We walked along the beach soon after our arrival at Murari - the sun was setting, the sea and sky glowing with soft red light - the air was warm and still - slim figures were diving into the generous waves -
Looking up at the iconic foliage of the palm trees, I thought of Alain de Botton's Art of Travel - I'd read it before my diagnosis of bowel cancer - this was now how I measured time - the beach he described in his first chapter, On Anticipation, seemed very much like this one - his had white sands, a tropical sea, elegant palm trees - so had mine -
Anne had said, after I'd shown her those pages of spare, graceful, prose - the trouble with travel then, he says, is that you take yourself with you -
But unlike the silken philosopher, I knew that the self I'd bought with me, from gentle rainy Wareham, was happy, at ease with itself, untroubled by spectres of the future -
Anne had said, after I'd shown her those pages of spare, graceful, prose - the trouble with travel then, he says, is that you take yourself with you -
But unlike the silken philosopher, I knew that the self I'd bought with me, from gentle rainy Wareham, was happy, at ease with itself, untroubled by spectres of the future -
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