"The promised
path disappears into quicksand, floating
islets, military exclusion
zones. The
broad Thames grumbles at our side, a working
river, an
accidental wildlife sanctuary. The first
morning is a
process of deprogramming, killing the
urban twitch; not
saying much, being
together. Such a
short distance from
London, this silence. Strategic pillboxes on shingle bars. Then, for
an hour or more, nothing. Moving
easily, we make constant adjustments to the varied terrain.
Wet-footed, stone-spiked, or lifting from springy turf, we are chasing no particular
story, we
drift like logs on the dark
water. The
walker vanishes into the
walk."
Iain Sinclair,
Ghost Milk: Calling Time on the Grand Project, London: Hamish Hamilton, 2011, 191.
