Wanderlust

I travelled. I was always travelling. You might think of it as a passion, or perhaps, as a means of facilitating the preferred outlets of the passion I felt. I was drawn to danger, drawn to the fierce creatures that lurked in the dark shadows of the open plains. My passion was for the moment of ecstasy as they lunged, and the rifle fired, the bellowing echoes fading far off in the distance. I can taste the adrenalin on my lips, even now. I can feel the sweat on my brow. I can recall the drumming of two hearts in the twilight, my own at a ferocious speed, and that of my prey, quickly drawing to a close. In my youth, my passion was always for the thrill of the hunt.

I wanted to see it all. I engaged upon scores of expeditions, in India, Asia, Africa and the Americas. When I was not travelling in pursuit of my quarry, I travelled for pleasure and for culture. I had visited all of the major cities of Europe before they were ravaged by the Second World War. Some might say that it was an extravagant lifestyle, and I admit that I was rather accustomed to luxury then, as I am to this day. But I was only ever too happy to abandon the rich comforts of home for the earthy carpets of the jungle floor, and forsake my trompe l'oeuil ceilings for the magnificent constellations of a deep blue wilderness sky.

Eventually my travels took me to South America, and that, most significantly, was where my journey truly began.

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