One Step At A Time

I wish we had skipped Bath altogether. Not because I didn’t want to see and explore it, but because it was where I had my first ever anxiety attack.

The sun was setting as we left Glastonbury, and it was well hidden by our arrival into Bath.
Our next aim was simple: find YHA, get bags out of car, find dorm, and collapse into bed. Sounds easy, right?
Bath was a town of many winding roads and construction works; not at all an easy navigation, especially with maps that were as clear as rainclouds. I was unfortunate enough to have earned the job of navigator on our trip and aside from the Oxford catastrophe, I was doing a damn fine job. Until Bath.

I recall that after circling the main blocks for approximately 35 minutes, Mum got to the point of sheer fury. She could not understand my inability to direct her to the hostel and violently pulled the car over on Circus Road. But with two maps in hand, neither corresponding with the other and neither being a complete directory, the search was futile. I dejectedly called the hostel and asked for directions. Those did not get us anywhere, and a second call was made.
This time, success! We finally arrived on the street we needed, and discovered that it shared its name with the street I had originally directed us to. I have to admit I felt a bit smug.
Unfortunately, there was another hurdle standing between a warm bed and the car I was suffocating in: we could not find the driveway. Mum drove up and down the monstrously steep hill 4 times before firing up again and calling me useless, and when we miraculously (and accidentally) discovered the entrance, I did a mental happy dance. It started to feel like I was drowning… like there was a hand on my head pushing me under the waves of worthlessness I was surrounded by. I couldn't wait to escape that Fiat.

The following day, our last in Bath, I recall I left the camera in the car, and had to retrieve it, lest we miss out entirely on concrete versions of our memories. I stood with the passenger door open and my foot on the frame, shaking with a lack of mental stability. Is that what you call a panic attack? I’d never had one before then, nor have I since, so I still am not certain.
I can’t think of our time in Bath now without a slight twinge in my stomach. To have come from being lost in the beauty of the woods in Dorchester, to losing grip in Bath was overwhelming, but having experienced it though that lens changed and bettered my life.