CHARLES BRIDGE, PRAGUE

Thursday, 7 September.
The full moon shrouds itself in clouds. I sit on the concrete pavement alongside many others, knees hunched to make a table for my musings, eyes adrift in dreams. We are silenced by a lone guitarist, playing by a candlelight that flickers but never gives out in the mild breeze.

She's incredibly, wonderfully talented; serene in the Prague night. I wonder where she's from, and how she manages to somehow never miss a note. She plays such intricate pieces, still managing to look up and smile at the little child staring up at her. He gets too close to the candle at one stage, just as mesmerised as me, and she stops for a few seconds to make sure he doesn't burn himself on the magic.

I marvel at her apparent lack of ego; her total musicianship, and realise how much I still need to learn. It's great though. I could sit all night and listen, except i didn't bring a cushion with me and am currently sitting on my wallet after hearing too many tales of pickpockets in this city...

Charles Bridge is wonderful tonight, just Marama / Chandra / a big luminous moon in the sky casting her spell over all of us however aware or unaware of it we may be. The statues lining the bridge cast shadows in the extra light given by lamps, and seagulls circle in small flocks above their bronze haloed heads.

Ahh, she plays Spanish Caravan... how many layers this song has! I never noticed before. There's a guy momentarily blocking my view, but as he's wearing a 'Ministry of Silly Walks' t-shirt I forgive him. Ahh, the simple pleasures... I'm just content to sit with my back up against this ancient bridge, feeling so wonderfully small, one of thousands that walk the cobbles every day. I'm amazed by Prague, and though the bridge is scattered with buskers night and day, tonight it's this woman alone that I'm silenced by...