Most of the time, I think the best part of going on a trip is the journey itself. I get excited about the idea of starting my journey at night and driving into the break of dawn, embracing the first light on the horizon. It's a kind of feeling that you can't really express with words. You just have to experience it yourself.
For me, I don’t always remember the destination. But I remember how the morning felt. The way the air was cooler than expected. The sound of gravel under tyres before sunrise. The quiet habit of checking my watch, not because I was late, but because I wanted to mark the moment. Out here, time isn’t something I manage—it’s something I move with.
Travel has a way of stripping things back. On the road, I notice what I carry and what I don’t miss. A watch that’s been on my wrist long enough to feel like part of me. A camera that’s seen more failed frames than good ones. Gear stops being about options and starts being about trust.
I miss shots more often than I’d like to admit. The light changes while I hesitate. The moment passes while I’m still thinking. That used to bother me. Now I see it differently. Not everything needs to be captured to matter. Some moments exist only to sharpen your awareness of the next one.
There’s a rhythm to these trips that doesn’t show up on a map. Long stretches of nothing, followed by brief clarity. Waiting for light. Waiting for the weather. Waiting for myself to slow down enough to notice what’s already there. My watch helps, not by measuring seconds, but by reminding me that patience is part of the process.
The gear tells the story, too. Small scratches appear without explanation. Leather softens. Metal dulls slightly. These aren’t signs of wear—they’re evidence. Evidence that the tools weren’t protected from the journey, but shaped by it.
Some of the most important moments happen when nothing is happening. Sitting on the edge of the road. Coffee going cold. Watching clouds move faster than planned. These pauses don’t feel productive, but they’re essential. They recalibrate why I travel in the first place.
These field notes aren’t meant for anyone else. They’re reminders. Of how it felt to be present. Of why I still carry a camera. Of why time, when experienced properly, feels less like something you spend and more like something you inhabit.
The road doesn’t just take me somewhere new. It brings me back to myself.
