As I drove, I related a vivid dream from the previous night. We were so close to Land’s End itself that the rest of the journey was a breeze. I was an accessory to the fact that they’d inadvertently welcomed a chaos magician into their home, and there was now some kind of inter-dimensional portal whirling around in their daughter’s bedroom. It was all very pleasant but, as we prepared to leave, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt. ‘I’ve been up all night doing magic!’ he exclaimed.īy now the smell of fresh brewed coffee was wafting up the stairs, so we smartened up a bit and went down to the dining room to join the old couple and their guest for breakfast. I awoke hazily around 7.30am to a knock on the door, and opened it to a rather disheveled Grant Morrison with strange symbols drawn all over his chest in lipstick. It had been an extremely long day and we were bushed, but I found time for a roll-up and stepped outside for a quick smoke before we turned in for the night. My room was very small and rather twee, with a frilly bedspread, and Grant had a larger room next to mine. They already had one other guest and were definitely up for the spare cash. The old couple greeted us with enthusiasm and showed us to our rooms. What a relief! It was about 8pm by the time we pulled into a cul-de-sac of little houses. There was a brief look of homophobic panic in the man’s eyes as he hung up the phone, but I assured him that we were just pals on a journey to see the eclipse and he kindly gave us the address and directions.
The conversation sounded positive, the man was smiling and nodding… and then Grant strolled in. I told him of our plight and, though no rooms were available, he knew an old couple down the road that might have a spare room or two, and gave them a call. I walked into the pub, reminiscent of The Slaughtered Lamb in American Werewolf in London, but there was no star on the wall and the bartender looked friendly. I suggested looking for a pub and we found one, thankfully not too far away. Whether Grant was still wearing his shades, may be a false memory. The light had now completely faded and this shaven headed, black-clad fellow turning up on the doorstep, resembling a better looking Nosferatu, with an accent from faraway lands, just wasn’t cutting it. I figured, why not? So out of the car he got and began knocking on doors. This was something we’d heard about on the news – homeowners making spare cash from travelers on their pilgrimage to Land’s End. ‘Fuck, what are we going to do?’ We ventured into the suburbs and Grant had the great idea of knocking randomly on doors to see if anyone had a room to rent. Brigitte Bardot was on her last legs when we spotted what looked like a castle high on a hill, actually a rustic-looking hotel. The rapidly fading light made us all the more anxious about finding a place to lay our weary heads as we drew closer to our destination. The allotted six hours turned into eight. The journey was pleasant but arduous, the roads packed with people heading the same way for the same reason. We had to arrive before sunset and so made only two stops: one for lunch in a Motorway café, another to stretch our legs and attempt to photograph ourselves, my camera set to timer on the car roof.
I’d recently been dating a woman from the South of France who turned me onto some vintage French music, so we had plenty of Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot to listen to on the way. But we had snacks and drinks for the journey and some pretty good sounds in the CD player. I bloody hate driving, and I knew it would be me all the way because Grant doesn’t drive. We agreed to go halves on a modern rental car fit for the six-hour journey and I suggested picking him up outside the Underground station on the King’s Road, after his train ride down from Glasgow. I finally relented after Grant convinced me that it would be the experience of a lifetime and, more to the point, the only way he was going to finish his The Invisibles series. The thought of driving all that way was kind of ominous, especially in my rubbishy old car. So here I was trying to justify not going… again. I’d already declined an offer to accompany my dear friend Shirin, who suggested we make the journey in a van she’d hired, with room to sleep in the back. It’s the only chance we’ll ever get’, said Grant Morrison over the phone. ‘We HAVE to go to Land’s End for the total eclipse.
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