Bushes fly by in a blur of green. Some trees further away turn slowly, watching me as I pass by. Individual rays of sun are visible in the sky, the light scattered into stands by a smattering of white clouds. As my train speeds by, it casts a warm hue over the fields of Castile and León. This area of Spain has its charm, but for me and for many others visiting the coast, it’s just a bit of a buffer zone; an endless expanse that we must power on through in order to get to our destination.

Some might complain about this extra travel time, but I think that it is quite necessary. This extra couple of hours separating the bustle of the city from the serenity of the sea gives the brain time to process the change of scenery. It’s a transitional period which allows my head to come to terms with the fact that I was once in one place and now I’m in another.

I use the term place here in its widest possible sense. I’ve always noted that feelings and sensations seem to be anchored to particular locations. So, when I speak about moving from one place to another, what I’m really dealing with is the act of shifting from one frame of mind to another. I think a bit of friction along the way can help to facilitate this change of chip.

I’m not advocating for worsening the travel process: it’s already quite the odyssey. Airports are a nightmare, buses can be stifling, and taxis are often eye-wateringly expensive. Even trains aren’t exempt from my criticism, despite my position as a staunch defender of the railways.

Regardless of which vehicle you choose, there’s always going to be snags and headaches as you move around. But is that necessarily a bad thing? I don’t know. I don’t think it is. Maybe I’m just getting slow and brain lazy, my neurons liquified by social media, but I feel a genuine need for this processing time. In a high-speed world, it’s nice to give my gray matter a bit of time to realise that I’m on the move.

This extra bit of time is what allows me to disconnect, unwind, and dissipate all the pent-up stresses of adult life. These transitional hours mean that the best version of me arrives at my destination: a me that is ready to explore, chat, and relax without the mental hum of work and daily strife. They allow me to enjoy sunsets with Kevin in Asturias, a pie and peas with my dad in the village pub, and many a special moment with friends.

So thank you, distance. You help me disconnect.