Yahoo News How a reckless roadtrip eased the grief of being widowed at 29
My first album came out in 2006, and the success of it took me by surprise – suddenly, every half hour of my day was accounted for, with gigs, interviews, radio shows and red carpet events. I was travelling all over the world and flying high in this crazy bubble.
But all of that came to a screeching halt in March 2008 when my husband, Jason, died unexpectedly. It felt like my life had ended and I retreated from the limelight. Time stretched before me endlessly and I felt completely desolate.
After five months spent doing little more than knitting and gardening, I knew I had to get away – I needed to escape from the house where we’d lived in Leeds and from the people we knew. As lovely and supportive as our friends were, I was struggling to cope with people’s constant concerned questions.
But I knew I’d be recognised if I went through an airport, so on a whim I bought a 1960s sky blue, split-screen camper van and enlisted one of my oldest friends to join me on a road trip to the Occidental Pyrenees for a month-long adventure.
The van – which I still have, because I can’t bear to get rid of it – is probably the most dangerous vehicle in the world. It doesn’t have seatbelts or airbags, so it’s not what you’d ideally drive around hairpin mountain bends, but I was a 29-year-old widow, and I felt reckless. I was so deep in grief that the idea of plunging down a ravine didn’t scare me like it should have.
We drove to Portsmouth, where we took the ferry across the Bay of Biscay, and then began making our way from west to east, winding into this wild, rugged, sublime mountain scenery. Sometimes we’d drive for 10 hours and not see a single soul, and we deliberately avoided big towns and cities. We didn’t use a map and just followed the road signs – it was wonderful to have no agenda, no deadline, nowhere we had to be. There’s a lot of beauty in allowing yourself to travel without a plan.
Being immersed in nature was like a tonic. Watching the ground fall away and seeing these lush hills, deep crevasses and valleys, I thought about the crushing forces that made them and time’s transformative power. That resonated with my situation; I was just trying to get through every day, to let time pass away, to get to the other side of this vortex before it pulled me in. I also found the sense of physical space gave me space mentally. The horizon was wide, I couldn’t see any buildings and I felt free. We drove along, listening to equally wild music by Nina Simone and Patti Smith and The Carter Family, and that lifted me.
But of course, my mood changed daily, and thankfully my dear friend seemed to understand this. At times I’d be dissolved in tears, then morose and withdrawn, and then sometimes I just wanted to have fun and not think about it for a few minutes. He just rode out the emotions with me.
I remember we had pulled up in this gorgeous spot in the mountains to cook dinner on our little outdoor grill, and suddenly I was completely overwhelmed by the feeling that I would never be able to survive this pain. Knowing I was feeling sad, he didn’t try to fill the conversation with mindless chat, he just sat with me for an hour, not saying anything.
The van had a bed at the bottom and a couple of stretchers, so it was pretty cosy at night, but we didn’t bring much with us – only a handful of belongings and clothes, which we’d wash at campsites and hang out to dry on our little washing line, strung up between the van and a tree.
We ate simply, too. We always had fresh bread – because of course France has incredible bakeries – and our meals were often just bread, tomatoes, salt and herbs with some cheese and sardines. We didn’t really cook properly, but what we did have was bought at food markets and tasted delicious and fresh. I really liked the undemanding nature of eating hand to mouth.
There were a lot of lighter moments on that trip, where I began to feel a little more like myself. At one point we found ourselves in a town called Murat-sur-Vèbre, where we parked up overnight in the car park of what looked like a 1970s petrol station. The next morning, our keys got stuck in the ignition, so we ended up having to stay for the weekend while it was fixed. It was the most surreal place – there were tannoys everywhere constantly blasting out Morrissey. We laughed so much, and we still giggle about it now.
That trip was so important to me, not only because I found nature healing but because it took me away from everything I knew. It helped me to imagine a different kind of life for myself, which of course was crucial because my old life had ended and there was no way to hold on to that. When you’re in a marriage, everything feels continuous, so that holiday gave me a new perspective and allowed me to think about other possibilities of living.
I can’t imagine driving along mountainsides and not being afraid these days – now that I have two small children, that decadent, devil-may-care attitude has gone and I’m much more cautious. But there was a beauty to that at the time, and whenever I’m feeling sad or anxious, I can still close my eyes and draw on that beautiful scenery. It’s stayed in my heart: a magical place that I carry with me.
As told to Kirsty Nutkins
Corinne performs at The Cheltenham Jazz Festival on Friday April 29, 2022. Visit Cheltenhamfestivals.com/jazz.
