Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.

The true traveler never arrives.

We are all roamers of vast spaces and travelers in many ages.

But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?

Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I have seen.