Travels Between Caravanserai

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The light filtered through the skylight of my shed/studio, the glow was warm and I was feeling dreamy, drifting amongst half forgotten things. On the table lay a pomegranate and I picked it up- full of wonder for this fruit that speaks of ancient times, of rituals of the earth ,of Demeter and Persephone and of mysteries that call to me.

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As I hold the fruit in my hand, feel its bumps and undulations, I am transported back to  the North Wall of Cairo- a small withered woman sitting with a basket filled with glorious pomegrantes- my nose filled with  the acrid dust of centuries, a cat despondently watching me as i walk towards the fruit. Across the road the Mezuerrin is calling the prayer hour in the mosque-  gone the voices of individual mezeurin of days gone by, instead a mechanical tape blaring  from a speaker from the top  of the minaret . For a moment- a brief moment in a city bustling with nineteen million souls  time stops- for prayer, for contemplation .

I follow the footsteps of many travellers to Cairo- Champollion who deciphered hieroglyphics and opened the worlds eyes to the treasures and riches of  a culture unique and brilliant, by recognising that the coptic language , a living language was the key to understanding the hieroglyphs.

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