Moving On Up

Leaving a sparkly trail...

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

According to Harold Wilson ‘A week is a long time in politics’.

In one short month I sold my house, packed up my car, carried out one last act of very petty but satisfying revenge, then drove through Italy and France with a fantastic friend eventually arriving back to a gloriously cloudy and welcoming Blighty. Since coming back I have been welcomed, spoiled and looked after by wonderful people, found an area in Wales I fell in love with and a property which ticked boxes I didn’t even know I had.

The End.

You think I’m going to leave it at that? Naaaahhhh, here come all the glorious details in full technicolour. First off and very importantly introducing my wonderful ‘co-pilot’ Rach…

I wish I could tell you that this was a road trip with careful planning, thought and rigorous research carried out in the weeks leading up to it. I’d love to wax lyrical about our skills as we pored over maps and routes trying to work out efficient routes, calculating fuel, food stops and the best places to stay the night. To be fair we had the accommodation pretty much bang on but the rest…I can’t pretend. If you read my last blog post you will know that this road trip was ‘organised’ (and I use the term ever so loosely) precisely two weeks before we set off. Less than half an hour was given to the ideal direction to take on google maps with a cursory look at tolls, motorways and small towns interspersed with the terms ‘wing it’ and ‘we’ll be fine’.

To give you an idea of how disorganised we both are, having said goodbye just two weeks previously both of us squealing in delight at the station, hugging each other and saying over and over 'I can’t believe it’s only three weeks away’. Admittedly maths and timing weren’t our strongpoints but enthusiasm, blind optimism and positivity was to sparkle over our entire journey.

Talking of sparkles I need to explain my aforementioned ‘petty revenge’.

Over a year ago I heard about yet another nefarious act carried out by the excuse that is my ex-narc, this time directed at a close elderly member of his family whose pension pot he had been liberally helping himself to for over a year. It was unsurprising and yet shocking and I felt sick when I heard what he had done. I thought about all the times it had happened over the years, to me or to others and how he always managed to evade any sort of accountability, no matter how severe the deed he slipped away, unnoticed, untouched and ultimately untarnished.

All the self help books in the world will advise that any attempt to wreak revenge on a narcissist is futile, feel good memes and endless online advice will tell you that the best thing you can do is move on and be your ‘best you’. Apparently you thriving is punishment enough for the person who did everything they could to tear you down. The ‘Let it go’ principle is fine in theory but for anyone who has suffered this sort of abuse it can be a struggle to leave behind the anger and the deep-seated shame but the bitterest pill to swallow is the apparent lack of consequences for the perpetrator.

‘Will nothing ever stick to him?’ I wondered at the time, irritated at the unfairness of it all. Absent-mindedly my mind went through the options of what would actually stick to the narcissistic tosser.

Glitter, I thought to myself, I bet glitter would stick.

The very idea made me smile and the more I thought about it the more perfect and fitting it seemed, I could drop some into his courtyard to spread around and sparkle on the walls, the gate and hopefully his shoes as he walked in unaware...never ever leaving him, a permanent reminder of moi. It had to be purple too, a colour he absolutely detested. I decided then and there, whenever the time came it would be my final ‘fuck you’ as I left Italy. In my small but beautiful circle of friends it was nicknamed operationglittertheshitter.

We left Italy less than twenty four hours after the house contract was signed. I was truly done and I wanted out. Everything blurred into a frenzy of last minute packing and cleaning - my Mini Clubman packed to the rafters with items which seemed to reproduce as fast as I boxed them. With a sad goodbye to re-homed plants which couldn’t in all fairness be squeezed into the tiny spaces remaining, we finally set off. Adrenaline kicking in for both of us as we cruised up to his place, stopping in front of the gate, calmly and quickly I left him a sparkly reminder of what happens when you underestimate someone.

I don’t think we stopped laughing until we reached Genoa.

The road trip was something else...priceless to be hanging out with someone I have known for more than half my life and being able to talk and share and reminisce without the usual time constraints or obligations. There was something more though, an intangible feeling of freedom, of shedding years of toxicity with every mile we drove, eliciting self congratulatory yelps of joyful ‘we did it!’ from both of us every 100 kms made us incredibly happy as the road snaking up through Italy took me further and further away to a place I knew I would finally feel safe. I wasn’t unrealistic, I knew it wouldn’t be easy, nine years out of a country, any country is tough, I would need to readjust but that road trip in it’s entirety, sharing it with Rachael felt overwhelmingly special.

A metaphorical pink squishy cushion holding me, reassuring me and making me feel comfortable as I drove towards the next part of my life.

It was a good job she provided so much entertainment and chat as the first leg of the journey was long, nearing Genoa and Bordighera, the town we had booked a place to stay at, Italy seemingly pulled out all the stops to prevent me from leaving, not really... it just felt that way. The endless tunnels, roadworks and intermittent lane closures made for tricky driving, each time we checked our progress we seemed to be in a time warp, every 10 kms felt like an eternity the sat nav permanently on one hour something remaining till we reached our first stop. Eventually coming off the dysfunctional motorway we headed down to the first accommodation and fell into our beds too exhausted to even think about food. The next beautiful day, fully rested and having heard this place was famous for the focaccia we explored the pretty town, had breakfast and stocked up on bready deliciousness for lunch. Before heading off we even had a brief dip in the sea, ‘be rude not to’ we told ourselves giggling as we crossed the road in towels while the rest of the town were already warmly dressed for much colder weather. It was quite splendid but brief and we were lucky not to break our necks on the giant slippery pebbles as we went in.

Continuing our theme of organised chaos we set off on day two and within five minutes were shocked to find ourselves driving into France. The final Italian location had been helpfully recommended by my wonderful ex sister in law and we had been oblivious of it’s vicinity to the border. With a barely whispered ‘arrivederci’ we left Italy and shouted Bonjour Bonjour in exaggerated french accents as we drove along the Cote d’Azur in hazy sunshine. The roads were beautifully traffic free, well maintained and spotless but they came at a price... I now understand the expression ‘It took its toll‘ . As we approached each barrier we played a guessing game of how much we’d be fleeced for, waiting for the seemingly arbitrary total to be announced we’d then shout at the machine as we drove off, ‘it took the piss’ more like.

The goal was to arrive at the accommodation somewhere in the Auvergne region before nightfall, something we both felt would be easily done as we checked timings and navigated with ease the immaculate roads.

Of course we hadn’t factored in anything falling off the car at that stage.

It became a day of comparisons; how clean the pit stops were, how gorgeous and fresh the food was in the service stations and how friendly the people were, sorry Italy but you didn’t measure up - cue a gallic nonchalant shrug - France had the edge and as we headed up through France happily chatting and enjoying the scenery we were confident we’d arrive before dark and maybe even explore the area. Suddenly our conversation was interrupted with a thud as some sort of piece of plastic panel hit Rachael’s window and flapped about in the wind, we stared at each other and then back to her window in shock trying to work out where this had come from...another car? A lorry? My car?

First things first, we moved into a designated service area and checked out the damage, it turned out it was the trim by the side of the windscreen, the plastic panel part. It wasn’t pretty but it didn’t look serious, we removed it rather than risk it flying off and causing an accident and put all the bits in the car and carried on.

Trying to find a mechanic who might be able to help turned into a slowed down french version of Wacky Races, a combination of my unpractised language skills and a lot of shoulder shrugging in various auto repair shops/ mechanics / garage locations until eventually we gave up realising there was precious little that could be done and we needed to cut our losses and head for the hills.

Spirits slightly dampened by the setback and time lost were soon raised again as we wound our way up through the most incredible autumnal scenery, driving up a curvy mountain road through a national park with the most breathtaking views, we agreed our love of the stunning myriad of flame coloured trees which surrounded us must be an age thing. Trying to concentrate on the road rather than the magnificent nature around me then became a priority because the French, proving they do indeed have a sense of humour, had dispensed with any actual roadworks and instead had created a single lane using cones which had been set out haphazardly like some sort of Krypton Factor assault course. We held our collective breaths as we passed into the opposing single lane and I accelerated up and around the hairpin bends, praying we wouldn’t meet any other vehicles.

“Now this is what I call a road trip!” exclaimed Rachael, “Bits falling off the car, terrifying roads, great food and remarkable scenery”. Not to mention the fact we now had road trip injuries, I had ‘Driver’s Heel’ and Rachael had ‘Passenger’s Ankle‘ both ceremoniously made up names and proudly worn like some sort of service medal.

That night we stayed at a beautiful wooden lodge, weirdly positioned in the middle of suburbia, a gorgeous pocket of woodland, nature and inviting homemade buildings, ours also had a private hot tub. I’m not usually a fan but we had this all to ourselves and as we unfolded our bodies from the car shape they had cramped themselves into it the steaming outdoor jacuzzi in the chill night air really was the perfect remedy for our aches and pains and general stiffness. Finally, for the first time since leaving we cracked open a bottle of champagne, reminding ourselves that we had done so much and so brilliantly a celebration to mark it was both necessary and deserved.

After a delicious sleep we were up early to a decidedly nippier temperature, taking advantage of the nearby car park we emptied the car and repacked it so things were more accessible. While we did this our host called his friend, a mechanic to take a look at the missing panel, kindly sorting it with a quick fix job of masking tape he reassured us that it was nothing to do with the driving, it was just one of those things, a change in temperature, wear and tear, he told me not to worry, it could easily be sorted once I returned. Feeling grateful and relieved we headed off into the mist and fog towards Caen where we would take the ferry to Porstmouth.

This was our third day of solid driving, the conditions were becoming harder as visibility was consistently poor and driving past larger towns such as Bourges, Tours and Le Mans meant heavy traffic really slowed things down. The destination port seemed far away, and despite being on the home stretch our spirits were flagging a little, which was to be expected, the exhaustion of having covered almost 2000km was catching up, we were more than ready to take a break from driving.

I had fully expected to do this trip alone, granted it would have taken me a lot longer but it wasn’t the time saving which made this so extraordinary. It was the sheer joy of spending quality and fun time with one of my people, something so damned precious it should be mandatory. We barely touched the radio, we didn’t need to, there was so much to see and comment on and talk about, it felt like a constant gift. From a practical point of view it was invaluable, being handed clean driving glasses / sunglasses / water / snacks / coffee can never be underestimated, sat nav time checks and traffic updates are fantastic and not having to make decisions alone is priceless.

There were times when one of us was more in need of positivity and the other stepped up, but it was rare because overwhelmingly my memory is full of the laughter and giggles and generally coping with everything and anything that was thrown our way. Legging it into a Carrefour supermarket and running around trying to find out where the toilet was before we wet ourselves after holding on for ages, was really really funny, nothing was a hassle, we had endless patience, time and humour and we held each other up. It was truly remarkable and yet felt very normal.

As I waited for her in that supermarket before we shopped for wine and cheese to bring back in the car I glanced at my phone, something on the screen caught the overhead lights, a tiny sparkly piece of glitter - a timely reminder winking at me as if to say ‘Job well done my friends’.

Next time - Landing in the UK after nine years and how I hit the ground running.