Helen (heleninwales) wrote,

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Travelling home

The Friday evening commute home is always the slowest. At least it seems that way. It's certainly the busiest, because I'm travelling in the same direction as all the people coming into our area of North Wales for the weekend. I end up following cars stuffed with luggage and festooned with bicycles, cars carrying canoes and surfboards and cars towing caravans. Which travel more slowly than I want to travel.

But at least the scenery is pretty. It's not as spectacular as where I live, with the austere lines of Cadair Idris</a> rising behind the town, but definitely attractive, in a more ordered way. And there's Bala lake, where I can watch the light shifting on the water's surface as I glimpse the lake between the trees where the road runs alongside. For a while, I was wondering if the lake had mystical creative properties because on the outward journey, I kept having story ideas just as I was driving by it. But the answer is probably more prosaic. By the time I reach the lake I've been driving in a state of light concentration for about half an hour; the unconscious has had time to wander undisturbed by me having intense conscious thoughts about complicated things. And stuff just pops up, as if by magic. Though it hasn't recently (which is just as well, I have enough stories on the go as it is) so it must also have something to do with the increasing day length in the spring.

There's usually something to catch my eye on the journey. Sometimes I write haiku as I travel. (Even my unreliable memory can manage to retain 17 syllables until I get to somewhere I can write it down.) I find that even when they're not terribly good as standalone haikus, they fix the image in my memory wonderfully. Here's the one from today:

red tractor crawling
across the green striped field
gathering silage

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