On the road

The sun sinks behind the horizon of the West Coast, the sky still glowing in layers of deep orange and dark blue. I am driving along the R27, the road that leads me back from Langebaan to the city. Directly ahead, in the first true darkness, the familiar guides emerge: the Southern Cross and the Centaurus. Stars that point the way south.

And then, in the distance, I see the contours emerge that always make my heart beat faster. The contours of Table Mountain. A massive, dark silhouette against the starry sky. The ultimate beacon of homecoming. There, between that mountain and Lion’s Head, lies my home. I long for my spot there, yet at the same time, I cherish the kilometers that still separate me from it. Beside me in the passenger seat, the loyal presence of my little dog; behind us, a trail of newly discovered places.

I wonder what makes me so happy at this moment. Is it the destination, or the journey itself?

I think I am never as close to myself as when I am on the road. It is a nomadic instinct: the need to constantly seek a new horizon, a different place to spend the night, to arrive and immediately feel the departure in my bones. It reminds me of the time we lived on a boat. Arriving and departing. Rooting and uprooting. Lines fast, lines loose. Those were always the most beautiful moments.

Leaving always hurts a little. You are still connected to the place where you were, your mind is still too busy, still too attached to the routines of hearth and home. But as soon as the wheels roll or the bow cleaves through the waves, I feel that ultimate joy: I am free. I am away. And when I arrive somewhere new, I am wagging my tail with curiosity all over again. What will this new place bring me? What adventures await me here?

I experience this most intensely when I travel alone. As fun as it is to travel with others, being by myself gives me an extra sense of adventure. A sense of autonomy, standing at the helm without having to account for anything. No plan that needs to be negotiated, no objective that overrides the experience. If a side road sparks my curiosity, I turn. Without fellow travelers sighing impatiently because we 'really need to keep moving.' My only compass is my own wonder.

It is more than just adventure; it is a necessary escape from the social rhythm. The dinners, the conversations, and the sociability—they cost energy. They lay claim to the time and space in which I think, write, and read.

That is why I need these solo drives. To escape the expectations, the family, the busyness for a while. Not because I don't love them, but because I need the lonely silence of traveling to be able to breathe again.

Table Mountain draws closer. I am almost home. For a little longer, I enjoy the space that separates us: the road beneath my wheels, the stars above my head, and the absolute freedom.

(For the stargazers among my readers: you might notice that the Southern Cross should actually have been to the left (west) of the Centauri in March. But then it would have disappeared behind the rear view mirror. Ah well, AI... and (almost) no one who notices.)