And Thus Begins The Web - Day 2 (Llansilin to Saint-Quentin)

"I am the things that are, that will be, and that have been. No one has ever laid open the garment by which I am concealed. The fruit which I brought forth was the sun"

Credit: http://myworld1.deviantart.com/

After three thousand or more years weathered by sand and rain, Neith's exquisitely woven bandages fell to the ground, the shroud disintegrated, and the gift of death stole silently back into the shadows. Karura was alive again. For so long the goddess had protected him from annihilation; standing guard with her arrow and bow until no one even remembered his name. Until the precise moment that the last person who had felt his presence expired and his very existence became no more than an echo in the breaking waves. Yet in her greatest task, Neith had failed, and with her failure his proud heart tore itself asunder, unleashing a passion not even the waters of the great Nile itself could quench. The crocodiles and the birds knew of his pain and would steal out to soothe his burning forehead each night as Karura slept. The fish kept silent vigil. Waiting. Praying to the gods.

Karura could feel the wind now. The sun on his face and the smell of the fields tore into him, pushing through his skin, into his eyes, his ears and his nostrils, nourishing his very being. For months this feeling had been his goal, his solace. Now, at this very moment in time, nothing else mattered. No aspiration, no purpose, no desire, no yesterdays, no tomorrow. He glanced behind briefly. A futile gesture. But this was not a moment for sharing and he turned his face back to the wind. Tucked into his breast pocket, close to his heart, was a reminder of two young boys, a recent farewell and of the tears that had almost breached defences forged through many, many months of grief. Karura twisted the throttle a little further and the bike swept forwards more urgently, the perfectly balanced beat of an inline triple reverberating through his body, massaging his soul. The great plains of Shropshire lay dazzlingly wide behind him, punctuated by hills and part encircled by mountains. This was the view he loved so much when travelling homewards. Home, that restorative place of belonging, contentment and love is, above all, where the heart lies. But his heart did not lie. 

He was heading east now and soon would swing round to the south and the sea. Four weeks and four thousand miles. This time tomorrow, he would be in Vienne at the Roman 'Théâtre Antique', listening to the music of the gods and learning to dance. Karura followed the arc of the curve, sinking deeper into that trance like state where the bike and rider become one and there is nothing left to contemplate beyond the magic of the moment.

"Passport, please". She looked at Karura from behind resigned, restless eyes and through differing roots a flash of envy on both sides brought him back to a very different, more tangible but somehow less real 'now'. Paperwork complete and helmet on tank, Karura traversed the final few yards of English soil then took his place high up on the top of the ship, all the better to watch the emerging stars. Peace enveloped him. France beckoned. The gods smiled.

Leave No Tracks - Day 1 (Last night in Llansilin)

“Without new experiences, something inside of us sleeps. The sleeper must awaken.” – Frank Herbert

There are no yesterdays on the road. Nobody who knows who you are, what you have done, where you come from. Nobody who knows your shame and your triumph. Nobody who has seen you laugh, cry or dream. It is almost as if you could cease to exist. You eat, sleep, observe, talk, and think; but most of all you move and keep moving. While moving you exist. For only when all is calm are you extinguished. For some unfathomable reason I can't stop pulling myself from the nothingness to which I aspire. Like all dreamers I fell asleep and my lips the angry Mab with blisters plagued as I lay dreaming of love. Then later, when dreaming of hate, I came to see both as coincident forms of passion. With my passion I am alive. With my passion the old horizons are sponged away and something new is coming into being. A million tiny metamorphoses have combined within me, paving a way for the forthcoming tempestuous uprising. The sleeper must awaken and my story must begin . . . . . . 

(With apologies to Jean Paul Sartre and Shakespeare for tugging at their ankles)