16. Location location location.........

and what better location is there for a hotel in Paris than on the Pont Neuf, on the Isle de la cite.  Its like being right on the prow of a great ship sailing majestically up the Seine, with all the glory of Paris laid out before me. 

So - happiness is a hot shower with lashings of creamy, smooth hotel soap and a plug hole that actually lets the water out instead of leaving it swirling round my feet.  Happiness is pain chocolat, and the autumn colours on the trees along the Seine, happiness is being solvent enough to be able to afford taxi rides instead of battling with the metro because I've done something to my ribcage and can no longer carry my rucksack and now, on the very last leg of the journey happiness is wonderful neighbours I can ring and say help - I'm weak and feeble - please can someone meet me at the station?

Homecoming is.........a newspaper to read on the train to Ludlow............have I missed anything while I've been away?  Has the world changed in my absence?

15. Homeward bound

I really could have done with more time in Morocco............................I love it there.  But now that I am homeward bound my thoughts are turning towards a hot bath and a cup of hot chocolate made just the way I like it.  And happiness here in Madrid is a european computer keyboard!!  I was almost tempted to access my "home" emails but have easily resisted - time enough for that when I get home.
Spain is grey and inclined to rain. 
Big city culture today and tomorrow.................................

14. Turning my head for home

Just had a lovely, chilled 2 days recharging my batteries in Fez before heading back to Tangier today.  Back to trains and real life, I really could do with a bit longer....................

I've loved Fez, ambling round the medina.  My way of dealing with it is to walk very slowly, never panic and keep the compass handy.  If I find what I am looking for it may turn out to be what I want.  Or not.  And it may be open.  Or not.  I may feel welcome.  Or not.  And I'll see things I wasn't looking for and miss things I was.  I'll rub shoulders with every imaginable sort of person, donkey and mule and see buildings shored up with wood to stop them falling down and unbelievably gorgeous things in shops and loads of absolute tat.

I'll peep inside the most lovely, tranquil, cool, spaceous buildings which just exude peace and beauty.  I'll finger the most wonderful, centuries old, enormous, intricately carved wooden doors and walk on exquisite mosaic floors, and pause awhile in a square or courtyard filled with trees and sunshine and chattering birds.  And I'll watch the people who live with such beauty and who make these things - and I watch them greet each other with such warmth and affection and kisses, grasping arms, shoulders, faces - especially the children.

And they accept us infidels invading their lives, poking and prying with our questions and cameras and our brazen ways as they have always accepted travellers, because we replace the old trading caravans that all paused here on their long journeys.  There are plenty of old caravanserais in Fez - reminding me of reading Kim.

I visited a cafe run by an english bloke whose (perfectly normal in england) energy and drive came as a minor culture shock.   The place was full of very white travellers looking completely zonked out in the delightful, tasteful morrocan-but-european ambience.  BUT he had that most wanted thing - a book exchange!  Hooray!  I have exchanged the disappointing Paul Bowles for Elizabeth Gaskell - double hooray!  I've read Tolstoy twice and am extremely pleased I dont have to resort to reading PB twice!!

And supper on a rooftop terrace gazing across Fez in the starlight, spread out below, surrounded by mountains, the only sounds the human voices and occasional footsteps floating up, just as it would have been 3 or 4 or many more hundred years ago.

13. On the road again

2 days takes me from waking up in the sand dunes to arriving in Fez - and what a journey!  I have crossed the flat plains of the black desert, seen the snowcapped peaks of the high Atlas and come right through the middle Atlas mountains.  I've crossed enormous plains with mountain ranges in the distance as far as the eye can see on every side and seen fantastic cliffs and gorges rising out of the dry, rocky, honey coloured desert.  And all the way there wasn't a fence in sight - the land is completely open and the roads are empty.

There were a few arab towns and villages on the way and then we came down through wonderful ceder forests to Azrou and Ifraine which were built by the French as holiday resorts reminiscent of the Swiss alps, so its all swiss style chalets with red tiled sloping roofs - what a contrast!

Travelling in Morocco, once you sort out how it all works, is cheap and efficent.  On the way out a week or so ago I went from Meknes to Merzouga (nearly 400km) on an overnight CTM bus for Dh 140 (about 12 pounds) which has to be brilliant.  Except that I didnt see a thing because it was dark all the way!  Hence my slow return journey, taking a couple of days to revel in the amazing landscape and really get a sense of where I am.  As the faster CTM buses only do this run at night I am using local buses and grand taxis for my return journey.

Grand taxis are quite extraordinary!  You go to the taxi rank and ask around and are pointed in the direction of a taxi going where you want.  These taxis are all identical grey, or usually fawn, coloured mercedes cars,  pretty battered inside and out.  Not a seatbelt in sight.  They wait til they have 6 passengers all for the same destination and off they go.  You pay for your seat and sit squashed like sardines with total strangers (2 in the front and 4 in the back - and although the majority of moroccans are slim, the ones who use the grand taxis seem to be the larger ones!)  and are carried for little more than the bus fare to where you want to go.  On the way people chat and if you are lucky (!) you get arab music to entertain you on the way..........

A couple of pit stops on the way (Midelt and Azrou) brought home the mysterious discrepancies in what your Dirham will buy.  In both places I ate and slept for less than Dh100 - under 8 pounds.  And cheap hotels are often no worse and can be very much better than the more expensive.  For example, for Dh75 in Azrou I had a pleasant room, with a sink and a delightful balcony from which I could look down on the square below and watch the world go by.  Loo just across the corridor - a good location, moroccan loos not being something I usually want to share a room with!!!  And a more expensive hotel is no guarantee of a nice bathroom - quite the opposite as happened with my first "expensive" hotel in Tangier.  My best deal was in Merzouga - a delightful room in a delightful small home-from-home hotel with a squeaky clean private bathroom, breakfast and 3 course dinner for Dh170 - less than 15 pounds.   You have to spend a lot more to get up to european standards, but even if my budget could run to it, I dont like big hotels and would rather take my chances with the smaller ones which on the whole are friendly, clean enough and extremely good value.  Well, if it wasnt for such cheap accommodation I couldnt possibly do a trip like this.

Its my last week.  I wish I had longer..............there is so much still to do and see..................I am very far from home in every sense and, yes, I am content, there is nowhere else in the world I want to be.

12.moonlight flit

My wanderings with bob marley aka gollum took us right across the dunes and out into the "black desert" - a huge flat sandy, slightly gravelly plain with slightly shiny black stones which give it its name.  We stayed the 2nd night in a nomad village - a few tiny, squat buildings, each with a berber tent, spaced out on the edge of the black desert near the dunes.  Across the plain you can see a long line of sombre dark cliffs - the disputed border with algeria.  There is a huge sense of space and sky, and silence, the gold of the dunes, the occasional tuft of green grass and the gorgeous blue of the berber robes contrasting with the great black plain, the squat buildings provide the only shelter.  It is stunningly beautiful.

The downside was the arrival of an enormous party of french prople towards evening - noisy, chattering, shouting across to each other, foraging about.  What they saw of the desert or gained from the experience I have no idea as they were totally preoccupied with thenselvrs.

This was the night of the full moon, hazier tonight making huge haze rings around the moon - a different kind of beauty.

We spent the next day in another village.  The family here have several children in their late teens to early 20s and I sat with mother and daughter in the tent working on the knotted wool carpet they were making.  Every knot was done with the greatest care and attention to detail using lovely natural wool and fibre, and every knot had to be just right - several of Hassan's efforts were laughingly tutted over and removed.  It will take 3 weeks to finish and will be about 6' x 4', its quite a rough, loose thick finish and I am very sorry to say that this labour of love, by this beautiful, clever, skilled girl wearing a stylish outfit that would look good anywhere in the world was hideous - a cacophany of gaudy and garish colours and shapes.

We were joined by 2 spaniards (pleasant) and 4 japanese (inscrutable and aloof) one of whom was dressed in a skirt, a longish cotton tunic with a stand up collar and a sort of soft tall hat with a round flat top.  He had a wispy beard; smoked funny cigarettes and was carrying - and playing - a didgery doo.

We all went to bring back the goats in the evening, 2 of the boys chasing off after an errant camel making a determined bid for freedom in the direction of Algeria.

This family is happy, healthy, clever and on the ball.  The boys speak spanish, french, english and arabic as well as their native berber.  They have never been to school.  There isn't one.  They  don't have cars and televisions and washing machines or even chairs or beds or a radio.  Are they desperately poor and in urgent need of aid, education and rehabilitation, or are they proudly and happily living a traditional and honourable life with their strong culture, social structure, family bonds and religion?  I certainly do not know the answer.

Unlike in other remote places I have been, the people here seem to treat us as a commodity to be serviced, a source of income, but they keep their distance and do not seem to want our trappings of civilisation.

After supper we saddled our camels and set off in the hazy moonlight, padding back through the silent dunes for a last sleep under the sky.

11. Shooting stars

It is one of life's enormous pleasures to sleep out under the sky and never more so than in the sand dunes on the edge of the saraha under a moon so bright you can see the colour of the sand, the sky an amazing blue - lying back and watching shooting stars.

Shooting stars are guaranteed to keep you awake because you seldom see one in your direct line of vision.  When you do see one out of the corner of your eye, by the time you've turned your head its gone.  So I lie flat on my back trying to keep the whole sky in my line of view at once and every so often - bingo!  Awesome!  And wide awake I just lie waiting for another - and another..............

My departure on this desert trip (3  nights) was delayed 24 hours by that old travellers' friend - a dose of the runs - oh forgotten joy!!  (I have been lucky for the last three trips and kept clear and was getting complacent!).  But again, I can revel in my good health and ability to shake it off and be ready to go the next day.    I couldn't have done that 6 months ago.   Thank you NHS. 

My camel is called Bob Marley, I kid you not - because he has a dark coat which, yes, is just like Bob Marley's hair.  I have to cofess that privately I call him  Gollum.  He's quite a small, spindley camel and from a distance as he slopes about grazing in the twilight, peering from side to side there is something slithery and Gollumesque about him.

His master, my guide is Hassan, 22 years old, a Tuareg nomad, resplendant in his gorgeous berber blue robe and cotton turban.  The robes are calf length, loose and flowing with yellowy-ochre embroidery on the front chest, and worn over jeans and t-shirt if you are a young man about town, or more traditinal loose trousers if you are a more traditional person.  The embroidered bit incorporates a perfect mobile phone pocket, in constant use of course.   There is no electricity in a tuareg nomad house but they charge their phones with ingenious little solar panel chargers.

I'd love to say that for 3 days I left all trappings of civilisation behind but was shocked to realise that the in thing to do is drive here in your 4X4, or hire one locally, and race around the dunes and all over the miles of open "black desert".  Oh I can see why its fun but, well, I won't start on the "buts" or this will turn into a rant.  I was heartily grateful that I only saw the many tyre tracks and no actual vehicles in the dunes themselves.

The desert was absolutely awesome - part 2 tomorrow..............

10. Merzouga

The desert has me spellbound, as ever.
Off on a camel tomorrow.  See you sometime...................................

9. Proud to be cornish

(Well, a quarter cornish!)
They've left a pretty wonderful legacy here in Meknes have my Cornish forebears - an imperial city of huge, beautiful buildings still in use today and all built without JCBs, cranes, lorries or cement mixers, to say nothing of portaloos and teabreaks!

I have to confess that in Tangier and Rabat the sheer logistics of finding what I wanted to see threatened to overwhelm the finding.  Of course what is hard won is all the more precious but it can get you down - relentless urban sprawl, seething masses of humanity and a complete dearth of any sort of signing or interpretation.  Needles and haystacks come to mind.  Take the trains for example.  Modern, efficient, functional, with lovely new stations but those all look the same so when you are on the train be careful when you blink or you may well miss that small, half hidden sign telling you which station you are arriving at.  Even the locals can get it wrong, but it all aids conviviality!

But here in Meknes the things I came to see are absolutely in your face.  No way could you miss these wonderful, huge, spacious, beautuful buildings, like 300 year old stabling for 25,000 horses, or fail to be awestruck by the perfect dimensions and the intricate mosaics and fabulous stone and wood carvings, and the tranquility of these beautuful holy islamic places.  Wow!

One spectacle of this sort of travel is the busloads of tourists looking very clean and superior, following their guide and being very careful not to touch anything.  I really would rather muddle along my way with all its frustrations, and miss things, than be a clean shiny white tourist!!!

I've found the most gorgeous place to eat, right by my hotel.  It's really somebody's house turned restaurant and its lovely and so are they, and the food is  superb.  They have just wished me a fond "bon voyage" after my last meal there.

Other nice things - even the urban sprawl here (less of it) is arabic so at last I feel I have arrived; and the birds chattering everywhere especially in the delightful courtyard gardens.  And today I palled up with a bunch of slovenians for a great trip out of town to Moulay Idris and Volubilis.

And its sunny!  Oh bliss!  Shoes and socks dry!
Off to the desert tonight on the overnight bus.

8. faces and smells

What is a moroccan face?  I remember on my last trip here thinking just how very english so many moroccan faces are, and its no different this time - even an arty postcard of a sketch of a berber nomad could have been the bloke next door for many of us.  My cornish ancestors did a good job of contributing to the moroccan gene pool!!!

Talking of my ancestors I've found the square where they got sold - now its a souk selling modern cheap household goods but it takes little imagination to replace all that with people jeering and throwing stones at the latest batch of christian slaves to arrive - bound, chained, in rags, sick, starving and beaten - herded into the square to be sold to unimaginable fate.  My imagination is helped a bit too far by my background reading which paints a picture of a people who were, quite frankly, bloodthirsty.  Bit of a job to nip to the library for something else.

And smells - I mentioned these earlier and they're all here - spices, dates, mint tea, frying fish, cut wood..........and of course other smells that one doesn't look forward to so much.  But we have those at home too.

I'll be glad to get out of the big city tomorrow.  Like ludlow there are very interesting old bits of town providing glimpses of past lives, beautuful houses and interiors and doubly interesting by virtue of being in modern use.  And all surrounded by miles of urban sprawl where most people live their lives.  But rabat/sallee is just massive compared to ludlow!

Meknes tomorrow and imperial palaces! 

7. saying hello to my ancestors

This morning I stood on a rampart in the ancient kasbar in Rabat - circa 10th century, looking across the river at Sallee - similar antiquity - down to my right the attractive, French colonial "new rabat", and in between the most massive building /reclamation job in progress in the river bed - trendy new appartments and facilities.  And to my left the sea.
Us island brits like to touch base with the sea pretty often, especially when travelling but there's an added certain something here because this is where my cornish forebears landed, captive slaves,  to start their new lives.  In chains.

If I had to live in a city I could live in Rabaet, but I'm not a city girl.  Its cosmopolitan, very few minarets and mosques shape the skyline here and so far only one very  faint call to prayer so it doesn't feel particularly exotic or even moroccan.   Even the medina - medieval bit of town - is just that - old but not exotic or atmospheric.  Definitely interesting though.  Very solid and functional.

So far there have been more downs than ups prompting my usual travelling determination that this WILL be my last trip..................til I turn a corner as happened in tangier and the sun came out and I looked out at the straits of gibraltar sparkling in the sun.   I could see spain, portugal and britain (gibraltar!) from my stance on african soil.  It was glorious.    The downs have been dark gloomy and even grotty hotels, staff unhelpdul to the point of surliness, pissing rain, wet shoes and socks, an unpleasantly unfresh bed..................and the feeling generally that the moroccans dont want us here and would be quite happy if we all pissed off back home.   Are we that unfriendly to our tourists in britain?   Quite probably!   But then I sat on the terrace of aforementioned gloomy hotel and watched the new moon rise and the lights coming on in the port below and across the bay and listened to a protracted and beautiful stereo call to prayer and it was quite simply magical.

As always when landing in a new country the first challenge is crossing the road and staying alive;  Acclimatisation is when you  can do it without tagging on to some locals.  I thought I was getting there but pride as ever comes before a fall...............there I was quivvering on the edge of a big main road with not a local or  a traffic light in sight and ready to concede defeat when a nearby workman appeared grinning his head off, grabbed my arm and trotted me over in perfect safety!

Well, that and a change of hotel and it ain't so bad!!

Sallee tomorrow and the slave markets!

6. landed!

Tangier..................got here in one piece!
First stage of the trip successfully completed and Ive had my first tagine and been woken by the call to prayer.
Boat trip over was brillliant.  Now planning next leg of journey to Rabat to look at those slave markets.
Arab keyboards challenging so pl excuse any oddities!!
More to come.............watch this space...................

5. A breather on the way

Algeciras - and a pause on the journey after 2 days of travel.  This is a brilliant way to get there, hugely better than being parachuted suddenly into a different culture.  This way I get to experience the journey and the countries I travel through, and get a real sense of where I am going.  Its great to look out of the train window and see the different landscapes and imagine where we are on the map. 

 Its peeing down!  And whale watching seems to be off...................and even I dont feel like going to Gibraltar in this rain!  So this is a day of drawing my breath ready for Morocco tomorrow, and sleeping, and doing mundane things like sewing a button back on (good job I brought that strepsil tin with my old sewing kit.  Not all the needles were rusty), and I'll go to Gibraltar this afternoon.  Or even tomorrow morning.   Everybody tells me it wont take long!

I've met French women on the last leg of a pilgrimage walking right across the north of spain, and a spanish woman returning to spain having retired as a librarian in Belgium, and an Italian-English woman living in Madrid who came here with her spanish husband.  All have their stories to tell and I just love listening to them.  Goodness how my French is improving!!!

This hostel is absolutely brilliant.  I have a lovely clean room with my own shower and loo and clean towels and even a TV(!!) all for the amazing price of 19 euros per night plus amazingly helpful people determined to arrange for my every need.  I just cannot imagine why people put negative comments about places like this - if they want a hotel they should stay in one.

 Morocco tomorrow where I will have the interesting experience of arriving before I set off as it is 2 hours behind..............

4. Trial run

Ludlow to York on the Train.   Hmm.................doesnt have quite the ring about it of "Ludlow to Tangier on the train" but hugely enjoyable nevertheless.
Staying with aforementioned neice which is wonderful, went to a brilliant gig last night - there's nothing like a good gig!  And this morning have signed my new will (last week I got my hair cut and teeth fixed, good to get these things done before setting off).  My solicitor has been my solicitor for more than 25 years but this was only the 2nd time I have clapped eyes on him, we usually do it by remote control.  He represents a bit of consistency in my inconsistent lifestyle and its good to know that he is there and familiar with the things that matter in my life, and ready and willing to see  me through life's major steps - house purchase, divorce, and heaven forbid, sorting out my estate..................
Havent seen much of Yorkshire tho' as the mist was down for my bus journey to Malton this morning.  But its lifting now and the sun is coming through and this afternoon I'm going up the scaffolding to the top of York Minster - awesome!
Next post will be en route to Morocco............................

3. Countdown

A week tomorrow and I am off, 4 days later and I'll be crossing the Straits of Gibraltar and landing in Tangier.  There’s something very romantic about Tangier – the first time I went I didn’t go into Morocco that way because of all the reports of how horrendous it is, but I did leave on the ferry and, looking back from the water, just loved it. And of course it has all sorts of exciting associations with spy stories and the like.

Everybody is saying "can I come with you?" - I say "yes" but
then they say they cant get off.  I made a lifestyle versus career choice when I was
17 and have never ever regretted it for one instant.  I'll never be rich
or famous, or climb that ladder of "success", but have always been able
to take off and do different things, and take occasional time out to
spend in some wonderful places.  I love the line in WH Davies' (who wrote the brilliant "diary of a supertramp") poem about standing and staring – and have stood and stared at mountains and deserts, seas and souks and palaces and people, and  relished every single minute.

The kitchen table is covered with books and maps.  I've got fascinated
all over again with the white slave traffic and am plotting places for
visits.  For 300 years Moroccans sailed all over western Europe literally
dragging people out of their beds, and commandeering ships' crews to
sell as slaves at around £35 per head - a fortune in those days.
Literally hundreds were taken from Cornwall.  All in all there were a
million white slaves in North Africa and it stopped less than 200 years
ago - only just before the abolition of slavery.  They had black slaves
too and fought the Europeans in Guinea, regarding the black Africans as
theirs by right.   

I've got Cornish blood in my veins - maybe some of my ancestors were
pulled out of bed to become white slaves and build fantastic palaces
that at the time were bigger than anything else in the world.  So I'm
going to stand where the slaves stood to be sold, and am going to look
at those palaces and fortresses they built. They were beaten, tortured,
starved, sometimes murdered, they lived in dungeons which they shared
with every imaginable vermin.  And some unimaginable.  The song "Rule
Britannia" was written at the height of the white slave trade in around
1730.

Morocco here I come…………………….  

2. Piles and lists.....................and injections

Just been to the doctor, all excited about getting travel advice.  Filled in a risk assessment before the appointment and spent half an hour with the nurse solemnly discussing rabies, hepatitis, malaria and typhoid.  At which point even I usually have a small wobble and wonder if I am Really Doing the Right Thing.  And then, having put forward an excellent case for filling my body up with chemicals to zap these various bugs, she gently explained that they are going to cost more than it will cost to get me all the way to Morocco.  Blimey!  There’s an element of going-to-the-dentist syndrome about this (sorry Elli) – yes, I need to be here, yes I know it will hurt, yes, I will feel physically invaded, yes I know it’s the right thing to do……………but I cant believe I’m actually having to pay (a lot) for all this aggro and pain.

But I still left the surgery grinning from ear to ear with excitement!

There are little piles of things appearing around the James household.  One on top of my desk: the Lonely Planet Guide, train tickets to Paris and Madrid, printouts of hotel and hostel reservations, a luggage locking device which proved irresistible in Aldi, a library copy of the Man in Seat 61(fount of all wisdom) ………………. didn’t know it is a book as well as a website.

Envelopes with lists scribbled on the back: sort insurance, get ticket London-Ludlow, check passport still valid………………

Another pile in my bedroom is growing: money belt, tin mug, an amazing spoon-cum-fork thing, a packaway daysac, an ancient strepsils tin with basic sewing things so I can mend stuff – I must have had that for about 40 years and it’s still just the job.

I have decided to send my surgeon and my thyroid specialist a post card each from Morocco “hey, you fixed me – thank you!” or better still an open postcard to the local paper saying we are all so quick to complain about things – I want to sing the praises of the National Health Service generally and Shrewsbury Hospital in particular.

What is it about travelling?  Why does hoisting a rucksack on my back and taking off somewhere fill me with such pleasure?  I know half the time I’ll be too hot or cold, uncomfortably sitting on some horrendous bus desperate for a pee, cross with a taxi driver, desperate for a bath…………I’ll worry about finding my hostel or missing a connection or losing some vital paperwork, or finding a nice present for my nearest and dearest, or drive myself mad sorting and organising all my stuff and then losing things in my rucksack.  And I will be content.  There will be nowhere else in the world I would rather be.  I will revel in what is around me and will relate to total strangers and will feel totally at home and want to stay forever.

1. How does a journey start.......................

In this case, over a bowl of olives.  Or rather 2 bowls of olives.  A shared lunch, and a delicious surfeit of olives prompting the comment "well if you really like olives you need to go to Morocco."  Bit of a silence.  And then……………..  "THATS where I want to go" - and that was it.  That sort of glow, that excitement......................there's nothing quite like it in the world.

This trip started 2 years ago with a plan to go to Mongolia on the train, taking my niece (how about  "Travels with my Niece" for a blog) .  I'd booked up staying with nomads in their yurts in the Gobi desert - and other things that middle aged aunts do with their nieces, and was trying to feel excited and not to worry about the fact that I didn’t feel brilliant, when my legs swelled up........and I will stop at that point because 2 years of dodgy thyroid (and no travelling, with my niece or otherwise) would fill several blogs and would be insufferably boring.

And now our wonderful national health service has made me better by cutting my throat and removing the offending part and what is the first thing to do on feeling better?  Plan a trip, get out my rucksack, delve into a guidebook or 2, fantasise over the internet and decide that Italy looks good, and would be nice.  And sensible.  For someone who is still convalescing. 

And then I ate the olives............................do you know in Morocco you get platefulls of olives with almost every meal and as you savour them you gaze out at the desert, or maybe watch the world go by from a street cafe?  Or catch tantalising glimpses of snow capped mountains in the distance as you bask in the sun and listen to the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer?  In Morocco it feels different, and its beautiful, and the people are delightful and polite, there are tiny, medieval streets, and gorgeous palaces and buildings, and you can go to the Saraha desert………………..or climb in the Atlas Mountains, the very names sound romantic – Tafraoute – Ouzazat – Fez – Zagora – Tangier – Cassablanca…………….

I’m doing a proper journey, on the train, with a visit to Gibraltar on the way, and Paris, and Madrid……………….and will arrive by ferry and set foot on that most northern tip of the African continent.  I’ve booked my first night in an old fashioned slightly faded, atmospheric Moroccan hotel looking out over the port and the medina, I can hear the sounds now and feel that pull to go out and explore, to walk, to gaze, to listen………………………

Its such fun researching and booking it all over the internet, train tickets arrive in the post and emails tell me that I can now book the next leg of my journey.  I’m going under the English Channel in a train and then in a trainhotel overnight to Spain.  I’ll be able to sit in my seat on the train and look out at the countries I pass through – just like Ghandi in the film.  I know I’ll get neurotic worrying about the ferry crossing and that seasickness will threaten or even happen.  And then the questions to mull over – do I splash out on the latest edition of trusty old Lonely Planet or take my old friend that has been twice before and has wrinkled pages and hand written notes and email addresses and out of date information?  Do I go to the desert again?  Or explore the mountains?  Will I go back and see the family I stayed a night with in Ouzazat?  What should I take for their children?  Shall I try to ring them first or just turn up.............................