The restaurant is busy and I have a table for one. Polite conversations humming and the sound of cutlery on china is my musical backdrop.
Against the flat, white of my tablecloth, I inspect the backs of my hands. After ten weeks of walking, they are the colour of sun-dried honey. The contrast between them and the pale green-gold of the Chablis is perfect. Their texture, a fine vellum; tiny little ridges with small scratches catching the light where they cut across the fabric of my skin. Laid beneath this thin gauze are the fan shaped sinews that run down to my fingers, and climbing wildly over them, the blue knotted ropes of my veins.
I am transported, back to being a small boy, examining my father's hands in my own.
Perhaps, now, after a thousand miles of a walk I have dedicated to the memory of my Dad, now is the time to think back to the man who gave me these, my own hands.