Henry Eliot is a literary walker. He is co-editor of Curiocity, a map-magazine of unusual experiences in London, and is currently editing a documentary about mazes and labyrinths. He is writing a novel about the Medieval Earthly Paradise.
And also in the countries where I have been, be many more diversities of many wonderful things than I make mention of; for it were too long thing to devise you the manner. For if that I devised you all that is beyond the sea, another man, peradventure, that would pain him and travail his body for to go into those marches for to ensearch those countries, might be blamed by my words in rehearsing many strange things; for he might not say nothing of new, in the which the hearers might have either solace, or disport, or lust, or liking in the hearing. For men say always, that new things and new tidings be pleasant to hear.
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth inspired hath in every holt and heeth the tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, and smale fowles maken melodye, that slepen al the night with open yë so priketh hem nature in hir corages: than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
"What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators, Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?" So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply "They are merely conventional signs! "Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes! But we've got our brave Captain to thank:" (So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best — A perfect and absolute blank!"
O'er seas that have no beaches to end their waves upon, I floated with twelve peaches, a sofa and a swan. The blunt waves crashed above us, the sharp waves burst around. There was no one to love us, no hope of being found - where, on the notched horizon, so endlessly a-drip, I saw all of a sudden no sign of any ship.
In a Wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by, dreaming as the summers die: ever drifting down the stream — lingering in the golden gleam — life, what is it but a dream?