The water was clear enough to notice the sun’s rays touch the seabed. Seconds later, the scene was repeated in light piercing the canopy of a beech tree, spotlighting patches of dry earth below. I stared through the salt-smeared window of the train as it raced north on Devon’s famous Riviera line. In the carriage my skin felt weathered and dry. I hadn’t washed my hair for days. Anyone might think I had been to a festival; but having spent the best part of the week on a boat doing research for a project, I felt like the sea, and preferred it. One arm was stretched across my 65-litre rucksack as I faced the window, its bulky weight my temporary home, my office, my explanation.
When I challenged myself to travel by low-carbon routes during the writing of my book on species in Britain affected by climate change, I experienced the best and worst of our lethargic – yet still often charming – transit network. When public transport works, it really works. As a woman in my 20s, travelling long-distance, especially solo by train and bike, is empowering. Personal space, silence and time are street sweepers on the brain. A stillness descends in the wake of a slower pace, and you’ve forgotten how much you needed it. Yes, you tire, but it’s a tiredness that tells me I’ve gone and done something. I’m not in traffic. I don’t need help with my bag. No, I am not lonely. Nothing is wrong.
