The Electricity of Every Living Thing, page 25
‘We stayed at the Camelot Castle in Tintagel,’ says the man, conspiratorially; ‘we couldn’t resist it.’ My lack of recognition must show on my face, because he adds, ‘You know, the Scientology hotel.’
I remember being told about this when I first started the walk, that it’s a curio along the path that everyone has to see once, just for the experience. I’d quite forgotten it by the time I got round there, concerned as I was with putting on miles rather than experiences. Now, as the couple list this little country pub here, and this wonderful cafe there, I realise how much I missed along the way. I hardly recognise the places they mention, although I must have walked through them. They were just scenery for me, another crinkle at the edge of the map.
It goes without saying that I regret that now – or perhaps regret is too strong a word. It’s just that I’ve learned something, that’s all, about the value of being in places that you love, and knowing them, and coming back to them.
We spend the final night of our break in a yurt at the midline of the Cornish border, as far from the sea as it’s possible to get. We explore the long grass and Bert finds a series of black beetles, all of which are called Alexander, and he lets them roam around his hands until I can persuade him to repatriate them to their wood pile. Then, we light a bonfire and eat our supper outside as the stars come out. After Bert has gone to sleep in the centre of our king-size bed (I am no more keen on roughing it than I was when all this began), H and I sit outside and drink warm gin and tonics, and talk about the year to come with some gentle kind of optimism.
As we set off home the next morning, Bert watches the trees rush by at the side of the road and says, ‘Bye bye Devon, see you soon.’
And we will: over and over again, every time we need to be set straight again.
EPILOGUE
There’s a high, artificial perfume in here. I can taste it on my glass of water. The room is painted the kind of yellow that I think is supposed to be soothing.
The man opposite me has a file in his lap with my name on it, and he’s taking notes.
‘Where shall we start?’ he says.
‘Anywhere. I don’t know.’
‘How about the here and now?’ he says. ‘What’s your situation at the moment?’
I tell him about going to work, and the bombardment I feel from all the people I encounter there. How many jobs I’ve given up after getting sick for mysterious reasons. About hiding in the toilets at parties. About being the child, alone, in the playground, listening to the mothers of other children gossiping about me. About breaking down at seventeen, and then again, and then again. About being overwhelmed by the touch of my own baby. About the shame of that; the shame of all those things. About being apparently so unlikeable when I try so hard. Never being able to solve that. Never being able to quite see it, somehow.
He listens, and he writes. He tells me when I’ve said enough about one thing, and moves me on to another. I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks as I voice one mental glitch after another, a litany of missed transactions with the outside world.
Eventually, he says, ‘All right. I think that’s all I need,’ and there is a taut moment when I wonder if he will now close that file, and laugh at me, and tell me to go home.
‘From everything you’ve told me,’ he says, ‘you certainly fit the narrative of someone with ASD.’
I do have a narrative, then. Finally. I do have a life story that makes sense when you put it all together. I smile. ‘Great. Thank you.’
‘It’s funny,’ he says. ‘People are always so pleased when we diagnose ASD. Everything else tends to be bad news.’
‘It’s a relief to make sense of everything,’ I say, ‘and to have someone else see it too.’
‘We’ll do more tests,’ he says. ‘We’ll get a more accurate understanding of exactly where you lie. Have you thought about what you want from this? I mean, treatment, medication…’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I can’t think of anything I want.’
‘You know there’s no cure.’
‘I know.’
‘But we can help. There’s lots that can be done.’
‘Just tell me I don’t ever have to go to a party again.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d never suggest avoidance. But adjustment, certainly.’
Adjustment, I think. Now that really is the story of my life.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks, first of all, must go to my adored H for driving me down to the West Country and back again month after month, and only sometimes wishing aloud that we could go somewhere sunny for a change.
To Emma Brownridge and Beccy Scott for walking with me, literally and metaphorically.
To Lucy Abrahams for saying, ‘This is a book, surely?’ and making damned sure it happened.
To Emma Smith, for commissioning the book when it was just a few pages and a vague intention to walk the whole way around. Only a fellow walker could have understood. Thanks also to the team at Trapeze, especially Katie Moss and Leanne Oliver for getting this book into people’s hands.
To Madeleine Milburn for taking such great care of me and my book. A good agent is like the best kind of mother: nurturing to you, fierce to everyone else. I’m so grateful for this, and to her superb team, including Hayley Steed and Alice Sutherland-Hawes.
To Peggy Riley, Sarah Barton and Liv Bays for reading early drafts, and for being as wise and perceptive as I always knew they would be.
To Andy Miller for making my subtitle his personal mission.
To my colleagues and students at Canterbury Christ Church University for putting up with an awful lot of walking talk, and for supporting my project with crucial grant-funding.
To the good folk of Connection at St Martin’s for accepting the world’s most rubbish pilgrim.
And, perhaps most vitally, to the astonishing community of autistic people I’ve found online, to whom I am very grateful and proud to finally belong.
A NOTE ON THE WALKING ROUTES
Both the South West Coast Path and the North Downs Way have excellent waymarkers along their routes. However, I also always use an Ordnance Survey Explorer map and a compass to get a more detailed understanding of the terrain.
Here are the maps I used:
Minehead to Ilfracombe: OS Explorer OL 9
Ilfracombe to Peppercombe: OS Explorer 139
Peppercombe to just north of Bude: OS Explorer 126
Bude to Tintagel: OS Explorer 111
Tintagel to Mawgan Porth: OS Explorer 106
South Devon: OS Explorer OL 20
Dover to Canterbury: OS Explorer 138/OS Explorer 150
Canterbury to Chilham: OS Explorer 150
Chilham to Charing: OS Explorer 137
Katherine May, The Electricity of Every Living Thing
