To walk alone and analogue, without device, directions, or distractions, to carry nothing but your body and your thoughts, seems to be a sacred act. Through the genius of apparatus, a man can now record his every step and capture the very image of what he saw, though treated as a pilgrimage, the same walk seems a completely separate experience.
If I were to trade in photographs and films of my wanderings, I’m sure they would evoke much of the same awe and pleasure they fed me. And yet, to hold my silence, and keep this love a secret of my heart would be so rich a joy that I could smile to myself on even the darkest of nights when I linger in its memory.
Yet, what joy is life without its tales and adventures, its mysteries, histories, tragedies, and comedies. And so, despite the shallow waters of my imagination, I would conjure forth to all who care to listen, the green cliffs and plains, the water-logged valleys and their golden circlet of gorse, the stunted trees and those heavy with spring’s abundance; and the sight that from that blasted height, unfolded before me: dark clouds spilling with hopeful forecasts, day breaking into blossom, clustered streets of wetted stone, distant hills, and across the water, an island of mists and mirages.