Nia, the commander, rightly so, led the way, kind enough to drive up the West coast of Wales with Rhys, Annwn and I in the backseat, travelling to Aberystwyth, one of the most isolated cities in the UK, and a beautiful place - a university town, sat on the sea. It possessed a completely different atmosphere to our previous stops on the tour so far. Eurig’s hometown, really the bastion for Welsh language studies and history, Aberystwyth seemed to possess the spirit of independence I had been fascinated to see, really Welsh culture. The seafront was lined with the flags of disputed or marginalised nations in a show of solidarity. I’d also been told our gig was highly anticipated. Really the places I have yet to travel to are the ones I await the most.

We travelled with Rhys' dog Annwn, who I instantly fell in love with and finally felt like there was someone on the tour I could really show my true feelings to. We all stopped by the sea in a small town on the way into Aberystwyth, and I tried to escape with Annwn, but he turned back, loyal to Rhys. A free day upon arrival, Joe, Nia and I ate out and spoke later into the night, the first real chance for the natural side effect of such a project as Gelynion to inculcate the exchanges that build friendships and rich collaborations. Joe and I continued to speak over breakfast each day, and getting to know him far better, a deep privilege, was an education as well as a pleasure.

For the reading, set up on the hills of Aberytwyth, in the University, I collaborated with Eurig, and it being his home town, I was fortunate to work with him. We decided to repair the besmirchment of the mythical Welsh hero Owen Glendower by rewriting Henry IV. Shakespeare remixed, and we dragged in Rhys, Nia and Joe as the performance became a kind of anti-amateur dramatics. The gig itself was packed, held at Aberystwyth Arts Studio, the University’s massive 70s concrete architecture housing the beautiful circular dome where we set up in the round. We had to find more chairs in the end, such was the turnout. The reading felt more like a workshop, such was the familiarity of the atmosphere. It was great to see Jemma King, Amy McCauley, Mari Sion, Kath Stansfield, and all the other poets, all of whom I had researched and many of whom were local through study and not birth, reinterpret the collaborative medium once again.

We all piled into a tiny Moroccan restaurant to close out the night, the real unity and cohesion of the group and the project becoming palpable. The first pangs that the whole thing has gone by too fast already.

Nicky Arscott & Kath Stansfield https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0B0sRusEDJw - Mari Siôn & Elin Ap Hywel https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgjrpZZ-bXg - Siân Melangell Dafydd & John Barnie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Phtm6u8QzwY - Amy McCauley & Jemma L King https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUQmaWFTD3A - Joe Dunthorne & Zoë Skoulding https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTVA7veibyc - Nia Davies & Rhys Trimble https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTslGiEnVHg - SJ Fowler & Eurig Salisbury https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kJPjOpHePA

Check out www.theenemiesproject.com/gelynion or www.stevenjfowler.com/gelynion for all the blogs!

Into a muddy hole disappeared two or three days of my life in Mexico City. Travelling from Xalapa, I felt unsteady, but not concerned. The drive back into the megapolis was a chance to watch the country pass. Once installed into the Fiesta Americana - a massive, 25 floor corporate hotel sat right on the Reforma, the kitsch boulevard that centres Mexico City, once bullied into lifts with portly groups of men with greased back hair and far less gentle manners, once I'd eaten from the rich and seemingly endless buffet, the nausea and stomach ache turned into something else.

I've been very ill travelling before. It's always a lonelying experience. You are a long way away from those you love, as you are sensorially, from comfort. It is a mental game. In the end I had trouble walking, it not just being projectile but with cramps, migraines and so on, and before we were to leave for Guanajuato, they had to have a doctor visit me. I was faced with a difficult decision as to whether to attend or not, but with such ripe disdain for that hotel room, that plush open room that sat on the 17th floor and took in most of Mexico City, that I hated, I went. Much is owed in easing my own will to those around me, the writers Nell Leyshon (who kindly ((!)) took this photo of me as the doctor visited) and Bee Rowlatt, the British Council staff, the organisers of the Cervantino and those back home who relentlessly insisted on getting me better when I wanted to crawl into a corner.

A five hour car journey then, still ill, but corked, listening to Veracruzian music sent me by new friends in Xalapa just gone. Into Guanajuato, an impossibly beautiful place. But I was blind to it, and hid again for another lost day, trying to get past the nausea. Student protests raged outside my room, hundreds, like thousands across Mexico, protesting the horrific torture and murder of a group of protesting students in Iguana. The brilliant Ioan Grillo wrote this article on the awfulness of what happened http://www.nytimes.com/2014/10/10/opinion/mexicos-deadly-narco-politics.html?_r=0

I woke up better yet, and being able to know the date, and the place. I walked around Guanajuato, also being to eat more than a bite for the first time in days. The city is unbelievable, every corner a scene in a film, every street a picture. Every colour on the buildings, rising up on hills and littered with parks and markets and small alleys, and tunnels. The city is build on tunnels that bore through the hillside, genuinely subterranean streets that hold bus stops and pedestrian walkways see cars pour through and pop out in brilliant sunshine. I talked with people again, bought things, felt like a person once more.

My nurses and friends and buoys, Nell Leyshon and Bee Rowlatt, and I, then attended our event, at the University, for the grand Cervantino festival. This is the 42nd year and the festival goes on for three weeks. That we were staying just a day seemed incongruous. We were self panelling on Shakespeare, and it turned out marvelous I thought. We all come from different backgrounds, different professions, different modes of thought. And it complimented. I stressed the need to interrogate the value of Shakespeare, pedagogically, to make sure the relationship was personal and not assumed, earned and not because the value of his works were so overbearingly lauded. I also talked about his role in the future, which was the theme, being the same as it was in the past, really, but that there were immense things to be taken from his prolific nature etc etc.. It went well and the students were positive.

More time allowed me to visit Diego Rivera's house and the old market, before we bundled into a van for a brutal 6 hour crawl back south across Mexico into Mexico city once again. I was well and truly well then, for if I hadn't have been, I would've capitulated. Instead Nell and I shared the backseat and confused the Mexican car with conversation.