Fast tarmac and slow magic

There's a road at the bottom of the Isle of Wight that's faster than it needs to be. It cuts across the land like it's late for something, but the land couldn't care less.

Military Road.

Once a supply route for coastal garrisons, it's now a straight-backed sentinel of tarmac chasing the edge of the island.

To one side, barley fields shimmer in the breeze. A troupe of sequined dancers, bowing to the sun. To the right: the English Channel, pushing and pulling at the bones of the island. Chalk and time slowly crumble closer to an inevitable end.

The road rides between them, barely tethered. A line between majesty and entropy. And a twelve-mile poem you don't have to read twice, but you'll want to.

It makes you feel something. Not nostalgic, not proud, not even safe. Just connected. To the land, to motion, to something older than you, and longer-lasting than your worries.

At Compton Bay, the sand holds the prints of Iguanodon. A dinosaur the size of a double-decker bus once walked here, now reduced to silent indentations in stone. An embedded reminder that the land remembers more than we do.

One day, the sea will win. The road will buckle and break, and fall into the surf like a tired god. But until then, it reminds us, in one unbroken drive, you can see everything you need to.

Land. Sea. Beast. Beauty. All in one fleeting 60 mph glance.

We often talk about making progress and achieving purpose. But some roads don’t lead to a place. They take you through one. Through awe and presence. Through noticing.

And that might be the most important journey of all.