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There is nothing better than reading in the great outdoors, even if it is just a park in the centre of a city or a cemetery in a small forgotten town. It is the swaying of the branches overhead, the lapping of the water against the sandbank, the rustle of the leaves next to my ear, the invisible wave of the wind on my shoulder, the chill of an autumn day going up my spine, or it is the heat of a summer’s afternoon that cause me to perspire, that makes me feel physically connected to the landscape of where I am at that moment, at that time.
All in all the ever-changing outdoor world is a beautiful environment in which to become enveloped by novels and travel books. For me it makes me feel as if I am taking part in the piece of writing that I am reading, the coldness of the winter morn draws me closer to the humanity that is expressed by the written word. There is no other media quite like a good simple book, humble in its origin but irreplaceable by its loss.
The wall cuts the country but the gate rusts.
The green sea beyond you and me,
Swallowed in a cacophony,