Ah, books. What else. I finished reading The Wild Places by Robert Macfarlane this morning. Every nice thing that you've read about it is true, so do yourself a favour, go to your favourite library or bookshop and get a copy. It belongs to a genre that, to me, is utterly British - and probably not a genre at all. Introspective travel writing. I've read several over the past year and I've loved them all.
Two more memories: reading Clifford Geertz and James Clifford one morning, and hurrying up to Palace Green to find someone waiting for me, lost in a journal article.