If ever I grow envious of globe-trotting friends, or Portillo, Palin, Perkins, et al, I turn to Grandpa Willie’s stamp collection.
He died before I knew him, but somehow I got hold of a small notebook he kept. On its pages are the names of countries hand-written in ink. And beneath are a few stamps, mostly used.
I don’t think this dusty miniature volume was Willie’s philatelic pride and joy. In fact, it was probably where he put his left-overs. But for me the stamps are a way to travel in both space and time, to places I might never know in any other way.