And with that morning light, I looked deep into the forest’s eye; iris to iris.
In recent months I have relied on the thoughts of my readers in the production and release of my first published book, A Walk to the Water. And what marvelous contributors you were. Now drifting about the ether, I thought it the right time to share some of the wonderful feedback the book has received. So here it is.
Holding a book launch in my home city, I was delighted to see many friendly faces.
Trail Angels from the path were bountiful, and how fortunate we were for their help. After A Walk to the Water was released, I sent them all a copy.
Of all the reviews received, my favourite are those written by hand.
“For lovers of intrepid travel,” Hostelling International wrote, “this is the ultimate read for the road.”
Some years ago I undertook a degree at Plymouth University on the south coast of England. My time there was invaluable. After hearing of A Walk to the Water, the university produced a case study.
A Walk to the Water can be bought from all major online book stores as a paperback and an ebook. To get your hands on copy of A Walk to the Water, please follow the links below:
We set up camp at the foot of Mont Thabor. To our east lay Italy and to our west France. Not far from our tent, a rocky chasm, like the gullet of a large beast, swallowed bowls of churning water as the larch trees about our persons swayed in a mellow breeze. The afternoon was warm and our minds placid.
With my bare feet cushioned above the short, springy grass, I was surprised to see a bottle fly – metallic-jade and cobalt across its thorax – drop dead from the air. The insect landed close to my toes, on its back and motionless. A minute or two later, a lone ant turned up at the scene, soon joined by an army of a dozen or more. Heaving, lifting and guiding, it wasn’t long before the fly, and indeed the squadron of well-organised ants, disappeared out of sight.
Do we – organisms – live for ourselves and die for each other?
Thrilled at the prospect of a night beneath Mont Blanc, we skulked off the path and made camp amongst a scattering of alder shrub. It was dark, yet the soft radiance of the moon illuminated the snow-drenched crest of the White Mountain with a subtle, sapphire glow. In the low light, she was humble.
When morning came, we unzipped the tent and stared up at the mountain. With the light of day now washed across her contours, her angles were raw, her glaciers bleeding and her atmosphere volatile. What a stark contrast she was from the day previous.
At a glance, the White Mountain is strong and definite. But have no doubt, she has a dynamism that could conquer a storm in the desert and the waves through the sea.