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there are trains leaving, just waiting for you to hop aboard. If you want the answers, go to Greece and ask the questions, Nigeria, go to Fukushima, the North Dakota fracking plains, go to the last hidden places, Western Sahara and Mauritania, Amazon tepui and all the lost valleys, get the train over to Vladivostok, sail to the sand islands in the South China Sea, go to Rio della Sensa in Venice, get out and sniff the air. Don’t tell me you’re bored and there’s nothing going on. You think there’s nothing going on, get a ticket to Syria and tell me what you see there, that’s something I’d want to read. Tell me some truths. Write from the heart. And play from the heart too. You want the answers, listen to Coltrane, only love and tenderness and eyes wide open could make A love supreme, and only a cold, dead heart could resist it. The answers are all there, just waiting for you to stumble over them – in your own backstreets and tumbled dreams.

in the great carnival of events, those plane smashes, train crashes, poll upsets, pregnant pandas and politicos caught pilfering or pretending – and why am I surprised that they lie, when that’s what we always urge them to do? Better off abandoning papers and the flickering screen that bring me the news, why learn of the next turn of the wheel out of my hands, the spin and shuffle of another accident and outrage? It never seems to change things, my knowing. I begin to think it’s nothing but outright vanity or laziness my clinging to the passage of events, being curious. Better to be curious about the swans and the walk through the glade. There’s more sense there, more truth in a walk with a friend and the canopy of the sky and the water rolling by. For behind each event are other layers and motives, twists in the narrative, weighings and sortings, yearnings and hates, all the unknown forces and influences, even down to the great mysteries of whether these things are preplanned, written, or chaotic and free. But my walk by the Blenheim lake isn’t like that. Sure, there’s much hidden and designed and unknown to me in that landscape, but I’m content with the scope of my eyes. Perhaps, what you see is enough, sweet enough to knit all ravelled sleaves of care.

for the English lion, a step away from the Blenheim estate. I walked through the lakeside firs towards the great palace beforehand, a mirage of empire wealth and sandstone splendour away on the plain. Winston was born here but he never got to call the big house his own. And I tell my kids he mattered, talk of his oratory and spirit, as though he has some place in their view of the world. Laughing in the churchyard, whispering a line from some song they heard in the car. And me thinking of the snaps I’ve seen today, our world leaders assembled at the Paris march, but in truth crowded together in some guarded side street far from the masses and their unity placards, hired extras behind them to pose as the people they represent. Craven and self-serving and low are our leaders. Who will tell proud stories of them to their children, I wonder? And am I a fool for thinking Churchill would have turned his back on their linked arms and squalid deceit?

leads up from the C.S. Lewis house, out in the northern fringe of the town. It opens onto a green wood, a nature trail and the first ridges of Shotover Park. This was the writer’s garden wilderness, for Aslan contemplations and whispers of the universal mystery mixed in the wind, the ring road traffic purr and the trembling leaves.

free from danger. Free to express what you think and feel, with no hate in your heart. Who could want the world any other way?

no regress, all in balance. And to match and mock my sunlight musings, a cannon hole moon in the starless sky.

and only eight light minutes away. Hard and heavy as that Kruggerand chip I examined in a Leicester Square coin shop, back in my twenties. I had a plan to buy one per quarter, a stash for the zombie apocalypse of middle age. Another plan that passed in the night murk, a mile or two off my bow. And twenty years before that, in my grandfather’s workshop I held a pebble of gold in my gangrel fist, a first clutch at the sun metal. And the light in my eyes was already thousands of years old, the long struggle to escape the great star’s gravity tug and then the eight minute dash across the void. Pebble, Kruggerand, Buckingham sun.

about nations having their own crowd symbols, images of unity that underpin and encompass an individual’s sense of identity with the societal mass. We sea-fever Brits got the ocean wave. And the Germans got the forest. No jungle chaos for Canetti, he has the trees as stout, sky-scraping winter warriors, the land-spanning Taiga belt of conifers with their bark as protective as chain mail, as uniform as ranks of feldgrau sentinels. It seems unwise to me, trying to stamp a nation with a symbol, but I can see the attraction, for that’s what we do to this world and its wonders with our letterbox-on-the-universe peering minds, generalizing and surmising, deducing and guessing as we journey through our days. We do it from the first scream to our last flutter, making sense of the insensible. But I don’t go into the woods and see order, warriors, a press of like-minds and a tight-knit volk. I don’t feel returned to the tribe. Fair to Canetti, it could be that’s because I’m not German – but I feel lonely on the sea too. I go to the woods for the quiet and the calm, and the feeling they’ve stood undisturbed and mysterious long before my arrival. I go there to feel alone. Leaf-kicking outsiders and mopers, where is our crowd symbol?

they’ve chained a mug to a rad in Turing’s old hut as an anecdote prop. There’s no whiff or trace of the real about it, a simulacrum that’s seen no tide of tea or scrub-out with wartime Vim. Like much of the place, it feels new, untouched and fresh-painted. The best sights are the crumbling huts just out of view from the main drag, remnants of rusted wiring pipes and cracked paving runs, the feel of an old airbase with the last patrol long gone. I went to ask if the mug was authentic, received my shrug and nod, awkward bugger, be on your way. It was the same at Trotsky’s house in Mexico City, when I asked if the icepick pinned high on the wall over the cash desk was the murder weapon. Why ask, Gringo? Vamos. But there’s real and not real. And a great store of mystery between the two.

it blows, night wind fortunes, the sting of a secret kiss, a new valley over the hill, the low song of the traveller. All our fates on this wind keening for the sea.