under the wheel of the sky. Dates, Spanakopita and Crémant on the ground rug and the farmer ambling over the field to nod hello in the glow time, still flecked with chewed up greenery from his evening strimming. I took more sleep than I expected when the dark came, S-curled in my sleeping bag on the wool mattress. Breakfast in a Stur bakery and then away, only hours in the county. One hundred miles from home but the land has changed, all lost valleys and cornfields and the block of the sea just over the hills. Each time down there I want to stay. And when I’m back I want to be away. We chase after the things we think will make us happy, in my dawn thoughts and my rare journeys. Home for a week and then away to the Malvern Hills, to British Camp, riding the train as it hums by Charlbury, Kingham, on to Evesham. Wheels and sky always turning.