On the last day in the first week of November, 1937, we flew eastward from Aden in a cool air filled with early sunlight, a honey light over the sandy shore.

We flew with the Indian Ocean on our right, puckered in motionless ripples, and upon it the broad white roadway of the sun. Seen from so high the triple, lazy, lace-like edge of waves crept slowly; they did not turn all at once, but unrolled from end to end in a spiral motion, as it were the heart of a shell unwinding. Our aeroplane hung over the azure world with silver wings.

The opening of ‘A winter in Arabia’ by Freya Stark

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