I stood on the walls of Troy, alone for a moment with no other tourists, not even the sound of tourists, only the rustle of the soft wind over the stones. Beyond the walls and fallen columns lay the plain; fields and vineyards, green and gold in the September light. The sea has long since receded from the walls and the beach is distant, but it doesn’t take much imagination to hear the clash of bronze on bronze; the cries of men in battle; see the tall towers, their battlements glittering with spears. Then, suddenly, a group of French tourists appeared and my moment was gone; a small respite from the chatter of people and the clicking of a billion shutters.
It’s good to be here, but it’s people like me who make it hard for people like me to get a sense of history.