A rebel without a clue.

Here I am. On the shore of Lake Geneva with the mountains rising behind it. Robert, my American Stanford graduate host, has Italian ancestry so was on the Via Francigena when I messaged him about a night here before setting off on the Via Gebennensis towards Le Puy. My aim is to reach Le Puy in maybe three weeks or just less (I intend to head back to UK around 15/16th), but I will have to go back a slower way missing the Easter hordes heading back to the UK on budget carriers: buses all the way, however that is many days away. He's left me here so he can head into Geneva and get me the yellow guidebook I will need to find a place to stay. He's got a copy from 2017, but refuses to let me take(pay) his and he get a new one later. He says he has an number of errands in town and has a train pass anyway. Briefly I wandered to lake side, but it's quite cool without a jacket. I will pass it on the morning anyway. This is all pretty prosaic. The long morning did me in and even th...

The airport is overwhelmingly large, and I missed where you pick up a complementary ticket. I found an information desk, informed the lady on the desk that I am on the autistic spectrum: especially in busy, crowded, fast paced, illuminated spaces; I can't cope with it at all. No amount of antidepressants will ever help my feeling of helplessness in these situations. But it is over. I'm on the train as the lady went and got me a ticket. And I was the last person onboard. Phew. A man speaks in a French voice so very fast on the tannoy: it's rabid. I felt like the lad from the Incident of the Dog in the Night. I wanted to crawl into a small space and escape (not nice) to wait for my brain to stop pulsating. Now I'm relaxed on a lesser, slower, more peaceful and speechless train.

Can they actually talk forever? Maybe they could talk as the world explodes. This is a real difficulty. They're harmless, but incessant. They compare each other continually and are really scoring points. It's a better class of person, I'm sure, but it's undeniably meaningless. I am so trying to see peace not grievance. Plane journeys are barren and those behind me are banal. But it is over. I'm am glad I wasn't climbing , skiing or snowboarding. The bus is wedged with people. I'm allowed to sit next to the driver. Phew. Let me get out of this place. The bus follows number nine to the terminal. There are no seat belts ... I exist in no man's land.

Robert, my host, tells me to get some rest on the flight. So I climb on board the Jet2 Holidays emblazoned Boeing 737-300/800 in fear it will be filled with Stag do's and Hen parties. Saying hello, and good morning, to Lynsey the excusing myself passed Amy I take my seat. Another passenger comes along and, as she cares less which seat she has, moves me along one. Seat A with the window view. From here I can see the sea. Here comes the announcement and I'm removing my boots: it's too uncomfortable to have them on in this position for so long. Some people cannot count or find their seats. It's hilarious. Such a simple instructions to grasp. Take a deep breath and go in. Boots off before breakfast comes out; second breakfast. Last night's pasta and sauce. Then perhaps a moment's shut eye without too much dribbling, drooling, farting or snoring.

How to nearly miss a flight, did I nearly get caught in my own arrogance? The lady next to the muscle flexing gentleman says she's starting a creative writing course soon and asked me have I done one? Unnecessary. Life is quite a writing course. There is only one way to write and that's your own way. A clone ain't going to step forward, lead us onwards in new ways and you've got to have picked up a pen many moons ago. Now I'm through the final stage of the airport hazards and across from me two gentlemen go through the same nonsense I've grown to despise. Sunday morning curry after being into Leeds. The other hasn't done a night out in Leeds for years. The first states it is mental and his son was dressed up to look as gay as possible. They have cabin fever, but are heading to a chalet in Chambray and that is hilarious.

All these people and I'm alone. All these clusters, families, couples, kids and those with a head down looking where no answer can ever come. To kill time? There is no time. Only ever now. To be at peace is to be now. Kids are now, but are forced screaming to live bound up in time. The voice has called Jet2 Holidays final, final, final call for Tenerife, and again. It's beyond necessary. If someone fails to get to the plane in time they forego their right to fly anywhere. And Jet2 have been paid so why cry over a few vacant seats when they'll be less vacant stares on the rows. Anxious man clasps muscle sprung device. He states 'no, I'm not anxious'. He works out. Then he admits he's bored. Once in Atlanta he missed his flight because he had a sachet of ketchup, "probably McDonald's", forgotten somewhere in his baggage and I confess I've broken airport crap into a routine. Quite an OCD one. Take off boots, walk next to the toilet, sit down...

On Wellington Street, passing another reconstruction of the burnt out Majestic: once a cinema and once Majestk nightclub: an mammoth disappointment where vomit was spewed, piss was slashed, shit was daubed, Johnny's were ejected and, no doubt, people passed away to be born further down the food chain (thankfully); it's a blue morning. For practical experience I walked my way back towards Leeds from Wetherby yesterday morning. My main consideration was to test the larger backpack I've decided to bring this time. It is quite possible to do damage to spine, arms, shoulders, legs and feet, when I'm required to cover 20 Kms plus a day from Tuesday, without a dry run or two. By a quarter past eight on Sunday I was beside All Hallow's Church, Bardsey so I ducked inside for a rest. The service had just kicked off: communion. So I found a quiet corner to rest a while and listen. The vicar was the youngest of the congregation. Is it the fear of hell or death which delivers...

Walking over forgotten food, which was hastily discarded, I'm on the road. An animal died unnecessarily to be wasted on Wade Lane. A pile of greasy kebab in ribbon like waves, a mouth bitten pita and unremitting polystyrene container. Nowhere to be seen were the vultures of the town and the birds had yet to leave their roosts to pick clean this protein forgetfulness. An animal reduced to refuse: either eaten by vermin or poured into vast landfill later and saturate the clean earth with its unholy fibres; a mound of hatred for the very substance of another being. Now I await the 757 to deliver me henceforth.