He would say very little, I thought, sitting on a rock by the Atlantic in the evening, the smell of the sea, the sounds of the waves.
The fisherman knows, I thought, that the next wave will break up over the shelf, and so he moves along, casts again into swell.
We are in Turkey again, and I spoke with a homeless man with a wounded leg. He has waited for three years for his clearance, is a polyglot, wonders which country to head for next.
Bright sunshine over the rooftops in Gaziantep, looking over to the hills behind the university and beyond.
