By the time we reached the border, I was already tired — not of travelling, but of being competent.
Nothing had gone wrong. The paperwork was in order. The route made sense. We’d talked it through, checked it twice, and left in good time. On paper, it was a straightforward day.
And yet I arrived carrying a familiar weight — not anxiety exactly, more the accumulated drag of constant problem-solving, most of it invisible and most of it unresolved.
This life looks spacious from the outside. Fewer possessions. Fewer appointments. A sense of freedom. And much of the time, that’s true. But there’s another layer that doesn’t make it into photographs: the steady requirement to monitor, anticipate, adjust, and correct.
Shore power that’s temperamental. Gas levels that need watching. The mental map of where LPG might be available, and whether it’s accessible in a vehicle our size. Continuity of dog food. Small signs of wear and tear on the motorhome that need logging, not fixing yet, but not forgetting either. Water, waste, weather, signal, terrain.
None of these are big problems. That’s the point. They don’t arrive as crises, just as a low-level hum that never quite switches off. A background process running all the time.
Pip feels it too. We share the load. We talk it through. But I’m usually the one who spots the problem first, names it, and quietly starts working out how to absorb it without derailing the day. It’s not a burden as such — it’s a role — but roles have a cost.
Border days compress everything.
You’re suddenly back inside systems that strip you down to essentials: documents, dates, eligibility. You wait, you present, you’re assessed. Perfectly reasonable, entirely procedural — and oddly infantilising. You feel edgy without a clear reason. You rehearse answers you may never be asked. You play through the possibility, however unlikely, of being refused entry, and what that would mean next.
It’s irrational. It’s also completely human.
I can do this. I’m good at it. That’s part of the problem.
There’s a quiet effort involved in always being the composed one — the calm voice, the planner, the person who keeps things moving. It’s not heroic. It’s just sustained attention. And the body notices.
A finger joint that complains on the steering wheel. Toes that ache more than they should. A knee that reminds me it’s been keeping score. Nothing dramatic. No injury. Just feedback.
Travelling isn’t benign. It’s not harm, but it isn’t rest either. Even the good days ask something of you, and border days ask more — not because they’re difficult, but because they leave no room for slack.
That’s the bit I don’t tend to post.
Instagram likes movement with payoff — arrival shots, ferry ramps, flags changing. It’s less interested in the space before that, when you’re already thinned out and nothing has technically happened yet.
I didn’t feel afraid at the border. I didn’t feel exhilarated. I felt flattened by the accumulation of attention it takes to keep this life upright. The kind of tiredness that doesn’t ask for sleep so much as fewer inputs.
We crossed without incident. Stamps, glances, a nod. And then we were through. Different road signs. Different rhythm. Albania.
The relief wasn’t dramatic. It arrived as a softening — the sense that, for the next hour at least, there would be fewer decisions to make. We were in. That was enough.
As a typical example, later, upon arrival at the site, Pip made a coffee and immediately had to descale the machine before going any further. I faffed around trying to get the motorhome level. Scylla lay down and went straight to sleep. We sat for a moment longer than usual, doing nothing in particular, letting the day catch up.
This isn’t a cautionary tale. We’re not rethinking the journey. I wouldn’t trade this life for the one we left. But it felt important to name this layer — the invisible effort — because pretending it isn’t there doesn’t make it disappear. It just sends it underground.
Tomorrow will be easier. Or it won’t.
Either way, we’re in.
And for now, that’s enough.
