Writers, (among others) ‘do’ self-isolation, it’s par for the course – in attic rooms, garden sheds, quiet cafés – though the latter is off the list for awhile – but whether writer or not, if the sea is close and you can do so safely, don a wetsuit and let the might of waves batter body and mind back into full life…oh and DO roar if you like. It’s so good.

and from p 207 of Quondam in remembrance of self-isolation !

The Hotel Lualaba would be home now, its roughness matched by a homely, friendly atmosphere, and just as in Juba, the petit chambre I was offered was like a prison cell. On the threshold of that little room I blew out a deep breath, surveying the spartan space and knowing that for several days this was it…and indeed that was it, a world so remote from today’s, a world of no internet, no texting, no uploading or skyping, no easy phoning, nothing…nothing but the isolated, insulated mind and where it went with what it saw. Never did I write so many postcards and letters, only to grasp later, a long, long time later, how that writing was as much about me writing to myself as communicating to those who knew or half knew where I was.