Why does travelling make me so tired? I was only sitting. Is it the being between places, that liminal space of not belonging, that does it? I read and read. Sad stuff mostly. Simone de Beauvoir and Jeanette Winterson. Both about mother daughter relationships that were taut, hard and heavy. And the middle train was so full, so fraught. People stood in the aisles, it was hot and delayed. Fridays on trains should be avoided at all costs. But it was worth it. I felt rested and made healthy by the walking, ferry rides and those hours sitting doing nothing in that beautiful garden. And I return to the last reading of William Trevor’s novel:
‘Her tranquility is their astonishment.’
I shall look the complete collection out. And find it. Such writing.