Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
My week has been all knitting and unpicking and writing, though thankfully not un-writing, and so today is just a “quote and a picture” day. A remembrance of sunnier moments, further afield, of misty mountains framed in stone arches, glimpses of futures that we can only dream of today, but which we will return to soon enough.
Actually, when I visited Elne back in 2005, it was a place I could imagine staying in to write a novel. It is one of those ideas that are set like Victorian dishes in aspic. An idea that was dependent upon the particular way the sun shone that day and the absence of dour thoughts; never to be recaptured; never to be lived. Perhaps that was one of those moments where realities bifurcate and in one version of reality I returned to Elne years later and stayed there and wrote my novel, whereas in this reality it didn’t happen that way.
Do you ever wonder if there are other versions of yourself scattered about in co-existing planes, walking the paths you didn’t walk and doing the things that passed you by?