At the bike
rack in town where I went to lock up my ride, there was an old geezer who seemed
to be admiring one of the cycles attached. I jokingly asked if he fancied it
and he said no but went on to tell me the story of the last bike he had owned. It
was a nifty little folding job, which he had retrieved from a skip, but it required
only minimal fettling to make it roadworthy. He had ridden it until, at last,
he no longer felt safe, whereupon he sold it for forty quid. It wasn’t a
fascinating tale but, since I was not on urgent business, I heard him out and,
when we parted, he shook my hand and thanked me for the “conversation”. At that
point it crossed my mind that he might be lonely.
I was on my
way to scout around the shops for a new backpack – a simple task, you might
think, but there are so many to choose from. In the old days, buyers were
limited to rucksacks, a form of carry-all intended for outdoor hikes of varying
sorts. Since then, the format has evolved into variations aimed at groups like
commuters, day-trippers and women who eschew handbags. The particular niche
product I sought was more like a hybrid, designed to accommodate all the things
I would like at hand during several days of travelling on trains and ferries
through Europe.
Regular
readers might know that I’ve undertaken such journeys several times before and
assume, therefore, that I should have this aspect of personal admin sorted by
now. But I’ve been making do with a small, basic backpack that I’ve had for ages.
It has only one internal compartment and a very plain design that says, “urban
chic circa 2000”. Nor is it big enough. So, to narrow down the choice for a
replacement, I wrote a list of no-nos: not outdoorsy, i.e. featuring loads of
dangling straps for attaching ice axes; neither black nor garish; and not priced
at a premium on account of fashion-branding. Then, the list of must-haves:
internal pockets for stashing tickets, keys, a passport, e-reader, phone and
charging devices; external pockets for holding bottles or flasks; and an overall
capacity sufficient for a sweater, umbrella and some snacks – lots of snacks.
While I went
from shop to shop, I reminisced about simpler times and the days of the duffel
bag, that casual, over-the-shoulder, single compartment, cylindrical holdall
that travelling-light, donkey-jacketed youngsters toted back in the hopeful 1960s.
Inside them was a jumble of socks, T shirts and copies of On the Road ,
but on the outside they signalled the hopes and dreams of a generation bent on rebellious
notions of anti-materialism. I had a pang of nostalgia for a duffel bag, but
you don’t see them nowadays, which is as well, since the older me can’t pretend
to be an idealistic youngster, never mind be doing with rummaging for stuff in
a bag with just one compartment.
Travel, or
the prospect of it, has always excited me. Even though it sometimes doesn’t
live up to expectations, the anticipation that it might is enough to get me motivated
and, if the journey becomes torturous, one hopes the destination will be worth
the hassle. Preparations such as buying new kit and clothing for the event are
manifestations of anticipated pleasure. Travel feels like freedom because it is
a form of escape (though I acknowledge that someone whose living depends on it
might disagree).
Anyway, I did find a suitable bag and went back for my bike. The old geezer had gone, but the memory of him lingered. I briefly imagined myself hanging around, waiting for someone to listen to my story – the evolution of backpacks, perhaps – but the idea of loneliness soon banished the thought. Best not tempt fate.
