Pilgrim's Well

I am in the land where the rose was born,
Where it drank the blood of the sun
and gave its perfume to the dark eyed women.



It has been a busy day at Pilgrim’s Well – the village people, expecting us, laid out a colourful market in the quiet streets. I bought dates and nuts for the journey, and a leather water bottle which I filled at the well itself, waiting in line behind the other travellers and the local women, who gave us curious, but friendly glances from their veiled dark eyes.

In my roomy leather bag I have packed my journal, and my sketching pencils. I have brought my watercolour pencils, although I understand water is precious here. But the colours are so vivid, the very air so alive with movement, that I cannot leave them behind.

I remember what my father told me, that it gets cold at night in these parts and I have a thick cloak to wrap over my loose cotton shirt and pants. My bag holds a change of clothes – rolled up tight so as not to take up much room. I have bought my old wooden recorder with me – not as sweet a sound as the flute, I think, but I rarely get a chance to play it in the world I am leaving behind.

My heart is beating fast with the excitement of a new adventure. I remember the last time I threw in my lot with the Enchantress, and the wonder of the journeys I took. But this one is, if anything, closer to my heart. A true journey of the heart, for I go in hallowed lands that I have long dreamt of, ever since my father woke my imagination and my longing with his tales of travels here.

As dusk falls we gather at the well, and find our camels. I confess I was nervous – the few camels I have known have been bad tempered beasts, but a smiling young boy leads me to a camel the colour of the soft brown earth, with eyes as beautiful as the women here. He tells me her name is Layla, which means radiant. He shows me how to command Layla to sit with her legs tucked in underneath her so I can climb onto her back. I almost fell off when she stood up again, but hung on tightly. Suddenly we were in motion, following the others into the darkness – Layla was taller than any horse I had ever ridden and I felt like a queen.

The deep saddle was comfortable enough, although my legs were stretched out over Layla’s broad back. As night fell I was glad of my cloak. The air had a distinct chill, but the sky above was breathtaking. We don’t realise how much light pollution blocks the stars from our view, but in places where there is none, there are literally billions of bright stars above, and you can see their colours like jewels scattered across the sky. The depth and breadth of the Milky Way is lost to those who live in cities. But we travellers saw it in all its splendour, a brilliant silver river mirroring our own Silk Road below.

I felt my spirits surge – I was on the edge of the world, looking out into an infinity of stars and constellations. It is the most beautiful and awe inspiring sight I have ever seen.

I must have slept, because the next time I looked, the sun was rising – a deep rosy golden glow that seemed to spread across the horizon. We heard a shout from the front of the caravan and word spread back from camel to camel that we were approaching the first caravanserai. The land rose into walls around us, weathered rock etched with the hand of a craftsman, and the air was cool as we rode into the valley. We all craned our necks for a first glimpse of the place we would call home for three days.