled. Also, queer presence! 😀🌈) So next, I head into Germany, barely beginners German under my belt, and speed through 300 kilometres to find a friend there, from whence we take on Bavaria and the foothills of the Alps. What now? More wonderful humans, more wilderness, more blisters, to be sure. Bring it (all) on, I'm ready.

If I could write while listening to music, I'd be listening to the Mountain Goats' Tallahassee. It's been my brain-noise for a while now, and when I wake up and it feels difficult to go on from that point I put it on my iPad and move forward with its hopeful teenage angst. A friend told me I should write about my life out here some more, and he's right, I should; there've been some fine adventures had, recently, not least yesterday in the untouchable beauty of the Bekaa valley's Anjar, buried short-time Umayyad stronghold of the East, and hopefully longtime-thriving Armenian community refuge after the genocide in Turkey. I love Anjar - it's taken into it so much of my silly strife here, cradled me in its mountains, sunned me with its lizards and tortoises, fed me, spiritually and by the generous hands of its beautiful residents - but it's not what I want to talk about. Instead, I'm going to talk about why I'm not walking home from Armenia this April. And I'm here with a constant reminder of the reason. Every so often there's a not-ignorable twinge at my core. It signals possibly-serious problems. Four years ago, I had a smear test and was diagnosed with carcinoma in situ. It was sorted, briskly, no-nonsense like, by a knowledgeable, positive gynaecological consultant, and though frightened, I was able to pretty much continue as normal. I've had a smear test every year since then, and they've all been fine. This year though, out in Lebanon with little support network and less money, I've had cervical pain and an abnormal smear. I'm frightened, of course, but I'm being practical and have decided to come home to sort it out at the end of my contract (which ends, mercifully, in eleven days time). If this means a small procedure, or even if it means a larger one with greater impact and longer recovery time, I want to walk out of London in early August, and do this thing, the 'wrong way round'. There's never been the slightest thought that I wouldn't at least attempt the walk, just the questions of when and in which direction, but the reasons for walking are constantly changing, and they'll do so many more times before I even begin it, let alone cover distance along it. So, I'm returning on 17th April, to a support network of glorious humans, and the yet strong arms of the NHS. I've never been more glad to be coming home.

Anjar, Lebanon

It's the anniversary of the publicising of my several-thousand mile walk from Armenia(?) to London. I'm walking with the aim of raising at least £2,000 for the charity Womankind Worldwide, which works to help women in Africa, Asia and South America. Why not sponsor me at justgiving.com/Annabel-Rands ? I plan to start my walk mid-April this year, and all the preparation is getting pretty intense!

Since December, I've been milking Beirut for all it's worth. Its pubs, its clubs, its theatres. Especially its theatres. So much so that I'm getting nods of recognition from The Theatre Crowd when I turn up at the latest scene to be seen in. And it's great. When you can see a play melding Lebanese folktales, death and war in Baghdad and the most heartwrenching parts of The Epic of Gilgamesh, done by a five-strong theatre company, and follow it up with good conversation and friendly datasharing in a pub down the road that serves damn impressive Lebanese red ale, you know you've finally got yourself into the bit of Beirut you wanted from the beginning. You also know it's nearing time to leave. This country hasn't been kind to me. I doubt it's ever kind to single, immigrant, unskilled worker women with its ideas of equality so far from the truth and its traffic and its expense and its view of foreigners. And we dare not bring up the bi-erasure and homophobia I've experienced and the strength that was needed to carry a beautiful week with a wonderful person off with aplomb when we took Beirut streets by storm and everyone stared and I had no idea if we'd be applauded or arrested for not hiding our queerness in the streets. (And yes, to those of you who are reading this and doing the deep-breaths-of-disbelief, I suppose this is a coming-out post. It's many other things besides, so do keep reading...) Beirut has tested me, and found me wanting, and I've reciprocated, and found the same, and this has put us exactly where we should be. Balance; required before a healthy parting. So I have three months left before I walk out of here, and the theatre and the mountains will be the most of it. The places I feel most at home. I'm buying bits of kit, helped generously by lovely geeky friends met mostly in technology stores who think this mad scheme of mine is 'inspirational' (?) or cool (much happier with this) or just want an excuse to revisit scouting days and rhapsodise about brands they love (I block out the brand names, focus on the price and weight). I've found so many good souls while preparing for this that I can't help thinking I am going at precisely the right time, and in the right way. Next Adult Decision: to get a dog and donkey, or to not? Maytime in Tbilisi, I will greet you with open arms. I need another city to wrestle with too. This love affair with Beirut has run its course.

I watched a film today that had me thinking about movement from one place to another and music on the way. Tony Gatlif's Latcho Drom (Safe Journey) follows Romany people and their music in countries such as Turkey, Romania and India. I'll be moving some fair numbers of kilometres, and I'm hoping there'll be music on the way - much of it most likely my own tuneless warbling as I (fail to) harmonise with Jenny Lewis or Tori Amos or maybe Abigail Washburn in my headphones. Still, aside from that, singing being a thing I want desperately to be good at but am unfortunately just kind of listenable-to on a good day, I want there to be campfires, folksongs, Serbian guslars, Black Sea musicians, and recordings of a number of these. If you join me, I shall coax a song from you at some point, be warned. The music we hear on a journey makes it memorable - and because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to want to remember smells, I'll take that. The other monster in the closet is walking and thinking. For a long time I've been regarding this walk as a way to walk out my demons. I'm not well-acquainted with said demons (or at least haven't been until these last two years when I've made some pretty major personal discoveries) except Boyce and Boyce, the demons of electrical interference who seem to haunt me pretty much constantly in their blowing of fuses, exploding of plug sockets, deaths of numerous laptops and phones when I'm around. Other people's possessions are safe;, it just seems to be mine. Anyway, there was a pretty good New Yorker article on the subject of walking and thinking and I don't need to add anything, but there is always a hope that my strange extreme points of view and iterations of 'it's just not fair!' may be attenuated somewhat by several thousand miles of thought. I'd hope so. Call it experimental. Thirdly, I received a lovely email from a seasoned long distance walker, Owen Martel, who has given me some things to think about in terms of preparation and kit and orders of importance. He writes: 'To some extent, where you're coming from (broadly speaking) affects where you'll go, and what you expect will affect what you find – so what kind of story do you want to be living in the process of doing this? Do you want mountains? Cities? Forests? Beaches? Historical monuments? War zones? Snow and ice? Powerful winds? Gelato? The biggest mix of cultures possible? Rivers? Hostels? Solitude? Low cost? Easy logistics? A pleasant stroll? An epic contest of world vs. editor? What's your experience calling your own shots under physical pressure in unfamiliar places?' First, here and now, the story thing. This has been bothering me since I came back from Istanbul in November, where a very clever person asked me (provoking, sure, but with good reason) what on earth my narrative was in the undertaking of this. I blustered about a bit and said 'I'm coming Home. Isn't that enough?' I wonder if it is. Other than that, Owen's questions are there for me to consider in the coming weeks as I start my search for kit. Still walking, in the rain and the exhaust fumes here.