A FAMILIAR TOWN WITHOUT A NAME

    There are no streets here, only alleys, twittens and ginnels,
    few wide enough to push a wheelbarrow. Sometimes it is hard
    to know where ground level is, when an alley may rise above
    the housetops and become a path between the crenellations of
    an old town wall, fed occasionally by steps from below. Sometimes
    an alley sinks to basement level, becoming a dark corridor.
    There are slightly broader ways beside narrow streams,
    from which front doors or little gardens may be reached by
    bridges of stone flags. There are no open spaces or wide
    vistas, and away from the shops and bazaars in the centre,
    few people can be seen abroad. How is this place reached?
    Where are its gates? What lies outside? I cannot answer
    any of these questions, and I never thought to ask them.
    I know, though, that this town is very old, and that
    change has a hard time of it to seep in.

    I know my way around here. There are friends from student
    days to drop in on for tea, or breakfast maybe. Perhaps
    I am bringing them something from a bakery. Other friends
    may well be there, too, and children.

    Only when I remember this place do I recognize how secure
    I am when I go there. To know that you are without anxiety
    is a self-contradiction.