A World Of Pure Imagination

First things first, a little context is required. The year is 2008 and two wide eyed high school grads have grown weary waiting for Scotland's unrelenting winter to cease (snow in April!). Having long resisted the tantalising temptation of foreign climes in favour of jobs and savings accounts, the impending spectre of higher education becomes too much. Jobs are quit, flights are booked, the plan; 6 weeks of hitch-hiking around Europe with a "startlingly vague" itinerary .

Assuming the first person, it seems only proper that I inform the reader of this slapdash excuse for a plan's fundamental flaw which is simply this; (practically )Nobody picks up hitchhikers anymore. People tried to tell us this in advance, concerned parents, sceptical friends, but with a typically youthful sense of naivety and a cocksure lack of self awareness we duly set out into a world reeling from global financial disaster (things are going to get a whole lot worse) and restlessly panicking over something called "swine flu".

After 3 weeks spent standing by motorways (usually in the rain) and pitching our tent in whatever relatively flat undergrowth we could find, it's safe to say our spirits were at something of a nadir. Having meandered our way up the East Coast of Spain before somehow blundering across the southern quarter of France, we found ourselves in Biarritz, where, for perhaps the most relaxing 5 days of my life, we set up camp and rented surfboards...

Perhaps this is an idealistically selective memory talking, but when we eventually hit the road it was with a newfound spring in our steps, there was something in the air that day for sure. Having made a short walk from our campsite on the outskirts of town until scenic vistas dissolved into hard shoulder, and took up our standard position by the roadside. Aggregating our progress thus far we estimated it would take roughly 3/4 days for us to make it 500 miles up the road to Paris, it was at this point, arrested from our fugue by the unmistakable sound of car horn, the we were beckoned towards the first car to pass all morning. The next 12 hours remain something of a blur, in and out of cars with almost clockwork precision, it's fair to say not once did we wait more than 5 minutes since our last ride, before another presented itself unto us. From Biarritz it was just a short trip to Mont-De-Marsan, up to Bordeaux, Then Tours and then Orleans, before rolling into Paris at dusk, all of 9 hours after setting off.