I'd like to see more. Antiquities, museums, beaches, foods, gardens, ruins - every now and then they whisper: "Come here, fool. You're dying every day. Do you want another minute at that suburban cafe?"
I reply that I can write anywhere - even here, in the 'burbs. And that travel will not write for me. But still...
Ruth, who does not hear these sirens, discovered this for me in Virginia Woolf's diary, Tuesday 17th February, 1931:
I feel us, compared with Aldous & Maria [Huxley], unsuccessful. They're off today to do mines, factories... black country; did the docks when they were here; must see England. They are going to the Sex Congress in Moscow, have been in India, will go to America, speak French, visit celebrities,--while here I live like a weevil in a biscuit. ... Lord, how little I've seen, done, lived, felt, thought compared with the Huxleys--compared with anyone. Here we toil, reading & writing, year in year out. No adventure, no travel; darker grows the fog. Here, by some invisible rope, we are bound.(Image: Virginia Woolf, by Roger Fry, c.1917)