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Do you remember? Do you remember? When gazing at the northern winter wind careering through the bare branches of the poplar trees and the sickle moon high in the northern sky. Before you the dark eddying water of the canal, the surface smooth, then touched by the wind, flurries and sparkles, reflections of city lights. We dream. The screech of the metro as it rumbles and clinks across the bridge. And later still, on the island, the rock, watching the seas bubbling with froth and intent, sink and rise against the jagged red-yellow of the coast. Or as a disc of pale burnished gold, this sun, crosses the horizon casting its energy, its light as evenings shadow withdraws, past the recumbent cat who sleeps and idles in the doorway, dancing down the narrow street. In the quiet morning kitchen as the coffee pot grows cold; do you remember, do you recall what we once did, how far we travelled, how far from home we went? Tracing across the night-time sky, neither stars nor the earth, the finite between. When we sat beside crackling fires with the immense heavens above, smoke and sparks mingled among the palms and faces unfamiliar peered in, the humid tepid air of the tropics, the smell of sweat and the river bank where women laundered and the children laughed and played. And a voice, always present calls again; do you remember, old friend…do you remember?

Tim Lewis, reflections on travel, work, filming and dear friendship

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