Place, like time, comes with unusual sets of memories. It crosses our path and remains with us in diverse ways, pockets of feeling/memory that colour our souls, adding its unique spice and flavour. I have spent a meagre total of 8 and 1/2 days of my 49 years on this volcanic island. But its hold on my imagination is out of all proportion to the total of time I spent there. My first visit to the land was in darkness, in a snowstorm; it took place in the 1970s as I flew with my mother from Luxembourg to Baltimore on DC-9. Snow swirled and the wind howled and we emerged into the freezing air from the fuggy, smelly warmth of the cabin. We rushed into a 1960s concrete terminal that felt more Self than Other, a hint of 1960s Britain. We changed planes and left. But that one-hour stopover stayed with me.