It begins, as so many English journeys do, in the rain. I’m at my desk in the Lake District, about to point an old hybrid Audi south and drive 1342 miles to Madrid. By road, not by air. Not the quick hop of two and a half hours from Manchester airport, knees pressed into my chin, elbows fenced in by the tray table, wondering whether my neighbour’s runny nose will finish me before turbulence does. Instead - motorways, service stations, a tunnel under the sea, and four or five days of watching Europe roll by. 

Why? Because air travel is getting harder to defend. A single passenger on a flight from London to Madrid produces around 234 kilograms of CO₂ equivalent — more than the average person in Madagascar emits in an entire year. Add in aviation’s dirty secret — those emissions are released high in the atmosphere, multiplying their warming effect — and it seems a madness we accept so lightly. Aviation may be only 2.5% of global CO₂ emissions, but its true footprint is closer to double once you count the contrails. That’s a lot of climate for a couple of hours in a seat you never liked. 

And yet, here I am not on a train, but in a car. Not a glamorous one, not a new one, but sturdy. Already, I’m feeling guilty. Trains are cleaner. My friend is right to think me daft. But the road beckoned, and the satnav promised four and a half hours to London. It lied. The M6 was less an artery than a coronary. Seven hours later, I arrived, hollow with hunger, bladder at bursting point, wondering why we dignify this mess with the word “transport.” 

A motorway jam is a climate machine in disguise. Ten thousand cars idling over twenty miles, engines humming, air-con blowing, radios tuned — that’s over 40 tonnes of CO₂ in a single hour, equivalent to flying 250 people to New York, for no gain at all. Just to crawl forward at two miles an hour, brake, and crawl again. I saw more hedgerows that afternoon, as my satnav hurled me down farm tracks and village lanes, than I’ve seen in months of walking.

London greeted me with flags over bridges, tourists in the streets, and the discovery that my local supermarket was closed. Forty-five minutes later, I found a microwavable meal. Not exactly tapas, but enough to make me question what kind of civilisation requires this much effort to eat. 

And so Day 1 ended with rain against the window, rubbish bags on corners, a creeping suspicion that we have normalised absurdity, and the thought that tomorrow the Channel Tunnel waits. Rouen after that, then perhaps Bordeaux. Then Spain, with its wildfires and parched plateau. And Madrid at the end of it all — but really, it’s not Madrid that matters. It’s the road itself, the noticing, the absurdity, and the price. 

This is the thread I’ll follow - how we move, the damage it causes, the lies we tell ourselves about convenience, and how we might do it differently. Climate change isn’t a future problem — it’s here, now, waiting in every exhaust plume, every overheated carriage, every “just a quick flight.” 

So, join me. Day 1 is done. Tomorrow, the road leads south.