Growing up, one of the things that fascinated me was collecting bird feathers in the garden. I would hunt high and low to get my hands on a feather. More often than not, the feathers I could find were grey, black or mundane. Sometimes large and straight, sometimes short and fluffy- but mostly grey and black. When I got extremely lucky I sometimes found the feather of a kingfisher- bright blue- a prized possession which would then get posted on a school scrap book project.
Feathers were a magical thing to me- the things that separated men from the birds. They were the things that could set you free and get you to where you wanted. In some ways I guess that was the start of my love for travelling. Trying to imagine where this solitary abandoned feather could have come from- to think about where the bird would have flown before reaching this very spot where its feather fell.