ABSTRACT
I have vivid memories of the journey to Europe—the radiant brilliance of the Indian Ocean; the schools of flying fish that skimmed the water beside us; the harbour at Aden with the fins of sharks gliding above the surface; a box of Turkish delight that made me horribly sick in the Red Sea; a solitary daylong stance astride the anchor chain in the bow of the ship as it nosed its way through the Suez Canal; the little ceremony in the eastern Mediterranean when those passengers not expecting to return to the East gathered by the stern rail and hurled their solar topees (pith helmets) into the ship's wake; a hotel in Venice where I allowed my bath to overflow and flood the rooms below; the Orient Express winding through the corkscrew tunnels of the Alpine passes; the undreamed-of verdure of the Kentish countryside in early spring; the florid features of my grandmother's chauffeur, Robinson, who met us at Victoria Station and drove us to her house in Eaton Place, Belgravia.
