Wasdale wasn’t the only magical time that summer. Diamonds in the night sky, seen from a friend´s garden in Preston of all places. Dawn on a sea wall looking out over reclaimed salt marsh, the sunrise feeling like the first morning of creation, warming the earth and giving it life, warming me and giving me life. Bach as the sound of the universe. William Blake, Roger Waters, Jim Morrison, Van Gogh, Goya : reports from their travels. Long conversations between friends about Rimbaud, Hesse, Nietzsche, Huxley … naïve young minds struggling beyond their limits, stretched, never to regain their old shape again.
28 years later: A walled garden in the Valle Sagrado, Peru, a deep valley surrounded by mountains dotted with Inca ruins and terraces, bright sunshine, thin air, clouds scudding by high overhead, an infinitely changing tapestry. A curandero sings gentle icaros and shakes a chakapa. A dog runs across the grass, golden hair flowing, impossibly fascinating. Flowers almost ready to burst they are so full of life. Mountains alive, breathing, living. Hours slipping by while time stands still. Sunset listening to Enigma Variations, tears rolling down our cheeks, the best classical concert of her life according to Maret. The doors of perception opened once more, overseen by a stand of benevolent cacti.
Coming home again. Coming home again.