…sitting alone in that bar you like in the part of town where you used to live and suddenly every song they play is a song you love.

Be thankful. Hold them tight. Hold them loose. Be thankful for the small miracles in your life. They’re the best kind.

We wander around this capital city that’s also a village and we run into aunties and friends. Family I never I knew I had, I’m going to miss you.

Take the train it’s nicer. Mist rising in a field as the sun rises, a perfect cup of tea, a pod of dolphins over there by that outcropping, and here, look, fur seals lying lazily in the sun. I’m sorry if this sounds like an ad, but I’m really enjoying this train ride.

Such devastation that you can’t even find a good place to eat. The skies open up and the rains starts pouring down and you are saved by the unmistakeable noise of a pub. You lose your shy vegetarianism and order the hamburger with bacon washing it all down with a tower of beer.

One thousand, four hundred, seventy-six. That’s the number, give or take. The original mission, forgotten in the day to day.

Eat food, drink beer, read my book. Stare out the window and discover it’s still raining.

The afternoon comes hard. There’s more hills to climb than you thought and the road just seems to go on forever.

Sneak past the gate, slight worry about getting caught: what will I say? Plead the ignorant tourist? What if they take these things seriously? But then: bliss. An empty road beside the canal all mine, birds that haven’t seen people all day suddenly scared into flight by my passing bicycle.

The cold blew in: clouds, all day a headwind.