This is a story about a kind of hitchhiking – not in the traditional sense, not thumbing a ride on a roadside – but a new kind of journey. A journey of thought and voice and ideas. And I want to begin practicing it myself. The idea emerged during a visit to Robbie’s home last week, through the kind of conversations that linger long after they end. That encounter stirred something – an abstraction of our talk, merging with my own habits, my creative longings, and a belief that there are many brilliant, curious, inwardly-travelling people out there who might want to do the same. So this idea of hitchhiking: it’s not about cars or destinations, but rather small acts of reflection turned into shared experiences. It’s about giving people tools – simple, beautiful tools – to speak out loud, to think aloud, and to walk, so that others might hear and one day walk alongside them, in thought if not in step. Imagine a world where these solo meditations could become soft conversations, connecting near and far through a subtle kind of social web – federated, as in decentralised, gentle, optional. But let’s begin where all good walks begin – in stillness. The first form of this voice-based wandering is what I might call armchair hitchhiking. Forgive any chewing sounds – I’m sitting here now, in my own armchair, coffee in hand, indulging in an After Eight mint. I think of Robbie, our talk, and of possibly calling him later. I think about what I want to do next week. It’s a period of thinking aloud – something very simple, really. Musing with my thoughts while speaking them, talking not precisely to anyone, but also not quite alone. This is where artificial intelligence – oddly enough – becomes a good companion. A quiet listener, a transcriber, possibly a provocateur. Imagine Your Own Marvin – like the character from Douglas Adams’ universe – sarcastic, perceptive, slightly melancholic, yet utterly insightful. My Marvin is an application, a kind of assistant who listens as I speak and helps me refine these thoughts: tidying, questioning, guiding. With such a companion I’m more likely to share my musings, my ramblings. They no longer feel so solitary. This kind of hitchhiking – the armchair variety – is for anyone, really. Think of the archetypal old man with a pipe; but don't stop there. It’s also for anyone who settles down with a hot drink and a bit of space, and lets their mind travel. A quiet corner, a study, a lounge. In ten or fifteen minutes, you might chart a journey through your subconscious, spooling a thread between the past and future. It might involve a story, a memory, a worry, a plan. And Marvin, or some version of him, listens. Now, imagine that Marvin can connect your spontaneous thoughts to others – perhaps someone like Ward, who has his own deep thoughts on AI and written reflections in a corner of the federated wiki ecosystem. Even if Ward and I aren’t speaking directly, Marvin recognises the link. Maybe Marvin curates a reading list for me – not in the old-fashioned way, but a kind of intersubjective itinerary. A path through the thoughts of friends, co-creators, this extended neighbourhood of minds. My solitary musings are no longer isolated – they’re steps along an invisible trail others have travelled or are yet to. That’s one kind of hitchhiking by walking: sitting still, yet moving inwardly and intellectually. The second is more hands-on – hitchhiking from the shed, so to speak. For some, it’s a garden shed converted into a workshop or a music studio. For others, like me, it might be a cluttered flat filled with microphones, Raspberry Pis, green screens, paint, and audio gadgets. A studio, a lab, a play space. This is a more physical kind of thinking space. You’re on your feet, pacing perhaps, fiddling with tools, capturing ideas as you move about. Here, you need small, agile tech – personal microphones clipped to your lapel, plug-in devices that record on the go. It’s the same idea as the armchair, but now with motion. A stream of consciousness in a creative den. A place where imagination lives in wires and paint splashes and half-built experiments. Then there’s the third form – the namesake and perhaps the clearest: hitchhiking by walking. You go out for a stroll in the park, or a longer trek in the countryside. Maybe it’s your regular walk to the nature reserve, or perhaps you hop on a train, find a trail, ascend a mountain. You walk, and you talk. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a friend. Occasionally as part of a group – a conversational hike. This practice is part of something we’ve called ambulatory conferences – walking seminars, if you like – where two or three people, rarely more, walk and talk in this thoughtful manner. Companionable silence, stray reflections, shared insights – all recorded and stored. This too is hitchhiking: it’s still about travel, still about shared movement through thought – just now with more air in the lungs, more crunch of gravel underfoot. Across all three forms – armchair, shed, and walking path – the key is the journey, not geographic, but emotional, creative and intellectual. You may never leave your home, but you still go somewhere. You speak, and an AI companion picks up your words, curates them, connects them, and gently offers paths to others who are navigating similar terrains. It's a way of moving through thought-space, of transforming solitude into shared experience, of giving form to the foggy meanderings of the inner world. It's a kind of gentle, reflective hitchhiking – a practice I’m beginning to follow, and one I believe many others might come to embrace.