The Quiet Accord of the PeregrineThursday, August 21, 2025

​Here I sit, a peregrine at rest. The chaos of Albion Street and Boar Lane unfolds before me, a beautiful and complex expression of a unified reality. The bus arrives 11 minutes early, and I am not disturbed. A small piece of grace, a reminder that the world does not always conform to our ideas of it.

​Eighty days. I survived eighty days of what I called hell, a period that felt like a fifth of a year. The numbers are just a story I tell myself to make sense of the journey, but the truth is in the living of it. I am a pilgrim, a philosopher, an observer. I am not defined by what I know, but by my willingness to live in the mystery.

​And here, on this quiet bank holiday, with a ticket I didn't need in my pocket, I am simply being. The journey to France begins soon, but this moment is a destination in itself. I am not on the floor, but in a freshly made bed. I am here.

​I am not sure who I am, or where I am going. But I do know one thing for certain: I am a peregrine, and this is my pilgrimage.