Glorious it is, when wandering time has come

Or, so sing the Inuit, I am told. And right they are, for here I find myself a very few hours from an extended walkabout across our splendid world.

One bag packed and no more real errands to run before I slip loose from this continent for – all told – about 185 days. Days of grand adventures in the open air. Days for renewing friendships and chancing across new ones. Days of randomness, absurdity and wonder. Days less ordinary. Days of wine and roses, surely.

Sometimes that is simply what is needed, and so the appropriate sacrifices get made to seize opportunities in line with familiar and old dreams. Be safe, but take risks, I am advised. That puts it exactly right, I think.

Stay tuned, for this really should be lovely. And when that is now and this was then, do remember the soft fog over the bridge out the office window this morning, and how time (even over such lengths) can be so implacable. Amidst inaugural enthusiasm. And yet we love her for it.

"The end is in the beginning, and yet we go on", writes Beckett in Endgame. Always in the travels, there is an element of finality that permeates even the outset and departure, the sure knowledge of return. New eyes are the plain reward. And this time the inevitable end does seem that much further away - I must even confess to a slight nervousness that hangs over the beginning of this crazy deviation from the traditional mappined life. But such things must be done. "I learn by going where I have to go," said someone once. Agreed.

Al-Safar Zafar. Voyaging is victory. Good luck, McMahon. Enjoy yourself.