I’m writing this from my garden chair, the evening air finally offering some relief from the heat that made today’s journey to London feel like a pilgrimage through fire. My legs are stretched out, Pierre Hadot’s Philosophy as a Way of Life resting on the lawn table beside me, its opening pages covered in highlights from an unexpectedly philosophical day of travel chaos.

Sometimes the universe has a peculiar sense of humour about when to deliver our lessons.

This morning, I’d packed Hadot’s book to read on the train, excited to continue my journey with him into what philosophy truly means when lived rather than merely studied. I had no idea how prophetic that intention would prove to be.

The First Test

Upon arrival at the station, I discovered my 10:06 train to London Marylebone was going to be severely delayed. Luckily, there was another train on track 3 going to London. We boarded that train and settled in for the journey, only to have the conductor announce ten minutes later that this train wasn’t going anywhere soon either.

But there was hope—a train on track 2, over the bridge, heading to Bournemouth. Passengers needing London could take that train to Reading and make their way into the city from there.

Standing in the mounting heat, watching fellow travellers grow increasingly agitated, I felt something interesting happen. Instead of being overcome by frustration, there was this quiet space… a pause where I could choose my response.

What would a Stoic do?

The question arrived unbidden, carrying with it a sense of curious experimentation. This delay wasn’t happening to me; it was simply happening. Like weather. Like seasons. Like all the things beyond our control that shape the texture of our days.

My meeting would be delayed or rescheduled. The universe would continue spinning. I could continue reading Hadot, unfazed by the heat and the delay, treating this unexpected pause as an invitation rather than an interruption.

Philosophy in Real Time

As I read about ancient spiritual exercises during this unexpected detour, the irony wasn’t lost on me. Here was Hadot writing about philosophy as a way of life, not just academic study—and here was life offering me an immediate laboratory for practice.

The Stoics understood something profound about the space between stimulus and response. Today I got to inhabit that space rather than just think about it. The broken train became a teacher, offering lessons in real time rather than theory.

There’s something almost comical about the universe’s timing. Just as I’m diving deep into the idea that philosophy is meant to be lived, not just contemplated, chaos arrives to test my understanding. As if the cosmos is saying, “Oh, you want to learn about ancient wisdom? Perfect. Let’s see how you handle a British rail disaster in a heatwave.”

The Second Test

The journey home offered an even more elaborate teaching. At High Wycombe, the train ahead of us broke down, stranding us completely. Forty-eight miles from Banbury, where my car waited patiently in the station car park.

The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom with three choices: call someone for pickup, take a bus or taxi, or return to Marylebone and head over to Paddington to catch a train north from there. None particularly appealing in this heat.

But then something remarkable happened in that chaos.

As passengers spilt onto the platform like water finding its own level, making urgent phone calls and forming impromptu carpools, I heard my name called through the commotion. I turned to find Jo, a friend I hadn’t seen in years, her face breaking into a grin of recognition. Big hugs, exchange of travel stories, and jokes about the heat and British rail reliability.

Then—and I’m still shaking my head at this—I heard my name called again. This time it was Ian, a fellow from my gym whom I see most mornings but rarely get to actually talk with beyond our usual “Morning!” and nod.

The Gift Hidden in Disruption

After goodbye hugs with Jo—she was travelling further north and found her tribe heading that direction—I ended up sharing an Uber with Ian for the long ride to Banbury.

Here’s the thing about gym friendships: they exist in this strange bubble of shared sweat and early morning determination, but you rarely get past the pleasantries. This forty-mile journey gave us something neither of us expected—actual time to discover who we are beyond our workout routines.

We caught up on life changes, shared stories, and philosophised about growing older with grace rather than resistance. I found myself talking about the strange wonder of becoming a grandpa, feeling the great wheel of generations turning. He shared about the tender challenge of caring for ageing parents, that bittersweet role reversal that comes to us all if we’re lucky.

What could have been a frustrating ordeal became one of those conversations that reminds you why human connection matters infinitely more than efficient transport. Sometimes the best gifts come wrapped in the most unlikely packaging.

The Practice of Acceptance

Sitting here now in the cooling evening, I’m struck by how perfectly this day illustrated Hadot’s central insight: philosophy isn’t about having clever thoughts in comfortable chairs. It’s about cultivating the kind of presence and wisdom that transforms ordinary disruptions into opportunities for grace.

Today I got to practise what the Stoics called amor fati—not just accepting what happens, but learning to love it as part of the larger pattern. The broken trains weren’t obstacles to my day; they were my day, complete with unexpected teachings and serendipitous reunions.

This is what Hadot means by spiritual exercises’—not abstract meditations removed from life, but real-time practices of attention and acceptance. The microscope turned inward with gentle curiosity: How am I responding to this moment? What choice do I have in how I receive what’s being offered?

The barefoot philosopher learns to dance with disruption rather than resist it.

Questions for the Garden

As the last light fades and the heat finally breaks, I’m left with gratitude for a day that refused to go according to plan. Sometimes our best teachers arrive disguised as inconvenience, and our deepest friendships are renewed in the most unlikely circumstances.

Today I learnt to read the wisdom hidden in delay, to find the sacred in the stranded, and to trust that even broken trains can carry us exactly where we need to go—which is often somewhere we never planned to be.

Perhaps this is the deepest lesson: when we stop fighting the current and learn to float with it, we discover that the detours often lead to the most beautiful destinations.

What disruptions in your own life might be invitations in disguise? How might your next delay become a doorway to something unexpected and wonderful?