Can a van be a boat?

Living in a present suddenly steeped in the past

The summer holidays will be a long stretch of boredom and miniscule activities conceived to fill the days… watching cars go by and writing the department numbers from the license plates in the regional newspapers… squeezing blackheads without applying Eau Précieuse or lemon slices… going up to town to buy shampoo and a Petit classique Larousse, and then, eyes downcast passing the cafe where the boys are playing pinball.

The future is too immense for her to imagine. It will happen, that’s all.

Annie Ernaux – The Years

Hi friends,

Lovely to have you here on this leg of the journey.

If you’re a new subscriber and want to know what happens around these parts when I’m not traversing northern Europe in a motorhome, including all my expressive writing courses for autumn, then head to my welcome post for the lowdown:

Last week, we arrived in the Netherlands. This week, we’ve traveled north east on our way towards Denmark. If you want to catch up from the start, head here:

The Netherlands

Lauwersoog - Bremen - Hamburg - Kiel

The weather broke midweek, but not before a morning walk that turned my shoulders pink.

I’d only meant to nip out for a quick stomp after breakfast, having unsuccessfully convinced either of the girls to come away from their devices, but got distracted by the boats at the marina near our campsite. It would be a number of hours before I’d notice my sunburn, unlike the immediate nip of mosquito bites we’d never expected to get at this latitude.

I’d felt a momentary guilt at not being more forceful with the kids. The usual mother-reflex that they were wasting the morning but – selfishly? – I also wanted time alone to repeat a walk I’d taken the night before. There’s something so soothing for me walking around a marina. Maybe it’s somatic? A dormant but strong muscle memory that sees me respond intuitively to the undulation of the floating pontoons underfoot? Auditory too, as I tune into the squeak of fenders between fibreglass hulls and sun-bleached wood as well as the clank-clank-clank of masts and rigging overhead? Whatever it is, it’s visceral and transports me back to specific moments in childhood. What I remember as happy times. For there were, of course, happy times.

My grandparents (the Helen and Tom we meet in my memoir, Held in Mind) bought a boat the summer I was born.