Stanley Stewart revisits the Mongolian steppes of his past and immerses himself again in a world of wild horses, chain-smoking shamans, and the haunting songs of nomads.
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Saturday 8 May 2021
At sunrise, under cumulonimbus like cloud mountains, a trawler leaves Mazara del Vallo. The skipper has her on slow ahead. Between this little Sicilian port and Tunisia, just over the horizon, are fat catches of sardines, anchovies and prawns. There is almost no hurry in this region, none on the coast this morning. The sea has been flat for days. I began my exploration of western Sicily here because Mazara is its ancient gateway and one of the towns I love best. An easy drive from the station or the airport at Palermo, along a road that takes you past the stunning Greek temple at Segesta, Mazara is the most languid edge of Europe.
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Alistair Taylor-Young
I’m completely institutionalised. We all are. Yesterday my husband was upset no one noticed that he’d changed the doorknob on a cupboard. ‘They’re teenagers baby, I’m not sure they notice stuff like that, even if we have been in this house FOR A YEAR.’ But we had a reveal party for the doorknob anyway, and gathered round, threw back the curtain that was my jacket and whooped like it was something.
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For a person who used to be on a plane or train every week (can that really be right? Seems nuts. Paris and New York, or Milan, or Nice, or Geneva. Certainly every other week), the fact that days now pass without me leaving the house is astonishing. I feel part wolf; my hearing has become exceptionally fine-tuned. Like, I can hear the scratch of the grasses in the wind, but also everyone eating, every singular hyper-actualised crunch and munch. (‘Chew that cracker anywhere near me and I swear I will detach your head from your body with th