Andrew Marr’s Start the Week programme on BBC radio had four scientists as guests, including Richard Dawkins, that missionary for his indivisible cause, “evolution and atheism”. Perhaps he is the progenitor of that hybrid, for I don’t recall Darwin himself being an atheist. I understand Dawkins’ line of reasoning well enough. But where we differ… Continue reading The slug, my ancestor
Author: Vincent
The Pocket Diarist
The postman left a package which felt like a small book. Not expecting any such thing, I was delighted; then opened it, and was Deloitted. Deloitte Touche is the current incarnation of a company I left in 1985, known then as Touche Ross & Co, Accountants. I was in their management consultancy, but now I’m… Continue reading The Pocket Diarist
Holiday Job
This post had photos of the holiday camp as it was around then, but they've been lost. They were probably picked from Google Images After graduation I was determined not to stay in my parents' bungalow any more. Especially because my mother was curious about how I'd got on with Christina after my brief visit… Continue reading Holiday Job
Out of the Limelight
After my last post, I’ve been drawn to philosophical speculation. How can we talk of one world, except in given contexts, such as world cocoa prices? How can you ask whether there is hope for the world? I would answer, “Whose world are you talking about?” Each of us sees a different world of experience;… Continue reading Out of the Limelight
The world
Children these days seem to discover “the world” at a very early age, if my small sample of three grandchildren is anything to go by. Before their fourth birthday, they know how to stretch on tiptoe and describe arcs with the furthest reach of their fingertips, chanting “big as the whole world” as a kind… Continue reading The world
Unto the hills
“When I was someone else, that I am not now ...” continued. Let us assume that each one of us contains multiple personalities. Vincent exists in the written word, is not quite the same as his author, who inhabits other dimensions never written down. Vincent is several persons, separated by time-slices, spliced together into fragments… Continue reading Unto the hills
The pull of heredity
“When I was someone else, that I am not now ...” this is worth investigating. So said Ghetufool, commenting on one of my recent posts. I agreed the phrase is worth investigating, and it took me back through history, that fascinating subject, both the human and natural kinds, and especially the mysterious parts that we… Continue reading The pull of heredity
Literature’s miraculous god-child
What would it be like to be someone else? I suppose this is why we read literature, to see through others’ eyes, gaze into their souls. I like unusual views and the best way to find them in books is to avoid what’s popular today by delving into the past, or seeking out those who’ve… Continue reading Literature’s miraculous god-child
Here I’ll stay
Two years ago, when I’d just moved into this house and couldn’t get online, I’d go to the internet café on the Desborough Road and compose a blog post in an hour. One post, “Being Ordinary”, is an example, perhaps the only one, and didn’t work out too badly. Where did that simple spontaneity go?… Continue reading Here I’ll stay
Order
Odour, as complained of in my post Unseen Foe, has been replaced by order, after months of effort. The company responsible for sewerage has written a pleasant letter: “As you are aware our Engineer [—] has visited the site and carried out investigations. Our conclusion is that this is a private issue. Our sewers have… Continue reading Order
Backyard
It’s tempting with a digital camera to think that a picture is worth a thousand words, so you can just snap something and stick it in a blog, as if it had the power to capture the feeling which made you take the picture. But the camera’s just a soulless eye that delivers aspects of… Continue reading Backyard
Fernando Pessoa
Image from an article in Southern Cross Review I wanted to sing the unsung, but the unsung has already been sung, by Fernando Pessoa, who I discovered via Brett Johnson's site*, making the whole blogging project meaningful and eternally validated. After a misspent childhood, youth, manhood and middle-age, I spend my remaining years redoing, reviewing,… Continue reading Fernando Pessoa
Tooting Broadway dude
Three years ago my son gave me a denim jacket carrying the Caterpillar label. He’d got it from someone sharing the same student lodgings, who had submitted a number of original designs to Caterpillar. They made a few prototypes and mine is one, perhaps the only one of its exact style in existence. I’ve worn… Continue reading Tooting Broadway dude
Heaven-haven
Deep within me there hides a contemplative nun, who wants to do nothing in this world but observe its wondrous mysteries and pray for its wellbeing. It’s rather disturbing for a man to find this buried beneath his ingrained habit of action—to be always doing, whether or not it’s reasonable: action for the sake of… Continue reading Heaven-haven
X: the unknown
Aerial View of San Francisco in the Fifties showing Coit Tower from avaloncm on flickr Consider the game of peekaboo. In England the mother says “Peep-bo!” when she reappears after hiding, and the baby gurgles in delight. Then she hides again, nothing elaborate, just ducks out of sight, and the baby starts to become anxious.… Continue reading X: the unknown
Up through the floorboards
For weeks, probably months, I’ve been bothered by a fugitive stench, hanging in the air at various places, various times, in the kitchen and dining room, not always the same smell. Every mammal knows not to foul its own nest and the sense of outrage at any fouling by others must be etched deep into… Continue reading Up through the floorboards
The mysterious impulse
"It would be idle to inquire why Mr Razumov has left this record behind him. It is inconceivable that he should have wished any human eye to see it. A mysterious impulse of human nature comes into play here. Putting aside Samuel Pepys, who has forced in this way the door of immortality, [we observe… Continue reading The mysterious impulse
body consciousness …1
Body consciousness
My body is an instrument, both scientific and musical. I use it to discover the world through the senses. Meanwhile, it vibrates with its own frequencies, for no other purpose but joy and sensuous pleasure. “Body consciousness” needs what Wikipedia calls “disambiguation”. In the media, which is to say in the lowest common denominator of… Continue reading Body consciousness
Nightmare
I’ve taken a vow to post here daily, to discover what is happening to me. A million things hit my consciousness each day, so what can I mean? I shall write in accordance with blind compulsion, with no guarantee of truth, other than some poetic kind. Yet, as they used to say in the slot-machine … Continue reading Nightmare
Walking in a painted landscape
My life is a series of blessings, like a string of pearls. If a blessing is possible, surely it is bestowed, distributed, not hoarded by a miserly God. And if blessings occur, why should they ever stop? For a blessing by its definition is a supernatural thing. No obstacle stands in its way. So I… Continue reading Walking in a painted landscape
The Abyss
Scattered amongst these pages is a series of sketches which, extracted and sorted in chronological order, constitute a personal memoir; more of a collage than a coherent portrait. But I’ve never yet managed to cover the era between the ages of sixteen and sixty-four. Until this moment of writing—in which dawn has not yet broken,… Continue reading The Abyss
Nature’s profusion
The great thing about growing plants—flowers, fruit or vegetables— is that when you grow them close together, or allow random seeds to grow, they arrange themselves. They make accommodation with one another to catch the sun, and achieve a tumbling profusion, such as we may find in wild or semi-wild places. As for my backyard,… Continue reading Nature’s profusion
Laughing water
I drafted this article five years ago and two years later promised a post on the topic: “I will some time tell here the story of my visit to the Mustardseed community in Jamaica, where I encountered a shining human being. Aged 21, she had been severely brain-damaged from birth and in consequence was no… Continue reading Laughing water
Risk assessment
Restored on 6th September 2024. Looking in a shoebox of old software packages on CD I discovered this, meaning I'm now able to use my old Access applications again, including one I designed to facilitate an organization to assess its risks and apply for ISO 9001 certification, for which I was in theory a licensed… Continue reading Risk assessment
Archaeologist
I had intended to take my well-trodden valley path, a fruitful place for broodings which I’ve several times captured and preserved in essays on this site. But a different plan revealed itself as I progressed. The first leg was walking with Karleen to her work at the hospital, about a mile away. After we said… Continue reading Archaeologist
The senses
I ask myself why I don’t write here more often. Since January 2008, I’ve wanted to post something daily. What prevents? The biggest obstacle is some self-imposed rules, very constraining ones, so that however much I scribble, little emerges to see the light of day. The most important rule is to write from some kind… Continue reading The senses
Dawn song
At four minutes past four a lone blackbird on a chimneypot opposite my house starts his song, tentative but persistent. The sky is lightening, he tells the world. This is no time to stay unconscious. Because he speaks in blackbird language, I don’t really know the meaning of his telling, but only guess that his… Continue reading Dawn song
This blessed plot
If I have a favourite spot it is Cowes, or more precisely five acres overlooking the Solent, the strait which separates the Isle of Wight from the English mainland. I lived there aged thirteen for a year; and again at seventeen, at a different house nearby. Each was a front-row seat at a non-stop theatre… Continue reading This blessed plot
Enhancing the sky
I suppose I’m generally a fatalist, accepting what comes. “Che sarà, sarà / Whatever will be, will be”. So I rarely have cause to pray for anything. In small ways, I can impose my creative ideas through focused effort and perseverance: for instance keeping the house and garden shipshape. But my scope is narrow, and… Continue reading Enhancing the sky
A fig-leaf for David
It’s the 6th of August 1962. I’m sitting on the steps outside the Duomo, Florence’s cathedral, trying to work out whether I’m a student, an ex-student or merely a tourist. I’ve recently arrived from Marseille, where I spent some weeks—I've no idea how many; and I have not yet located my fellow-students of Italian language… Continue reading A fig-leaf for David
David’s fig-leaf
It’s the 6th of August 1962. I’m sitting on the steps outside the Duomo, Florence’s cathedral, trying to work out whether I’m a student, an ex-student or merely a tourist. I’ve recently arrived from Marseille, where I spent some weeks—I've no idea how many; and I have not yet located my fellow-students of Italian language… Continue reading David’s fig-leaf
Waiting
Written on May 4th 2009, rediscovered on a search for Apollinaire, French poet On a morning like this I feel a strong call to take the Valley Path (which I’ve written about a few times) on account of the clear sky, the expectant hush as in a theatre when the curtain is about to go… Continue reading Waiting
Art, not Nature
It was increasing impatience with (or even revulsion from) woolly Romanticism which led in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to movements in art and literature where form and colour were pursued as if for their own sakes, to create new worlds of experience, which in a sense parted company with Nature. The nature of a… Continue reading Art, not Nature
The Muse is a Jealous Mistress
I hold the art of writing in too high regard to dare call myself writer. I think I shall change my Profile: occupation Gentleman. Writing, like any pastime fit for this kind of person and the female equivalent, is an arena of infinite striving, especially when, as in my case, its only object is to… Continue reading The Muse is a Jealous Mistress
Who is my neighbour?
It’s 3am and I can’t decide between tea to wake me up or hot milk to send me back to sleep. Why not both together? I end up improvising Indian chai, brewing some tea with ginger, cloves, cinnamon, allspice and dark sugar all boiled in milk. It tastes authentic enough. Decision-making is not my strong… Continue reading Who is my neighbour?
The Faculty of Wonder
Faculty? I mean the university rather than the human kind. Well, both. Over at Hippocrates Got Lost, we were talking about hospital chaplains: ostensibly the conundrum of who should pay them. This has led to a discussion. We all agree that they help the patients get better, or give them palliative comfort. So this led… Continue reading The Faculty of Wonder
Want and need
“We all want. We all need. When want overpowers need, our perspective gets skewed. I say, want all you want—wanting motivates. However, need very little and you will almost always be satisfied.” (Pauline’s latest post made me think, and my comments on her post expanded afterwards into the stuff below.. They appear as by Hendrix,… Continue reading Want and need
Parallel Paths
I’ve been meaning to write more about happiness, but the topic is elusive to say the least and it seems there has not been enough time. I wasn’t sure until yesterday what this meant (what interval of unbroken time would be enough?), but this morning, rising at 4.30 in the morning I know even more… Continue reading Parallel Paths
Pandora’s Box
I argued with Charles Bergeman a while ago on the topic of happiness: whether, for example, a five-year-old child could have said to its teacher something like: “I don’t want to be anything when I grow up, I just want to be happy.” I said it didn’t ring true and then I promised to write… Continue reading Pandora’s Box
Intrepid Victorians (2)
I mentioned in my last that Dolomite Strongholds is illustrated by the author, with his photos, colour lithographs and pen drawings. As I browsed this beautifully-produced book, a delicate sheet of folded paper slid out, containing pen drawings (traced on top of original pencil sketches) on both sides. None of these were incorporated into the… Continue reading Intrepid Victorians (2)
Intrepid Victorians
I've inherited a little volume, illustrated by the author, who was also my great-grandfather, entitled Dolomite Strongholds: the last untrodden peaks; published in 1894. Don’t you love that Victorian prose, its characteristic style at once lofty and light, beloved of those who would make parodies of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, particularly those… Continue reading Intrepid Victorians
What the Alpine Club had to say
REVIEWS AND NOTICES. Dolomite Strongholds. B y the Rev. J. Sanger Davies. Illustrated. (London : Bell and Sons. 1894.) WE are informed on the title page of this book that it contains an account of ascents of the last untrodden Alpine peaks—namely, the Creda da Lago, the Little and Great Zinnen, the Cinque Torri, the… Continue reading What the Alpine Club had to say
The Long Journey to Now
I’m walking through Hughenden Park, pondering the suitcase of old photos, wondering what I can tell and what I cannot. There is no point in showing the emotive or personal ones because it will be impossible to share the feelings they evoke without a volume of history and explanation. I have picked out two whose… Continue reading The Long Journey to Now
Old photos
I've been loaned a set of family photos and it's a voyage of discovery, reminding me of aspects of my childhood and introducing me to the childhood of my own grandparents.
Portrait of Two Kings
I'm sure it was done by a professional photographer. I don’t think amateurs would have been able to do much indoor photography in 1867. Electric flashguns had not been invented. If they had, there would be the problem of synchronizing flash with the camera's shutter. I'm no expert but remember from childhood a book which… Continue reading Portrait of Two Kings
At Mrs Jenkins’
Last night we watched My Left Foot, in which Daniel Day-Lewis plays the real-life Christy Brown, born to a family of thirteen in a Dublin slum with severe cerebral palsy. To his parents, it’s out of the question that he should be abandoned in an institution, but they cannot afford the home care and treatment… Continue reading At Mrs Jenkins’
Evangelist (Feb. 10th 2009)
The last two days I’ve been stuck indoors with a heavy cold and a raised temperature. Not even tasting the fresh air outside, and my head thickly congested, I’m unable to activate that part of the brain that’s a spokesman for the soul, but I thought I might just start anyhow, and see if in… Continue reading Evangelist (Feb. 10th 2009)
In the footsteps of Basho
If a blog can merit its own patron saint, then I choose Basho, that wayfarer and Zen monk whom I commemorate above with a quotation. In his travel writings—prose interspersed with haiku—he tours Japan on the pretext of pilgrimages. (See typical extract below, in my first comment.) I went a little further afield yesterday, drawn… Continue reading In the footsteps of Basho
Metaphors
By kindly grace of destiny, I have a whole house to roam in, so there should be no need to go wayfaring outside, where it’s cold, especially as my leg hurts and I’m waiting for the postman, who’s due to deliver a package that won’t fit through the slot in the door. I can roam… Continue reading Metaphors
Crime and Punishment
It’s not dawn yet, but I’ve turned on the heating and lit a candle. Through this study window that keeps a secret eye on the wider world, I see in the street's yellow lamplight the snowflakes falling. I’ve just finished the last few pages of Crime and Punishment, illuminated at the very last by redemption… Continue reading Crime and Punishment
Beginnings
My head says that the perfect wayfaring is to follow an ancient trail through the hills, where the eye can roam to horizons beyond where the feet can tread: a Himalaya or Grand Canyon of the soul. My feet know better. The other day, I set out on a banal errand, accompanying Karleen to town… Continue reading Beginnings
The persistence of selfhood
“You don’t know what you think until you speak.” Which is why I blog. And then there are the extempore comments scattered across cyberspace, wanton and unremembered: pigeons loosed but never coming home to roost for they are not of the homing variety. Or they are seeds broadcast, which engender new life in many a… Continue reading The persistence of selfhood
The Centaur
Three years ago I cured myself from a serious chronic illness; and changed my life as a result. Only now am I able to put in simple words what happened. The rider started to respect the horse. Instead of “cogito, ergo sum”, the centre of gravity became body-wisdom, the wondrous human animal. Both are joined… Continue reading The Centaur
Mau-Mau and Me
It goes without saying that we like these toys, especially if they are expensive. (This one wasn’t, but since I’m a savage, comparisons mean little.) They were designed by someone with a Masters degree in What People Like. That they serve no real consumer need is not the point. They provide employment, the non-savage’s traditional… Continue reading Mau-Mau and Me
Fifteen winters ago, in the Chiltern Hills
The weather here in High Wycombe remains unusually mild for this time of year, a minor effect of global warming no doubt. I just stumbled on this old post. On my way to bed the other night I was brushing my teeth in the cold bathroom, when a thought occurred to me, which I’ll tell… Continue reading Fifteen winters ago, in the Chiltern Hills
Act of Penance
Restoring this post from perpetual-lab.blogspot.com on September20th, 2025,I laugh at what I wrote then I have an urge to penance. It is not to punish myself for any particular sin, but to follow an inbuilt impulse towards sackcloth and ashes, that the Bible refers to so many times; as if depriving oneself of physical comfort… Continue reading Act of Penance
Ghetu files a new story
I had been so curious to read his new story. It had been such a long time since the last that I could hardly believe he would be able to write as he used to, with such extraordinary power and naturalness and ability to wrap a world into a narrative, a world moreover which would… Continue reading Ghetu files a new story
Don’t try this at home
I nearly swallowed some extra strong bleach. I can tell you how it happened, but I don’t know how it could happen. Perhaps I unwittingly broke a law of physics. You can’t do that? Tell me what law says you can’t break a law of physics! I don’t know of a law of Nature that… Continue reading Don’t try this at home
Sexual energy
Years ago, before the public library in this town was cunningly pruned and restocked to reflect the scientifically-determined reading taste of the residents, it contained some quirky books that made a rainy-day visit into an exciting adventure. In the foreign languages section I found a novel by Pierre Boulle. I was astonished to discover he… Continue reading Sexual energy
Not knowing feels like a good place to be
We have a lot of low walls round here, convenient for sitting on; for example in the playground, a favourite haunt of drinkers. A couple were there yesterday morning, spreading their belongings and litter, a man and a woman. They chatted, played cards, greeted me as I passed and were relieved at my friendly response.… Continue reading Not knowing feels like a good place to be
Some Tedious Verbiage
This blog started out with the title An Ongoing Experiment. What the experiment was designed to investigate was never clear to me. It was ongoing: its discoveries would define its objectives. The spirit of the “perpetual laboratory” remains, though it later changed its name to As in Life, emulating a still pool reflecting the sky—art… Continue reading Some Tedious Verbiage
Take Nothing for Granted
What are you thankful for? asks a blogger friend, seasonably. What shall I do with the days that remain, if not give thanks? For the birds that sing in my backyard. For everything. It’s a twenty-minute walk to Karleen’s office at the hospital. On my way to meet her in the evening, I speak… Continue reading Take Nothing for Granted
After Rain
It was a Sunday morning in March and I was just 16. I’d been writing an essay on a stanza from a poem by William Wordsworth: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye Fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky I’d been sitting by the warm… Continue reading After Rain
Valley Reverie
“Place does affect the way I write, maybe the tone and always has an influence. Does place matter in your work?” Poet Scot Young asked the question in his blog and I said yes. When I go walking, thoughts come to me, and they seem to resonate with the sky and the trees and the… Continue reading Valley Reverie
Remembrance Sunday
I went to a church service today, the first time for many years. It was Remembrance Sunday, commemorating war dead, a civic occasion, as my photos illustrate, with attendance by the Mayor, Member of Parliament, police chief, local Air Force chief and so on; with a band (sea cadets), a saluting platform, wreaths placed at… Continue reading Remembrance Sunday
Dress code
In my last, I claimed that my long-standing writer’s block was over, and promised to continue my memoirs from where they left off last February at the age of fourteen. There has been plenty of scribbling since then but nothing fit to print. I wanted by some means to indicate “the story so far” so… Continue reading Dress code
Brother Sun and Sister Moon
I’m sure everyone has blessings worth counting and those who do count them are blest indeed. One that I’m particularly grateful for is the blessing of space: physical space, time too; or a metaphysical combination of both. I wake at 3:30 and dress myself warmly against the autumnal chill in the house, quiet as the… Continue reading Brother Sun and Sister Moon
Then and Now
Days pass. Not much wayfaring and not much writing. The two are connected. I had promised to dedicate a post to Lady in Red, who writes “I love it when you describe the places you walk through, bringing it alive for those of us who can only imagine both the countryside and the industrial areas… Continue reading Then and Now
Liking and disliking
I don’t like the idea of self-help literature. I write to help me. You can write or read to help yourself. We all have our likes and dislikes. To follow my desire is a great joy, but what to do about the things that I hate? The worst is to dislike myself, for then anyone… Continue reading Liking and disliking
Angels disguised as bandits
I passed through the children’s playground. From where I live it’s a pedestrian shortcut into town. Two boys were there, who looked about 8, one with a bandanna tied around his face, like a masked bandit holding up a Wells Fargo coach. At his age I must have done the same. They asked me for… Continue reading Angels disguised as bandits
Diogenes and Alexander
For Scot & Ghetufool A dear friend asks some questions in comments on my previous post. I numbered them for convenience, intending to answer them one by one. (So much for intentions.) (1) Do you think this kind of serenity is possible in daily life? or (2) that I have to be retired like you… Continue reading Diogenes and Alexander
Memory’s Carillon
I don’t know if there is anyone, even myself, who can quite grasp what I’m getting at here. Whatever “here” means. We live over the street and sleep with the window wide open. The street is small and crowded, each house 12 foot wide and joined to the next. At night it’s utterly silent. No… Continue reading Memory’s Carillon
Running with Bulls
In hindsight, my last post sounds a little Quixotic: retired man goes on mysterious Quest, tries to attach importance to his ramblings — the ones on foot and the verbal ones, both. That’s a fair enough summary, especially the reference to “hindsight” — a theme I’ll develop further. On the walk I partly described in… Continue reading Running with Bulls
In a dark and secret wood
It’s time I explained what the “Wayfaring” of this website means: at least what it means to me. Something simple, certainly, but deep too. How many times have you said, or heard someone say “There’s nothing like a walk in the fresh air for clearing one’s head”? Perhaps from a headache, a hangover even;… Continue reading In a dark and secret wood
Lehman Brothers bites the dust
I’m not a complete stranger to the world of investment banking. Morgan Grenfell sent me to Dublin for a while in ’85 to test a new system they’d commissioned. More recently, some time in the Nineties, I visited the London headquarters of Lehman Brothers, I can’t recall what for, but had to wait in their… Continue reading Lehman Brothers bites the dust
Resuming normality
The night is full of mysteries. They haunt us when we can't sleep, and there's no one to share them with. That's what prompts me to write here. Meanwhile dawn is coming, sheds light on this side of Earth. The mysteries aren't illuminated, they merely vanish. Dawn blushes red now, over yonder hill. I draw… Continue reading Resuming normality
Bonfire of the vanities
Since this photo, the fire’s gone out after consuming the fence and denuding finally gone out after consuming the adjacent fence and half of the overhanging tree. In the scale of things, gratitude is now in order My next-door neighbour, bottom left in the pic, had complained to the Council about the state of his… Continue reading Bonfire of the vanities
Cowes Horizons
In process of being restored When you live in East Cowes, your attention is drawn to horizons. Boats are constantly coming and going. All kinds: ferries, tankers, container ships, yachts, dinghies, powerboats, even fishing vessels perhaps. And it’s not just the visual movement that draws your attention to far away. The first evening, when we… Continue reading Cowes Horizons
News of the fight soon reached the Queen
"One day in 1852, young Freddie Attrill was gathering shell-fish on Osborne beach when another boy came along, told him to clear off and kicked his bucket flying. Indignant, Freddie gave him a thump—only to be told by shocked attendants that he had just hit Albert Edward, Queen Victoria’s eldest son and heir to the… Continue reading News of the fight soon reached the Queen
Only the bicycle shed still stands
It’s fifty-four years since I lived in East Cowes. It has the air of being past its best, but it had the same air in 1954, so you can say it has hardly changed. Fifty-four years before I lived there, Queen Victoria was still alive and she lived there too, in the house she had… Continue reading Only the bicycle shed still stands
Coming back to East Cowes
Now that I’ve got a proper memory card in my camera, I could take hundreds of photos at one time. Yet it’s not my aim to produce a picture gallery or travelogue. It’s more to post letters recklessly addressed to the Universe, like anyone’s prayers to their unknowable God. And when those letters have been… Continue reading Coming back to East Cowes
Pilgrimage to Cowes
I've had my camera two years but only recently realized it can hold hundreds of photos if I put in a larger memory card. Just as well, because I was able to take some beautiful photos of a recent visit to the island where I spent my teenage years, the Isle of Wight. Here's a… Continue reading Pilgrimage to Cowes
Walking Alone
What makes us the way we are? What sets us off on our own unique path? Heedless of a fine drizzle, I set out on foot to West Vale, pondering on these questions. There is nothing like walking to set imagination and memory alive. On this afternoon of purposeless wayfaring, I saw my whole life… Continue reading Walking Alone
a wayfarer’s notes 