Getting to places without a website means hour after hour in a seat. What years of long buses and night trains taught me about arriving able to walk, and where compression socks fit in.
Somebody told me it was very close and it was nine kilometres. Somebody else told me it was far and it was twenty minutes. Distance is a report about a body and a vehicle, not about a map, and I kept forgetting that.
At the ticket window I asked for the branch line instead of the direct train, and the woman asked if I was sure. I had three reasons, and only one of them was any good.
I noticed I was standing in the rain enjoying a sentence I had not written yet, about a place I had not seen yet. That was the point at which the whole project of finding places nobody goes started to look like a scoreboard.
Twice I have reached somewhere quickly and easily and felt almost nothing when I got there. This is about why the approach does some of the work, and why I still skip it when I am tired.
The word I hear most often about places I drove four hours to reach is nice. It took me a while to understand that nice is not modesty or secrecy. It is an accurate description delivered by someone with unlimited access.
Over about an hour the fences outside the window changed from wire to stone, and I watched it happen. Here is the concrete stuff a slow route gives you, and the large amount of it that is useless.
I have been sent confidently the wrong way more times than I can count, usually by people trying hard to help. The problem was almost always my question, not their answer. Here is how I ask now.
I did roughly the same route twice, once by myself and once with a friend, and they were not the same trip at all. What actually changes when there is a second person, in places where nothing is arranged in advance.
I tried to count the people who have solved a problem for me and vanished before I could do anything about it. The list got long fast, and the usual ways of squaring it up mostly do not work.