Darcy Hughes

As I closed the door on the Comfort Inn in London, the darkness before daybreak seemed to emphasize my solitude. I was making my way to my next temporary home in Bellengreville, France. It was only a bus and a train, another bus and another train, a ferry and a taxi ride, away.
At 6:00, there was just one other passenger at the Three Bridges bus station. She had the chaotic hair of a reluctant early-riser but energized eyes which she focused intensely on me. She had been babysitting her grandchildren that night, and she began fussing over me like I was one of them– she asked why I was traveling alone and gave me advice for staying safe.

Her name was Irene, which was not the first thing she told me. No, Irene was a character, and before I knew her name, I knew about her recent medical issues (deep vein thrombosis), political views (pro-Brexit), opinions on British poetry (cynical), and the women at her country club (bitches). We were on the bus for a mere 20 minutes, but afterward, we were no longer strangers. She helped me find my next train platform and hugged me before I boarded. I didn’t think to take her picture, but I can still see her eagerly waving goodbye as my train rolled away.

I felt like a master of public transportation once I got to the ferry–even if I had arrived an hour and a half earlier than every other passenger. I was following the ticket’s instructions! Once we boarded I found a comfy place to sleep–I have become quite good at sleeping whenever and wherever possible.

I woke up extremely disoriented. Meeting Irene felt like a fever dream. I wandered in a daze with my massive backpack while people spoke English and French, exchanged in Pounds and Euros–ate, drank, and laughed on this massive ferry hurdling towards another time zone. I went out onto the deck for some air and found so much that my glasses blew right off. I righted myself and looked out at the endless blue water and the endless blue sky and wondered what kind of adventures lay on the horizon.

When I arrived at my Airbnb in Bellengreville, my host Martine awaited me at the front gate. I did not realize that I would be staying on a pony farm! All around us were girls and their horses.

I asked Martine if there were any nice walking paths because I wanted to explore. Unconfident in her English, Martine brought me to her husband, Ivan, hoping he might be able to explain to me where to walk; however, after several minutes of map pointing, he determined that he was not so fluent either. Martine finally said: “he’s walking the dog soon. Go!”

Ivan was a hearty salt of the Earth kind of man, and he strapped the leash of his big bumbling lab Jazzy around his waist. Together, the three of us tramped through the French countryside in the golden hour light.

We communicated with some English and a lot of hand gestures. He said that the village’s oldest home was built in “4.” “1400?” I asked with amazement. “No no 400.”

The village and its surrounding nature were from a distant time. There were no shops for miles and more farm animals than people.

The remoteness of this village made me feel for the first time how far away I was from home. I appreciated more than I ever had before the conversation and the hospitality of strangers.