With a stiff wind and billowing clouds that sailed across the sky, I felt like I could have been out on the Scottish moors today. Well, at least that's how I imagine the Scottish moors might feel like. Some day I'll have to go and see for myself.
It's strange how you can feel as though you know a place that you have never been, or a person that only exists in someone's imagination. February is one of the best times for books for this very reason.
There are a lot of ways to travel without leaving home. TV and movies can take you away to far off places, but I don't think they are nearly as effective as other forms of armchair travel that require more mental activity. Writing takes you into the past or future, and your imagination by itself can take you dreaming away somewhere if you give it time and quiet enough. But books are probably my favorite form of escapist voyaging. When I read about people who were children in the early 20th century I am wistful for the days when books held such a prominent place in the lives of people of all ages. I worry that our powers of mental imagery and creative imagining are becoming stunted. The Maine writer whose life story I'm working on was born in 1894, and her childhood ramblings both in the real and fictional countrysides are enchanting to me.
Now and again the itch for real travel gets under my skin. To wake up in a new place now and again shakes one out of the rut of routine. But in the interim, I'll happily take flight in that more accessible interior realm.
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