Cartography; or the art of making things connect

My Da made maps.  
Long before I was born Bobby was flying above Africa, South America and the Middle East,  
When I was old enough to do puzzles they were aerial photographs, cut up into little pieces
When he became earth-bound, he'd come home smelling of wool and dark room chemicals and I'd breathe them in as if my life depended on it. 
Today I walked with my Mu and Bernie.  We swung a left in the forest at the top of the hill and slithered down through the pine wood and along the path that follows the valley to St Aulin.  
I wanted my Mu to see how things connect, so we free rode across a couple of fields and picked up the old path home from Senesse.
My mu complained, saying there was a beauty in the mystery of things not being connected.   I nearly choked on the dog lead which was wrapped round my Nikon which was wrapped round my neck.  I was pulled up short, but it got me thinking. 
It got me thinking that when the earliest cartogarphers began making maps they had a knowledge belonging only to birds.  I thought of Bobby's plane, with the camera in its belly and all that it had captured. 
Then, getting ready for lunch at the Moulin, I was looking down at my garden in a critical,  bird-like, god-like way, and caught my cartogorpher Bobby being greeted by Nico. 
 'Only connect. Live in fragments no longer.”
(thanks E.M Forster)