Passing the Durnford

31st January 2023

"Are you sure you don't need a hand?"

"No, thanks, I'll be fine."

It's an overcast Tuesday morning. I've just stepped out from Ryan's AirBnB onto the streets of Plymouth. My next accommodation is a 4km walk away. I'm not in a hurry though, I have got 4 hours of durnford time until I'm able to check-in.

Typically this wouldn't be a big deal, but today is different. On Saturday I retrieved a suitcase of belongings out of storage. Stuff I had brought over from New Zealand but had barely used. This week I gave nearly all of it away to charity shops. The few items I'm keeping somehow still manage to fill up the suitcase.

So here I am, wearing two backpacks, lugging a heavy suitcase with one hand and carrying a guitar and a small sack of apples in the other. If I was inside an airport, this would be perfectly fine, the suitcase gliding over smooth floors and across accessibility ramps. The British footpaths, however, are a different story.

Plymouth appears to be assembled from a billion slabs of concrete. The sidewalk shows the scars of being cut open and repaired with layers of cement and bitumen. I'm trying to navigate the best path, avoiding the large cracks and occasional dog turds. The chattering of small plastic wheels on rough concrete echoes out across the street. I hope that the wheels will survive the journey.

I know my way around central Plymouth pretty well, but I'm heading into an unexplored suburb and need to check for directions. To get a hand free, I've balanced the guitar bag and apples on top of the suitcase, straps looped around the extendable handle. This works great for a hundred metres or so until the bags inevitably vibrate loose and swing around, dragging on the ground. Every time this happens I have to stop, frown disappointedly and reposition the guitar (and apples). After the fourth time I dig out a piece of cord and secure the stacked bags in their places.

The air is a chill 7°c. My left hand feels frozen, clasped around the suitcase handle. After 20 minutes my body has warmed up considerably and I almost feel too hot.

I find respite in a café halfway along my journey. Fully loaded, I barely fit through the narrow doorway. I dismount at a corner table, trying not to bump into the other patrons. The chairs disappear under my winter clothing.

I enjoy an English (veggie) breakfast and a flat white coffee. The afternoon durnford dwindles away lazily. Soon the time left for walking catches up to the time have left until check-in. I layer back up and get ready for the second half of the journey.

I try to listen to a podcast but the rumble and screech of the passing traffic floods my ears. I take off my headphones and let my mind wander.

The monotony of the trip distorts the passing of time. Waiting at traffic lights watching people in cars pass by. Crossing roads, carefully getting the suitcase down one curb and up the next. Progressing slowly up a hill, around another corner, passing a group of people waiting at a bus stop, pretending that it's normal for a person to carry this amount of luggage with them.

I check my phone for directions once again. Which corner do I need to take? A right turn at the next set of traffic lights. Not far to go now. Soon I find my new front door. Numb fingers scramble to open the lock box. I open the door and heave my bags inside. I've passed the durnford. I can relax, for now.