The desert tells a different story every time one ventures on it.

But wherever there is man, there must be some sort of route

I probably did too much thinking in India. I blame it on the roads, for they were superb.

In London it had seemed impossible to travel without the proper evening clothes. One could see an invitation arriving for an Embassy ball or something. But on the other side of Europe with the first faint tinges of faraway places becoming apparent and exciting, to say nothing of vanishing roads and extra weight, Embassy balls held less significance.

The desert tells a different story every time one ventures on it.