Karl talks about the “kindness of strangers”, noting how one family in Chile became “almost like a second family”.
“They were driving out for eight hours at a time to find me and feed me on the side of the road,” he recalls.
I reach into my rucksack and retrieve a letter from Karl’s mother, Angela Bushby. Also in the bag are packets of his favourite sweets.
“Mother remembers,” he laughs, selecting the caramel wafers.
The pair last met in 2015.
“You’re still her little boy, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Apparently so,” says Karl. “A very happy little boy with all that chocolate.”
In the letter, Angela asks if he really must swim the Channel. Both mother and son know the answer.
And then comes a line that speaks volumes.
“You used to think you were useless. Well, you have proven you’re not,” Angela has written.
I have always known Karl to be self-deprecating, but this leaps from the page.
