Still a sad glamour clung to Travel in those days,
The coal-fire in the cold-stone waiting-room
Of a draughty Yorkshire branch-line station,
The 8.00 pm boat-train from Victoria
Rocketing through the dark Kent fields
Arriving at gull-shrieking salt-air Dover.
Orly at dawn waiting in the transit-lounge
For the tense flight across the glittering sea
And on to the hot sands of Africa.
I took advantage of my freedom.
I went when the going was good
And arrived at a dry stony place.