Lars

My driving instructor has a moustache. His name is Lars. He drives me out to the edge of town and then we get out and switch sides. I start to drive a car for the first time in my life.

How did I get to 30 without learning to drive? Something to do with an accident I was in, a dislike of motor vehicles, a lack of cash or time, a love of train travel, rather a lot of drinking, a lack of necessity, a deep disinclination...

Lars wants me to drive up into the valley. He says we don't worry about what others are doing. He tells me I need to practice shifting gears. He says I should take my foot off the break just before the car stops. He seems surprised at the way I keep killing the engine. He doesn't enjoy it when I start driving in the left lane.

Oh, you drivers. Are you aware how difficult it is, this thing you do in open traffic?

Lars says I need to demonstrate independence. He wants me to gear up and gear down of my own free will. I can't do it though. I don't like it. I want to focus on keeping the car in the middle of the road. We are driving through a cutting at 80 kilometers and hour. He tells me I'm too close to the edge of the road, that my wheels are on the white lines. I look in the wing mirror to try to straighten up, but instead I start swerving off to the side. Lars grabs the steering wheel and gets us back on the road. He tells me never to do that again.

We drive across a small bridge and up some country roads. I grip the wheel and look straight forwards. There are times when I seem to have total control, then others when I suddenly start driving like a drunk. My driving instructor is singing a song. He's building a cabin somewhere around here.

Lars has had many jobs in his life. He drove long distance lorries, he's worked as a plumber and as a mechanic. He didn't learn much English when he was at school. I doubt whether he knows much English at all, which is reassuring in some strange way. He's nearing retirement and firmly believes that it is important to be happy in the morning. He's talking on his mobile now and I shift gears carefully, as if he might not notice. I still don't really understand what the point of it is, this shifting of gears.

Back at the driving school Lars asks me how I feel. We've finished our sixth lesson and I'm still living in fear of the car. I talk for a long time in my patchy Norwegian. I tell him I think I finally learnt how to use a clutch. "You did do that," says Lars.

Lars says he has plenty of time, so long as I have plenty of time.

Fragments

In London, if I ever felt wound up by my lack of time, my lack of creativity or by my own apathy, I used to cross the street and wait for the first bus to Brixton. I might make my way into town and wander around, get lost in art galleries or browse bookshops or sit in the dark of the Renoir and watch a film.

But here the strategy has to be different. Here you focus on small moments and tiny changes. Taken together, they might start to build a picture of peace which you can wrap around you.

You might focus on the way the seaweed seems to fling itself upwards inside the bulge of a wave, flailing wildly, as if to make itself known, then falling back and disappearing into the break. Or the small flowers, whose names you don't know, which have started growing from the soil and in the cracks in the rocks. Or the colour of the light through the trees' new leaves. Or the sheep and their lambs which congregate around your house some time after midnight and decide to sing you awake. They jump between the trees in the absurd late-light.

In my case, it helps to write these things down. In some strange way, that's when they become real. This week I wanted to show you some of these details.