I could have written about the crazy camping kit I just bought this week, or my friend’s annual BBQ in Selkirk where I rocked up in a home-made Joan of Arc costume, but all I really want to do is continue devouring the hell out of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. And as this is my 100th post, I decided I’m allowed to do whatever I want. Including not write a proper post this week.
So next week I’ll be back with wonderful stories of my first ever Scottish camping/hiking trip, which starts Friday. But for now, I leave you with this:
You write that tourism is a search for a place that will embrace you. Is that partly what you’re doing with your walks?
No, not really. I’m an unrepentant Londoner, and the places that have chosen me (because I think it’s that way round: places choose you, rather than vice versa), have already done so. I think you only have room for two or three serious affairs of place in a lifetime, just as you only have emotional space for two or three serious love affairs.
Psychogeography is next on the list then.