Entry the Tenth , 23rd of May, 1873
Dawn upon Dartmoor proved a pale affair, the horizon trembling with mist that seemed reluctant to withdraw. My cloak was sodden, my fingers stiff, yet I found a peculiar satisfaction in having endured the moor’s indifference. The Steam Unicycle, its brass dulled by dew, required a half-hour of coaxing before the boiler consented to work. When at last it exhaled its first plume of vapour, I confess I greeted it with something like affection, which is ridiculous for surely no one can feel affection for a machine!
The day’s journey carried me eastward, skirting the moor’s stern uplands toward Crediton and beyond. The land softened: hedgerows reappeared, cottages stood at proper intervals, and the roads regained the courtesy of paving. After days of gorse and granite, the sight of an orchard in blossom seemed wonderful in its gentleness.
Yet the machine would not allow me complacency. Mid-morning, as I climbed a hill near Sticklepath, the pressure valve betrayed a petulant streak, releasing an unexpected blast of steam that startled a passing clergyman. He crossed himself, muttering ‘The apocalypse is upon us!” before retreating hastily and shouting for me to repent. I reflected that my conveyance inspires less devotion than dread in men of the cloth,a fact perhaps worthy of a pamphlet when I am returned home.
Children remain, as ever, my most enthusiastic audience. In Crediton a band of them surrounded me, clamouring to know whether I sold hot pies from the chimney. One girl, bolder than the rest, touched the wheel and declared me “a traveller from the future.” I have carried that phrase with me all day. If the future is anywhere, is it not in the balance between brass, fire, and folly?
I rather think that some form of Adjustable Writing Desk for Riders must be contrived and added to the Steam Unicycle, permitting me to sketch or annotate whilst in motion. Imagine: the road itself recorded in real time, thoughts inscribed as they arise with the rhythm of the pistons. I fear the risk of imbalance, crash and catastrophe, but how such a desk would help my note taking and sketching.
By late afternoon I had descended into Exeter, where the cathedral spires greeted me like grave guardians of an older order. I paused in the shadow of the great west front, sketchbook in hand, the unicycle quietly hissing at my side. A beadle approached, frowning, and inquired whether I intended to wheel the machine into the nave. I assured him, with utmost solemnity, that I would not. He remained unconvinced, but allowed me to remain in the square.
Tonight I lodge in a respectable inn near the river. For the first time in several days my bed is dry, my supper warm, and my machine secure in a coach-house that smells delightfully of hay. My limbs ache with a profound fatigue, yet my mind remains alert, filled with images of orchards, towers, and the endless possibility of motion.
Thus concludes the tenth day. I feel, for the first time, the true length of the road,stretching away beyond Devon, beyond counties and cathedrals, toward something larger than mere destination.
