A journey is a fragment of Hell.

Man's real home is not a house, but the Road, and that life itself is a journey to be walked on foot.

And when you look along the way we've come, there are spirals of vultures wheeling.

If this were so; if the desert were 'home'; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert - then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall on us; why possessions exhaust us, and why Pascal's imaginary man found his comfortable lodgings a prison.

Travel doesn't merely broaden the mind. It makes the mind.

As a general rule of biology, migratory species are less 'aggressive' than sedentary ones. There is one obvious reason why this should be so. The migration itself, like the pilgrimage, is the hard journey: a 'leveller' on which the 'fit' survive and stragglers fall by the wayside. The journey thus pre-empts the need for hierarchies and shows of dominance. The 'dictators' of the animal kingdom are those who live in an ambience of plenty. The anarchists, as always, are the 'gentlemen of the road'.

It's an old sailor's idea that every ship has a rope with one end made fast to her bows and the other held by the loved ones at home.