Back in the spring I gave a corporate motivational talk in Mallorca. As well as the usual smart clothes and laptop for my presentation, I also packed a bivvy bag. The night of my talk I stayed in a very smart hotel. The next morning I filled my pockets from the breakfast buffet, checked out, and hiked off into the mountains to find somewhere rather cheaper but more original to sleep the next night.

Here’s how I jotted down the pleasure of heading out on a wandering, even this tiny one, in my diary.

A gushing burst of happiness as I walked out of the hotel. Birdsong. The smell of pines, cool morning sunshine and a day bursting with promise. Who knows what I might find if I open my mind.

Up into a village plaza for coffee, the sun now gaining strength. Time to make a loose plan, to hitch on my pack and begin walking.

I walk all day. The cacophony of sheep bells, like cicadas, follows me continuously. They have their heads down and are busy munching their lush pasture. The olive groves are also planted with wheat. Bees are busy. The almond trees are blossoming and I catch the scent of a farmer’s bonfire.

Is there a better feeling than cresting a ridge and seeing the sea below you? I begin following my nose along the rocky coastline. I pass a 13th century farmhouse. Outside is a pyramid of bright lemons and an honesty box to pay for your purchase.

A can of beer, frothy from the carrying and a cheap can of olives: ample sustenance and reward at the sunset of  this wonderful day. I’mm perched on the wall of a steep olive terrace. Far below me, down in the valley, I can just hear the gentle swoosh of traffic. If I listen carefully I can hear the distant yelp of dogs. The sun, low to my right, will soon drop below the hills and down into the sea. The breath of breeze feels cold on my sweaty back but helps to dry my shirt. I raise my one can of beer to the sunset. Up here I feel like a king.

I turn to my dinner. A loaf of bread, some cheese and ham, and a bright red apple to munch as I lie in my bivvy bag under a darkening Spanish sky. It seems incredible to me that for years on end I used to spend every night as free as this. I wonder if this is a glimpse into my future. My days of being on the road at will are gone. But perhaps a few days away here and there, the odd week, the occasional month living rough and cheap could be sufficient to tame the restlessness, scratch the itch. Perhaps. Inshallah… A line of sheep come wandering along my terrace. I fling a stone at them from my sleeping bag and they lumber away, clanking indignantly.

***

This morning I woke shivering. Travelling light has its down sides. So I scampered down the mountain to warm up, chewing on yesterday’s breadcrusts as I lolloped down from rock to rock. I reached the small town of Soler, Miro‘s home town, and enjoyed an espresso in the only cafe open this early.

The morning calm was broken by an invasion of badly dressed, noisy German tourists. It reminded me how much I enjoy the wildman life, vagabonding, travelling on the fringes of what people consider ‘normal’. Living cheaper, travelling lighter, moving faster, sleeping higher, experiencing more than other tourists. But trying to do so subtly, with curiosity, and trying to learn as I go. A dirty face, a bed in a field, and a breadcrust breakfast need not be incompatible with an engaged mind.

I pay for my coffee, hoist my pack back onto my back, and walk on out of town.

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