White Horse Pilgrim

New horse (sort of)

My new horse is a metal cut-out purchased from an antique shop. I was told that it had been made originally as part of a weather vane. It's been painted and had a bit of a patina added, and may not be quite as old as it looks. Here it is on the inside of my front door, which I faux-painted in red on top of yellow. I'm not quite sure why I chose those colours: they seemed like a good idea at the time!

The walls are faux-painted with Greek blue over a clay-coloured base. I made the wash with one part of paint to eight parts of lacquer, and applied this very quickly with a wide brush as it dries within seconds. Afterwards I added stencilled decoration. I like the rustic 'peasant' ethos of the painting, the blue of which reminds me of so many rural houses in Romania. The hat rack is an old luggage rack from a scrapped London Underground Metropolitan Line train. I found a Bulgarian electrical safety notice (with Cyrillic text) via Etsy to mount next to the fuse box.

You can see the thickness of the walls in this old house, which was built in 1760. They are made from local stone, and make for a cool building in the recent hot weather.

Abingdon story

I wrote a short story in response to a competition at the writing group, the subject being a local town which is - so the story goes - the longest inhabited place in Britain. There was a limit of five hundred words. Here it is, nothing special, just an idea which came to after a couple of drinks with colleagues from work. 

“Oldest town in England?” The shepherd laughed derisively. “So that’s where you live now.”

I looked out across the valley, which was green and fertile. Beyond the red tiled roofs of a straggling village rose a wooded slope.

 “It was there when the Romans invaded England.”

“Yes, and Balcfalau was here long before the Romans.” The shepherd extended a gnarled hand. “There, after the trees, the Dacians lived – and their ancestors. We’ve always been here.”

I couldn’t return home on holiday without trudging over the hill to meet old Viorel. He’d been here when I was a boy and now, twenty years on, he scarcely looked older. Yes, he’d always looked ancient. The wiry old man might be a Dacian.

I’d learned about the Dacians at school, we all had. I, too, was their descendent - which made me neither Hungarian nor Saxon and certainly not Gypsy.

“It’s nice where I live, with shops and restaurants, and a hospital. There are jobs too.”

“Yes,” Viorel replied in that toothless voice of his, “the people there have all those things. You have a job and money. But who are you now?”

I looked at the homespun old man. His sharp grey eyes interrogated me.

“I’m me, the same as I used to be.”

“No, Octavian, you are serving others just like the people in the valley used to serve the communist pigs.”

“I’m earning money to send home.”

“Come up here and learn a real trade. Send down meat and cheese. Cut timber and build yourself a house.”

I laughed, gently out of deference to the old man. A part of me would love to spend all summer up here.

“You could marry Bogdan’s daughter. You’re still single, aren’t you?”

I nodded. I shared an apartment with two Polish men and a Czech. Our lives were framed by monthly visits to the Western Union office. And what had my family done? Bought a car whilst I still took the bus!

“Yes, Viorel, what have I become?”

“I’m old, Octavian, I’ll sell you the land.”

“For how much?”

“For enough to buy an apartment in the town - fifty thousand euro, or sixty.”

“And how much do you sell the cheese for, and the meat?”

Viorel shrugged. He knew perfectly well how little he made – perhaps a thousand euros each summer to supplement his two hundred euro monthly pension. He knew that I could guess this.

“It’s too expensive,” I continued.

Wordlessly we sat on a sun-bleached log. Down the grassy slope below us ragged sheep grazed, guarded by a shaggy dog.

“You’ll never be English,” Viorel remarked.

You’re wrong, I thought. I belong to the oldest town in England now. The Dacians will die with you, Viorel, and then just empty hills shall remain. I’ll carry your memory when I walk beside the Thames, and I shall dream.

Yes, and I will become more English when I cease sending money home to be squandered without shame.

A stimulating view

Being on a hilltop, the new yard offers a lovely view to the south. A splendid vista carries the eye across smooth sweeps of hillside to the woods, where the view leaps from copse to copse and away to a distant range of hills. 

This is a place to dream. Imagine, there's a fence, last tangible boundary of some frontier place. The hillside is open and free to run down, for there is little cover to hide behind. A road might provide a better surface for a way, or it may yield the opportunity to travel in disguise. Beyond comes a flat place, a broad meadow to be negotiated before the woods. And then one is safe beneath forest eaves. A moment to pause in the shadow, to look back at that settlement on the hill, then it's time to plunge deeper into the great wide world. 

Safe, I wrote, but who knows what is out here? Ah, but my traveller is resourceful and quick. And as an outsider he can develop an affinity with most who wander the wild places. 

Riding through the woods I ducked down to look below beechen boughs and deep into the dark, dense pine forest. Now that is a mysterious place. In a dream world there might be the way towards some remote place or to a seldom visited cottage. I'd like to think that the path to a lover would involve fewer pine needles. 

Yes, the way to a lover would be different, the sort of trail found through intuition and a little luck. If one isn't meant to find the way, one misses crucial turns. Places seem strangely unfamiliar, even disorientating. The same old woods taunt with a misleading face. 

Yes, this is a place to dream. I love that gift of imagination, which provides endless entertainment and not a little inspiration. And it encourages emotional freedom, and the will to try new things, explore, test. Imagination so brightens and enriches life. 

Happiness

There's nothing quite like a satisfying roll after a nice ride. Of course one has to have a good ride first. We did today, and on New Year's Day before that. The riding is good around Brena's new home. 

Her new field is great for rolling too, firm and grassy without any more of that annoying filthy mud. 

We had three hours out riding today. The weather was dry even if the ground is so wet. It was a slow ride, the sort where one picks a careful footing - or, rather, encourages ones horse to do so. 

Hardly a soul was out. The woods were silent. I felt as if Brena had carried me into a timeless void. But it was more than just stepping beyond time. We were beyond action, as if we'd walked onto a film set devoid of actors. The stage was set, the backdrop ready. But Brena and I were alone. The script was ours to make, and the other actors mine to imagine. 

But what to imagine? A troop of elves? This is Tolkien's land after all. A carter or a shepherd with tales to tell? Such people travelled these trails just a few generations ago. Or a messenger carrying word from one enclave to another in a future with fewer people and no petrol? Sometimes it's easier to look ahead than behind. 

I'm writing about a time in another country twenty years ago. There were horses and my hero has a good one. I'm fascinated by the creative process and it's a joy to watch it unfold. Sometimes a story does just slip out, an organic entity growing before my eyes. Then it's pure creativity, not something formulaic designed to sell. That suits me. I want to tell a tale, not sell things. I have a job to pay the bills - and give a few hours of blessed freedom. 

Tomorrow I'll be back out again to free my mind and keep the shackles off my imagination. 

Where one writes from

It's a  peculiar thing to reflect upon just where one writes from. From what part of ones inner being, from which experiences, from where. 

How I came to realise where ideas came from was a bit of a shock. 

When I was writing a fantasy novel all those ideas seemed to pour out the easier for a nice glass of wine...or two. 

Well, of course. Alcohol sets super-ego at bay. So many of those creative ideas crept from the shadows of my unconscious. That was a fascinating place to explore. Enlightening, even. For the present, though, I've seen sufficient of what that place has to offer. 

The new novel is set on my old home, my erstwhile place of exile. Now that's a tale to be written sober, bright and early in the morning. It's a story about truth, about real people and the circumstances that befall them. Imaginative it may be, but not fanciful. Now super-ego is back supervising, only put into his place as overseer rather than dictator. 

I suppose that, in my writing, I've moved from (to take a metaphor from the art world) from impressionism to realism. Now I'm thinking of the precise landscapes of Ivan Shishkin and the lovingly painted characters of Ilya Repin. And now, at last, my affection for my former home can spring forth. Transylvania was a difficult place in which to live but, for all that, treated me with a surprising generosity. 

Yes, I want to give a true picture, embracing the beauty whilst not brushing over the faults. I want to record just what goodness, absurdity and downright wrong-headedness foreigners imported, myself amongst them. 

Now that is a quest well worth concentrating some effort on. I'm excited. I've received some really helpful advice from the writing group too, guiding me towards a work in which the main characters speak rather than me as narrator. As a writer I'm learning to listen rather than tell. I'm listening to the voices of the many people who inspired me when we met during many journeys followed by eight years of exile. 

Stefan's story

Here's a rough draft of the first little bit of my new project. It's the long-imagined novel about my former home, and is shaping up as the fictional tale of a teenage boy who takes a horse across Romania just after the demise of Ceausescu. He scams the horse off a group of naive aid workers, they give him the animal far from his home, and he has some adventures on the way back. Actually quite a range of adventures that reflect the bizarre atmosphere of those first few months after the dictator was shot and the peculiar mix of people who turned up. The story starts at the end of the liturgy in a little village church. The omniescent narrator is me, and I am trying to make sure that the main protagonist, Stefan, is not me. Comments are welcome. 

---ooo---

Cel ce a înviat din morţi, Hristos, Adevăratul Dumnezeul nostru, pentru rugăciunile Preacuratei Maicii Sale, ale sfinţilor măriţilor şi întru tot lăudaţilor Apostoli şi pentru ale tuturor sfinţilor, să ne miluiască şi să ne mântuiască pe noi ca un bun şi de oameni iubitor. Amin.

Arms spread out as if crucified in a sunbeam heavy with incense smoke, the thickly bearded priest stood motionless before the gilded iconostasis. The liturgy was concluded. Stefan gazed at the priest’s long blue robes, a little threadbare now, but brighter than the brown and grey homespun garb of the peasant congregation. The priest was clad in heavenly azure, whilst farming folk bore the colours of the soil they tilled and the beasts they husbanded. It was a profound thought for a boy living in the Carpathian foothills, erudite for a village where older people still wrapped their feet in felt strips and laced stout moccasins in place for the winter. As he looked at the priest sharply illuminated in the otherwise gloomy nave, Stefan’s thoughts turned to the prosaic reality of the Southern Bucovina. Now winter is ending even up here in the hills. The bumpy road through the village isn’t so muddy. Purple crocuses are blooming. Soon sheep will be driven towards the spring pastures, then higher still for the summer. That was the world that Stefan knew.

“Stefan”, hissed his elderly aunt Viorica, “go up and kiss the cross.”

By now the priest had lowered his arms and taken a polished brass cross from the elderly stooping alter servant. Stefan joined a line of supplicants according to the traditional formula: younger boys, then older boys, men, women with babies, girls and finally women. Aged fifteen, Stefan took his place behind three boys younger than himself: Radu and Doru the shepherd’s sons, friendly boys whose father sent them to church in sheepskin cloaks like miniature versions of himself – only less smelly – and his brother Mircea. Women dominated the congregation for most of the men found other things to do on a Sunday morning, feeding animals then standing around in little groups smoking whilst waiting for the bars to open. Just four men stood behind Stefan: Mr Popescu, the tall schoolmaster with a love of poetry; Mr Gheorghe, the often-tipsy doctor; Mr Radulescu, the short dour shopkeeper and finally, full of importance and paunchy, Mr Somesani, the mayor. How the mayor now liked to be seen at church, visiting the school, putting his nose into the doctor’s surgery or giving instructions to the policeman. ‘Ha,’ Stefan’s mother had commented, ‘he’s a foreigner. His name comes from beyond the mountains, from the Somes river. Ceausescu sent him, and he should take him back.’ Well, Stefan had thought, now we’re stuck with him. Nicolae Ceausescu was shot last December. A good thing too, as meat had appeared in the shops, and other things besides. Not that Stefan’s mother had much money to buy anything. Behind Mr Somesani queued the girls, two dozen of them, each rosy-cheeked from helping out of doors. There were Stefan’s cousins Irina and Magdalena, who brought eggs and cheese for his mother. Finally the women waited in line, clad in multiple layers of wool. With a smirk Stefan imagined the stench, which was a little unfair since fully half of them had washed in tepid water from chipped tin bowls that very morning, as they did every Sunday from sheer force of habit.

Stefan shuffled in line until he reached the priest. Bending forward he kissed first the cross and then the priest’s right hand, as was the custom.

“How are your mother and father, Stefan?” whispered the priest in contrast to the rich baritone with which he had delivered the Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom.

“Well, Domnul Parinte,” Stefan replied, using the formal Romanian to address the parish priest of Gura Brodinei village.

“Does your mother need anything, Stefan?” the priest continued. Stefan’s mother was distantly related to the priest.

“We have very little food, Domnul Parinte,” Stefan admitted, screwing up his courage in order to do so. His mother would have been furious had she heard his words. They were hardly starving. Simply their diet had become monotonous at the end of a long highland winter, maize porridge and bread, pickles and beans, plus occasional welcome eggs.

“A lorry is due today at the Baptist church, Stefan,” the priest whispered into his ear, so quietly that Mr Popescu standing close behind hadn’t a clue of the advice.

---ooo---

Well, that is news, Stefan thought as he walked across the churchyard. Like everyone, he’d heard that the Baptists received aid from the foreigners. They had a room full of it, so people gossiped. Certainly their congregation was dressed in new clothes from abroad, at least on Sundays. A number of the Baptists seemed to have put on weight, not that any approached the mayor’s appreciable girth.

“So why did the priest tell me that?” Stefan asked out loud, to no-one in particular.

“What did he tell you?” asked Radu in his high unbroken voice, intrigued.

“That your father will roast a sheep tonight, Radu,” Stefan replied mischievously.

“No he didn’t!”

Stefan laughed as he walked through the covered gateway that led straight into the muddy main street, from habit running a hand across one of the carved wooden gates. It was old now, sun-bleached and cracked, but interesting to the fingers of a child and the mind of an ethnographer. Likewise the beauty of the icons was veiled, their tempura darkened by centuries of incense smoke, and some would call that a metaphor for the whole of the Regat, old Romania that predated the addition of Transylvania.

Ignoring the shepherd boys’ banter, Stefan walked fast to avoid the women already fallen into banter, his feet splashing in the mud. How to get hold of a Baptist food parcel? They stuck together, those Baptists, demanding attendance at two Sunday services and one on Thursday evening, and anyway he was Orthodox. Every true Romanian, he knew from his mother, was Orthodox. Still, food was food. And Stefan spoke a little English. He could address the foreigners directly.

Besides, Stefan was grateful to the foreigners. He had learned English by listening to Voice of America and the BBC World Service. Clandestine listening at his grandfather’s house had been a treat, and one that might have seen old Dumitru jailed, except that Stefan had kept his vow of silence. 

---ooo---

The first Sunday of May 1990 had started like any other spring day in Valea Brodinei. In the thin grey light of dawn Stafan’s father Petru rose, dressed in a shabby blue uniform with a battered peaked cap, and headed for the railway station where he worked. As signalman he would pass four passenger trains and two carrying goods in the course of the day, which would be like any other. As usual he would breakfast with the stationmaster, comforted by the routine of his existence. He signalled trains from Nisipitu, at the head of the valley, down to Gura Putnei junction a few miles to the east. From there trains ran eastwards down the broad green valley where, swollen by melt-water from the snowy mountains to the southwest, the Suceava river swelled to fill its wide stony bed. On the trains went, stopping at the market town of Radauti, which Stefan had visited once, just the previous month. The many market stalls selling herbs and beans, hardware and clothes, awakened in Stefan a desire to travel further for he was a bold young man. Had he seen the newer part of Radauti - grey concrete apartment blocks growing from a muddy rubbish-strewn hinterland where gypsies scavenged – then Stefan’s wish to explore might have been snuffed out. But fate smiled upon Stefan that day, as it would again. From Radauti the train ran alongside a road, so his father had told him, reaching a junction called Dornesti. That was an important place, for every day an express train called there, running all the way to the capital city, Bucuresti. According to the timetable in the stationmaster’s office one could reach Bucuresti in fifteen hours. But hardly anyone travelled that far, just a few old people taking sacks of maize or potatoes to relatives living in the south of the country. Food was really short down there, it had been for years. Now that Nicolae Ceausesu was dead, it was easy to blame him for the shortages. But, Stefan thought, how could one man do so much wrong?

Stefan’s mother Maria made a fire of twigs in the kitchen stove, beginning to warm the room that was the focal point of their home. A thin, dark-haired woman she worked quickly with agile fingers performing familiar tasks. Over the well scrubbed iron hob she heated a pan of water for tea, and a frying pan in which she proceeded to fry three eggs, one each for her, Stefan and Mircea. Stefan looked forward to the weekends. Not only was he free from school, he would eat more than mamaliga – maize porridge – and stale bread. Winter lingered long in that northern valley, and it would be months before Maria’s vegetable garden yielded beans, carrots and delicious tomatoes.

Stefan had turned fifteen the previous October, the month in which most birthdays fell in the mountains. Well muscled by farm chores, with the jet black hair and deep brown eyes that were usual amongst the peasants of that valley, he was tall for his age and might even pass for seventeen. As his grandfather had said, Stefan had better take care not to be taken by an army drafting party. However that particular joke had not been cracked since the previous December, when the Nicolae and Elena Ceausescu had been executed. Those events had seemed far away to Stefan, and they were little talked about amongst the peasants. Not much tangible had changed in the village. The trains still ran. The foresters still cut timber and loaded it onto freight cars at the station. There were a few more things in the dusty little village shop. Meat had appeared on several occasions, and each time people had queued all morning waiting for the delivery truck to arrive. Most significantly the village policeman was considerably less sure of himself, and the mayor seemed more interested in making friends with those he had previously ignored. 

 

Inspiration

Sometimes inspiration springs forth sudden as a bandit. And sometimes inspiration grows over time, after a night-time of gestation appearing slow but growing like a summer mountain dawn. 

Today a white horse came towards me upon the crest of White Horse Hill. There he is before the ramparts of Uffington hill fort. That is a sight to inspire a scene in a story, the horseman appearing like a prophesy. Just think of the rider appearing through the heat haze in Lawrence of Arabia. Though more often it's women who ride out of nowhere in my stories. Isn't Epona female, after all? Isn't this the land of the Celtic white horse? (See how I make excuses! Let's be honest, simply I enjoy writing rich, strong female characters. Is that because I work with some strong male leaders, therefore I don't need to invent them in fiction? Perhaps not - the ongoing search for my birth mother plays a part too.) 

Over time inspiration has been growing within me to write about my former home, my place of exile amongst the Romanian mountains. Well I've begun. A plot stands sketched out, and the first three thousand words are written. They flowed easily. As Tolkien had the Elves say, put all that you love into all that you do. Well, I loved those mountains and the people that inhabited them. Sometimes, like a family, people disagreed, squabbled and worked against one-another. It feels like a more mature project. I'm writing a strong male character in the midst of it. I'm not seeking refuge in the realm of fantasy. The story addresses a reality the implications of which are still playing out therefore, as author, I have a moral duty to be handle facts responsibly. I want to write a moral tale in the sense that it explores right and wrong, seeing the roles that they play in a society. And I want to be absolved from the mistakes that I made back in 1990 when I was younger and quite out of my depth. 

For this I have material aplenty. I saw many things, and wrote copious notes. I met good people and rogues, encountered wisdom and foolishness alike, ran up against agendas and prejudice, and faced a little downright evil. To live and travel in a place that seemed strange and illogical to me, sometimes plain wrong, but which made perfect sense to the locals, now that was an experience. 

It may be an inspired step to write about a people rarely depicted in literature. There will be less competition. Equally there may be fewer readers. But it's worth trying. I have the knowledge and the passion. I can find a voice for this tale. And there is a tale to tell, about the peculiar confused times after the execution of Nicolae Ceausescu when we foreigners found out just how naive we really were. 

Writing about my place of exile, I needed to change the music playing in the background. Western folk music, which I love, just didn't set the right atmosphere. On came Bela Bartok. Yes, Bartok was Hungarian, however he collected tunes from across the whole of former Austro-Hungary which had encompassed my erstwhile home. I hadn't expected to need to change the music. Now that's an eye-opener. 

Writing to gain

A conversation set me thinking about what I am trying to gain from my writing. 

Sometimes it helps to look at the opposite. What am I not seeking? Well, not money. I have a good job. Most likely I'll make more from progressing at work than from commercial writing. I'm not necessarily seeking influence either. I make my difference to society via my work and through a couple of textbooks. One of those books concerns equestrian business and will, I hope, help people and horses. Fame? No, I don't want my life to be picked over mercilessly by the peccadillo-seeking vultures. I had enough of that particular division of malice from my first wife. 

So what is it that I seek to gain? 

Perhaps it would be easier to ask what I want to regain? 

Writing is a way both to gain and to regain. It's a form of living a wild outdoor equestrian life akin to the one that I once enjoyed, but with greater adventure and less of the mundane. It's a way to join in epic deeds, change a world, acquire a memorable partner and live happily ever after (well, after the trilogy or whatever has concluded). So I can regain the imagery of a past freedom, and gain that safely. In a sense, right now, writing is both therapy to heal the wounds of loss and a wonderful opportunity to go beyond the boundaries that constrained me then and the practicalities that hem me in today. 

Exploration, too, is a goal. Not the physical kind, of course, but a journey through ideas and concepts. What might it be like if...? How would I react when...? More personally, writing offers the opportunity to explore the shadowy corners of a complex mind. Therapeutically this is valuable, personally vital if progress is to be made, though the ensuing material does require editing. Some darkness is best not shared. 

I've said that fame isn't an objective. But, working as a wilderness guide, I did enjoy being the centre of attention at least for a few people. I found the way, knew the history, recounted the folklore, told more and less tall stories, and explained the sometimes peculiar things that we saw. It is nice to be the focal point of something. Probably that is rather egocentric of me. But being at the centre does scratch an itch. This is the extravert part. The regaining and exploring are introspective actions, quiet and personal. Not so this third exhibitionist thread. 

Finally writing is a way to create a comforting world that isn't necessarily available here through fortune, circumstance, social factors or geography. I love the idea of finding that cozy cottage in the woods where travellers meet, where cloaks of persona and pretence may be cast away in the fireside warmth. A place to give and receive through mutual hospitality. Can it be a real place? In a story it can be created, like Rivendell, good and beautiful. In my stories I can be true and faithful in the guise of a favourite character, inspirationally so. In that way perhaps I shall become closer to finding my Elven hall? 

Horses for literature

I've been re-writing a part of Spirit Horse that, not surprisingly, involves horses. My hero arrived on horseback, his hosts ride, and so do some neighbours and a few enemies. But what horses? 

The hero arrives on a gelding. For someone from the modern age, that makes complete sense. It also accords with my rather rough stereotyping. In my experience, a gelding is most likely to do as he is asked. I've worked with some lovely co-operative geldings. A stallion requires a more assertive approach. Doru was an exception, more 'one of the lads' than pushy, however for most of his life he'd been amongst stallions and geldings. Like most stallions I've worked with, he would barge on through whatever I asked him to face, and that aspect of his character was valuable. A mare tends to ask questions. Brena's personality certainly intrudes into what we do together. My relationship with her was more complex than any with a stallion or a gelding. Most often it's been mares that I've experienced difficulties with. 

My hero encounters a remote household whose members happen to be equestrian nomads. They lived a long time ago: I've allowed myself a little time travel as a plot device. What horses would those people ride? Mares or stallions? Gelding didn't appear until comparatively recently, though the Scythians did geld many of their stallions around two millennia ago. Mares would have been the logical choice, however stallions could have lived relatively peacefully in a bachelor band. But if their horses roamed free, how remote would they have needed to live? 

Then there is the matter of equine behaviour. My hero's gelding is going to be a well-behaved and co-operative creature whose temperament will save his rider's life. He would also be able to co-exist with his hosts' horses, be they mares or stallions. If the hosts ride mares, they will need to deal with 'marishness' - though I expect that equestrian nomads could deal with most things. If they ride stallions, there will be other behaviours to cope with, and an enemy with mares could cause problems. That might lead to a consideration of what comprises 'masculinity' - do the men 'need' to ride stallions? Or is gender handled more subtly? For greater interest I think that these nomads need a female deity, who might appear both young and old to represent love (and fertility, etc) and wisdom. 

I am tempted to cast the hosts as riding mares. They are seers and shamans, so odd behaviour might be welcome, and would certainly be accepted - in horses and in my hero too. The warriors would ride stallions, potentially charging as a wild noisy herd whilst arrows are shot and spears flung. In a secure place herds of mares would be kept for breeding. It does sound like an interesting culture to describe. 

What do you think? 

And then there are matters of type and colour. Those I shall write about another time. 

Comfort

It's always a pleasure when one of the cats ventures into my office. Tiger, the oldest, can stretch his welcome by jumping onto my desk and trying to sit on the keyboard. At such times I pick him up gently and put him down on my saddle. Then he remembers how nice and cozy that hairy old blanket really is, settles down, and dozes. 

I dreamed long and deeply last night. It was encouraging to realise how those dreams symbolised a journey. Familiar images cropped up: freewheeling a bicycle down a long gentle hill; a strong powerful locomotive setting off; walking along a faintly lit street. Then my old home appeared. But it was a ruin, the land sold, horses long gone: highlighting the profound distance between that exile and today's productive life. It's more than a gap measured in miles. Emotionally I've outgrown that village. I've thrown off the shackles of a place that cease to liberate. When I was down, that life buoyed me up. When I began to soar aloft, it grabbed my feet to hold me down. One must conform, it cried. One must accept limited horizons. Well I don't. The journey continues. So I still ride, but on a new mare. I write with a greater breadth and fluency. I do a job that contributes to society. 

The trick, now, is to look upon exile benevolently. I think that I do. This wasn't an easy place to reach, honest reflection by a benign spirit. I shed judgement, cast down superiority, and remembered the goodness shown to me. Exile was a good home to me, and tolerant of my mistakes. My body was the intolerant one, saying "enough!" after fifteen thousand miles in the saddle. That is destiny: unknown when I began; more powerful than my whims; a force propelling me towards the place where I should go. 

This evening I wrote a fresh chapter. I began with an idea, sketched some thoughts and entered the fray. A peculiar thing happened. The story took on a mind of its own. My hero faced a challenge newly dreamt up, responded with growing vigour, and made a mistake the consequences of which he must face. The journey is like that. One lives in the moment, acts spontaneously, gains new and fresh experiences, and learns the unexpected. After this many years travelling my responses are wiser. That creates a virtuous circle of self-trust that breeds confidence. In a dynamic place I find comfort.