a walk through texts

"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.