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Sunday, 21st April

Travel is what I do, it's what defines me. Moi, myself, I, Adam Cruise, because it's in my blood and I can't (and don't) want to stop - ever. I love it, the act of moving from one place to another is revitalising. It is all about the change of view, a new smell, different sounds, a sense of deja vu in places I have never been is intrinsic to my being. And it doesn't have to be far away either, just down the road can sometimes suffice (just read Thoreaus's Walden). Typically travelling is for some length of time but this too is not definitive. I have often been energised by a single night away from the drugery of daily routine and normalcy (apologies to the anglophiles for this last Americanism but for some reason I prefer it). But as with anything there are degrees of travel and while some forms are exhalting and enlightening others are downright labourious. Since I am on  matters 'patois', the English term 'travel' originates from the French word 'travaille' which means 'to work' indicating that some or the early Latin speakers from Gaul at least found travel tiresome and in those days it probably was. The French were not alone, we English speakers have borrowed another more indicative derivative of 'travaille' - 'travail', a noun or verb meaning a painful or laborious effort - and that's precisely what somes up my latest adventure. 

This is not the sort of travel that appears in most travel brochures and while it can produce those desired mind and soul uplifting affects, the actual journey itself was not pleasant. This was definitely a case of 'it's much better to arrive than the journey of getting there'. What diabolical act of travel was this? It is the worst kind I tell you - I moved from one house to another.

What do they say are the three most disruptive experiences in one's life? Well this one is true, even for a seasoned mover of houses. Indeed, I have moved at least two dozen times in my life, every one has been burdonsome and wearisome and this was no different. Organising a multitude of administrative and bureaucratic nasties, convincing three well-esconsed non-travel minded cats that this was a good thing, selling furniture, realisng what junk one has accumulated over a decade, dealing with obdurate estate agents and even more obdurate new owners is something I would want to repeat, except...except as much a travail as it was, the action was still travel in the purest sense because the reward for being on the move remains, as it does with all other forms of travel. For me one of the greatest things about travel is change of scenary. So, does this picture above, taken from my new bed at 6:30am on my first morning and not digitally enhanced in the slightest, not just some it all up? Some hard yards were covered for this view but whew was it worth it!

This panoramic place, I might hasten to add, is but mere Purgatory, the half-way station. In four months from now I will against my previous proclamatio be sweating all over again but this time the destination is the lavender and juniper scented hills of Provence.

The move from house to house was not the only travail this past month. The thing about being a travel writer is that occasionally one has to stop moving about and take a moment to reflect, which, in my case, is to write. Actually writing is hardly a travail, except that it costs a fortune to travel and the remuneration from one's writings are pitiful to say the least and THAT is travailling. It's a wonder I can afford to travel at all. Nonetheless, it's been a good month. I have had a slew of articles covering a wide variety of subjects published in various magazines and newspapers. Indeed, the article on the Best of the best of Cape Town is all about the trials and tribulations of completing this near impossible Herculean task, but I prevailled and here are the results [click here].


Also I had a trio of articles published in a single edition of Submerge Magazine about extreme scuba diving adventures I have endured from psychotic cyclones to circling sharks; and finally after reading in a weekend newspaper about someone lamenting the continued presence of the statue of General Louis Botha outside Cape Town's parliament buildings, I felt compelled to defend the man (since I am researching his war exploits in the South West African campaign is 1914/15 for a future travel story) and wrote a counter-argument extolling the much-maligned General which was accepted by the newspaper the following weekend.