It was not the Land of Green Ginger, nor the pier at New Holland, but it was familiar, and represented a point of departure.

A small child with a face like an angel came from a country where in legend gold was found.

“At this Homeric time, the Sea was not navigable and was called Axenos (inhospitable) because of its wintry storms and the ferocity of the tribes that lived around it, they sacrificed strangers….but later, it was called Euxeinus, friendly to strangers” Strabo.

“The bridge was built during the day and destroyed at night by the spirits of the water. It demanded a sacrifice. Let someone come who is willing to be sacrificed in the piers of the bridge, the bards sang. The monk, sure that no one would volunteer, was aghast to learn that Murrash Zenebisha, an average local worker had been immured into the bridge's first arch in the night, his face still visible, staring out from the bridge, where his corpse could be made out beneath a veneer of plaster. It was something that violated everything we knew about the borders of life and death. The man remained poised between the two like a bridge, without moving in one direction or the other. The man had sunk into non-existence, leaving his shape behind him, like a forgotten garment.” (From Ismail Kadares’ Three - Arched Bridge)

A choreographer of the states greatest dance company, the world at his feet, had gone on tour with his wife, a young and beautiful dancer. One night after a show the group had gone out to celebrate. They were strangers in that town and didn’t know the streets A robbery occurred, his young wife had her jewellery snatched. There was a fight, and in the fray a terrible and fatal accident happened. He had fallen into a deep an impenetrable depression. No one knew what to do or how to console him.

The girl, older than her years, scrambled through the ruins of the castle. She reminisced about a school picnic here, she spoke about her country changing, and that, as a young lawyer, she was glad she might be able to play a role in those changes. Later she wrote, “it had all been a mirage”.

Comfortable in their victory, they were together, as one. They seemed absorbed not only by the game but also by echoes from their place in another time.

For centuries the sea provided for man. It had always been that way. They sang their own private songs, And in the morning the boat returned to the shore.