Essay
On the Quiet Luxury of Travelling Less
A winter route through three small harbours suggests that restraint, not itinerary, is the rarest form of abundance.
I spent two weeks last winter carrying one small case between Oban, Tobermory and a guest room above a closed bakery in Ullapool. There was no list to complete, only the slow correction of attention: a grey quay at four, tea cooling on a sill, the same road walked twice because the light had changed.
The itinerary became a margin
The most considered journeys I know leave space around their edges. By refusing the extra train, the urgent dinner and the borrowed recommendation, the place begins to speak in its own scale: bus timetables, harbour bells, the soft refusal of shops that close before dusk.