This morning, I got the VW camper van out of the garage – it’s good to keep these old vehicles ticking over, and it needed refuelling, so a trip to the LPG station was in order – and took it for a slow spin out in the winter sunshine. I find driving the van immensely relaxing: it’s got fifty-year-old engine technology, rubbish acceleration, quirks and foibles by the shedload, and no power steering, all of which makes (believe it or not) for an incredibly enjoyable journey. Wherever I’m going in that van, I’m not going there in a rush, and in a society whose goal seems to be Everything! Now! that’s hugely liberating.
I pootled across Wolverhampton – a world with more pootling in it would be a better world, in my opinion – following another 1970s VW, and sharing a grin and a wave with the driver. At the LPG station I stood in the sunshine and chatted with the attendant as the van’s tank slowly filled. We talked about weather and fuel policies and how things change and how that’s not always for the better. And when I got home, I gently reversed the van into the garage, locked it away till the next time, and walked back in the house with a smile on my face.
These small connections – a smile here, a wave there, an unexpected conversation – are things that matter. They’re what help turn our days here on this planet into moments of beauty. They’re good for the soul. I’d argue they’re a vital antidote to the atomised lives we’re routinely offered, where our only value is as a consumer, but you may see that differently. Either way, that’s another subject for another day, possibly over a beer or two, where we can argue the toss, make connections, step out from the safety and limitations of our own four walls, go home feeling more alive and more valued, and agree that – above all else – is what matters.