May The Road Rise Before You, Dickhead

A.J. Mackinnon, a man who confesses that his interests include philosophy, conjuring and fireworks (and with that I would suspect no interests that include chasing girls, being chased by girls, or bumping into girls) has written an interesting, poetic, and at times genuinely amusing book, The Unlikely Voyage of Jack de Crow.

He sets off in dinghy from Wales, and in the spirit of adventure and appalling navigation, pops out at the Black Sea over a year later.

The book is not an unalloyed joy. It suffers from a few too many adverbs at times, and there are passages where, if you were present in the boat, you would’ve beat him over the head with his own oar. The unending self satisfied delight in his own company, the ability to name every blinking type of flora, and the non-stop saccharine optimism, I find deeply suspicious. People like that inevitably end up on the news, with a neighbour saying something like, “Oh, he was always very quiet and polite. He kept to himself mostly. Although he did smell of ether and insect repellent.”

But, on the whole, it is a really lovely little read about a man who tells a good self deprecating story and paints the country side in engaging detail. It also has amusing little sketches thrown in. I quite like a picture every now and then. Except the pictures in my old, old copy of Peter and the Wolf. Frightened the poop out of me, but couldn’t put them down.

What it did infuse me with is the yearning for adventure and getting back on the water. To set off with not much of an idea of home-time, or indeed where home would be. To rely on, and connect with, the kindness and comfort of strangers. To float upon the world and be a leaf on its stream. That impulse lasted until 4.30 pm, 27th Oct.

Last night, five cars in front of me, a guy broke down and he was making a real hash of extricating himself. People were just driving around him on the crest of a hill, on double white lines. It was going to end in tears.

I got past him and backed up. I could smell the petrol from 6 meters away from where he’d flooded it, but first of all I said to him, “Pop your hazards on mate, and we’ll throw your hood up so people can easily see your not going anywhere.”

He was thankful for the help and I was devising a plan for backing him off the narrow road and out of harms way, when a passing motorist, leant out of the window, yelled at me that I was a "complete fuckwit", and threw an empty packet of cigarettes at me.

Being unable to even work out why I was abused, my need to adventure in the world and commune with the people in it, died. I'm just not up to it.