It is the evening before the day after. I stumble my way out of my student bolthole, my cavernous rucksack barely squeezing through the door frame, and waddle my way to the train station. As I sit on the train to Oxford, my spinal column somewhat the worse for wear, I make a mental inventory of all the things I probably should have packed but haven't. Oh well, it's too late now. And anyway, this is a journey into the soul itself. We will most likely be divesting ourselves of material possessions as we progress, because

a) things are heavy, and we'll get sick of carrying them, and
b) we will be brimming with spirituality by the time we reach fair Morocco, and hence we will have no need of consumer durables. I'd like to keep hold of the toothpaste though. If I'm going to radiate holiness and attract a band of followers, I want to make sure my gnashers sparkle.

Sofia picks me up at the station, and drives me to her palatial family pile. The whole interior is immeasurably Swedish, the airy minimalism vandalised by Sofia in her bid to make it feel "homely". The fridge has been splattered with magnetic coloured spots, and a sign above the toilet helps you identity how dehydrated you are from the hue of your urine. Sofia's mother implores me to take good care of her, which I promise to do. Thankfully she didn't get that in writing though. I'm under no contractual obligations to return her in one piece.

We pack and re-pack our bags and try and ready ourselves for our quest. Next stop, Morocco!

Life’s a hitch, and then you die...

After a good sleep and a hearty breakfast, The Road is beckoning. We both rattle around hyperactively, my innards fluttering with butterflies - part excitement, part nervousness. Having done no real preparation for the trip, we decide now might be the time to unfurl our road map of Europe and plan our route. Hitchhiking by its very nature requires a degree of spontaneity and luck, and a constant reworking of plans, but our basic route is established: we will make our way down the spine of France to Bordeaux, then on to Barcelona and follow the autoroute that runs westward along the south coast of Spain to Algeciras, where the ferry to Morocco departs from.

Like a balloonist casting off ballast, I throw items out of my rucksack until it is light enough to be carried comfortably, and we are ready for the road. We are to be dropped at a service station south of Oxford. On the way we glide past nuclear power cooling stations which, once the apogee of the futuristic, now look like relics of an ancient civilisation. Sofia and I chatter nervously, unsure of what to expect. What exactly have we got ourselves into here? It is too late for doubts now though, and the only way is onwards.

We arrive at the service station and set about getting a lift. Being rank novices, we are totally ignorant as to methodology. We try lounging about outside the service station with our signs, hoping to entice a sated customer into giving us a lift. We then resort to waving our signs frantically at passing cars. There is much talk of tactics, of finding the mathematical ‘sweet spot’ where we are most likely to ensnare a lift. Sofia at this stage confides that she is “not sure how comfortable I am with asking people for lifts”. I smile balefully and allow my head to sink into my hands.

Initially we are hopelessly diffident about approaching people, but coldness and impatience soon overrides our hesitancy and we start to approach lorry drivers individually. We are knocked back a few times before, wandering back to the car park approach road, a car stops. Our first lift! The driver is a “development officer” for the Royal Yachting Association, with a ‘silly man’ voice. He tells us that he has been to Marrakech, and that whilst we are young and will want to “investigate the culture”, he wanted out after a few days. In spite of the complete lack of poetry in this man’s soul, my heart sings with gratitude to him for getting us underway.

The man gives us several options as to where we want to be deposited, the best of which is a Tescos. After filling up on snacks, we go and tout our wares on at least five different roads. There are no takers. Eventually an altruistic, muddle-headed Frenchman picks us up, his car full of walking paraphernalia and shopping. As soon as I see the Guardian on the backseat, I know we are going to be okay. His initial aim is simply to drop us off at a better road, but his destination continually recedes since there is, apparently, "nowhere to stop".

The Frenchman's plan was to deposit us at the side of a busier road, but this soon becomes the slip-road to the motorway to Portsmouth. Then half way to Portsmouth. Then to Portsmouth itself. Finally our driver gives up trying to fight against the tide, and takes us all the way to the docks. Having made it to our first port of call, we inhale a lungful of sea air in triumph. As we toddle to the ferry terminal, we bump into two working class women huddled together and smoking on their break. They offer us cigarettes and wish us luck on our voyage.

The port is teeming with fellow hitchers, many who have congregated in an alcove by the cafe. Ferry ports being closed economies, we purchase some astronomically-priced school canteen-style grub and wait for our vessel.

The outskirts of Le Mans look even less glamorous in the daylight, like an out of town shopping nightmare. Having no wish to hang around here any longer than is strictly necessary, we decide to order a taxi at reception, to take us to a motorway service station on the Autoroute. Our taxi driver is a amenable French lesbian whose dashboard is bespangled with 'end animal cruelty' stickers.

The meter continues to rise and there are no motorway service stations in sight. We decide to bail out in what turns out to be no more than a glorified layby. As soon as our taxi scoots off, it feels like a mistake. There are three or four lorries, and maybe three cars. I have visions of our naive hitcher corpses slumped against the public lavatories. By this time my sickliness has developed into flu, and my body swings feverishly between the extremes of hot and cold. Standing in the layby, I feel like my bones have been injected with dry ice. Isicles may soon form on my nether regions.

Fighting off the urge to lie down and die, I am seized by a Joe Simpson-esque Touching The Void moment. I go and stand on the other side of the road and aggressively work my cardboard sign at the lorries at they pass. A minute later and a lorry stops. "Tours?" he asks. Damn right. This lift is near heavenly. The driver is Turkish and his cab is luxurious, fitted out with carpet and Turkish flags and trinkets. Most important of all though, the themostat is turned up to forty-five degrees in a bid to replicate the climatic conditions of his homeland. Layers are removed, flesh is thawed, the sighs of relief are palpable.

Our Turkish benefactor drops us off in the town of Tours and, after a precursory look around, we set about getting to Bordeaux, the image of which now lingers before us like a vision of utopia. The sky is grey and moist, but we quickly procure a lift by a man who fancies some company. We are dropped on a roundabout on the industrial outskirts. We trudge through the 'mean streets', wrapped-up in our waterproofs like human condoms. My walk has now become a zombie-like shuffle - my leg dragging behind me. We board the tram and wind our way to the city centre. Sofia's friend Tom is at work, but we are met by his charming friend, Mel, who takes us back to the flat and warms our cockles with tea. Sofia's flamboyantly gay friend Tom returns, and squeals with delight as he sets eyes on Sofia. We wolf down some pasta and Tom returns to work. We agree to follow later.

The bar is incredible: romantically lit, the stone walls are festooned with paintings, the wall behind the bar lined with rows of bottles in a dizzying array of colours like an apocathery's workshop. The place feels like something conjured up from rustic French fantasies of a London-living, second home-owning bien pensant.