it's the usual story,I spend my life traveling and seeing nothing at all.There's no time.Air travel is just a wa seeing airports.Real travel is that you buy in bookstands and read about in seat 39k.Whoever nowadays could afford 80 days to go around world.Well,somewhere in the middle of another anonymous flight to another anonymous airport,Idecided that perhaps,after all,I could.
The last few hundred yards of England.A final image of home,Folkstone in the autumn sun.It will be midwinter when I get back...if I get back.Only when we've cast off the last rope that joins us to the dockside,do I sense with a tightening of the stomach the what we have taken on is irrevocable.There's no short cut,there could be no pretence,We just got to do it.The time for talking has passed.
