How you can help

Do you have a summer cottage in Valgrisenche? A field near Champrougier? A fishmongery in Monterosso? Do you know someone who does? Or do you just like hanging out near the Source d'Ignon?

Any form of assistance is gratefully received, including offers of accomodation, somewhere to pitch my tent for the night, food, company (where I've stopped or on the road), advice, and, not least, moral support from afar.

Or if you feel like it, you can send money through paypal, I won't say no. My email address is arthursmany[insert last word of the name of this blog--hint--starts and ends in 's']@gmail.com. A fancy link may be added here soon if I upgrade my account so that you can use credit cards as well, but registration was easier than I expected.


Postcards Rule

I'd like to reward those who offer support of whatever kind. If my money holds out long enough, I'll send you a postcard while en route if you send me your mailing address. Otherwise, I'll be distributing 4x6 prints once I've got my Lomographs processed on returning to London.

Background

In October of 1996 I found a copy of Werner Herzog's Of Walking in Ice in a bookshop in Montréal. It's been one of my favourite books since, in it's rambling aggressivity and abbreviated sentimentality. It also drew my attention to the possibility of walking long distances without professional degrees of preparation or training. Some months later I read a transcript of a conversation he had at the Edmonton Film Festival which brought me further under the enchantment of travel under limited means.

When I started my degree in Music Technology (which amounted to building guitars and violins) I knew that I wouldn't get any proper holidays for the next three years; the time would be filled by study or working to pay for it. To calm my itchy feet I would need to plan a big trip for the end. A month or two in, I found a copy of Rebecca Solnit's Wanderlust. I decided an extended walk would do the trick, and settled on Rome as a destination. There was quite an elaborate reason at the time, beyond the fact that all roads lead there. I've forgotten it. But over the last three years, I started telling people what I planned to do, and I've now told too many to back out.

Of course, there's also the fact that I'm not sure if I can make it. This sort of test might unearth some part of me I don't know about. And if not, at least I'll have a few months to figure out what to do with myself next.