A final sprint (in the Sprinter)
When is a house a home? In my case, when I’m in it (mine). We spent a good part of the day heading home, after packing up and leaving our campsite on the river bank. Sort of a non-stop trip, with only the requisite refuel and coffee-purchase halts. All the way to the bridge.
Then, we waited, for our turn at the health tent. Even with our magical government “pass” in hand, there were queues and an eventual nose swab. The deal was, if we didn’t get a phone call in the following hours, we were wonderful. We were (and are).
Next on our wanted list was a HandPie. Alas, no pie for us. This was a down day, according to the sign on their door, so we sadly headed off along the big highway. Found food at a restaurant that I’ve often eyed but hadn’t visited. Their soup was great; the smoked meat sandwich on two-tone bread, only mediocre. As happens in small venues, we had to explain that our dog was just dandy in the van, what with open windows, an on fan and lots of water. That out of the way, we sat in (incognito) on a sales team meeting for a window dealer. Wanted to ask for door tips, but that would have been more than required.
And then, the final sprint to our driveway, in front of our house (or home, actually). A leisurely unpacking of the contents, and then a chance to sit quietly in the comfort of my favourite chair with my favourite coffee. Almost ten days away; it seems so long ago already.
Note to me: the little battery pack I ordered for my little portable radio arrived, and it works as advertised! Also, somewhere along the highway, we were passed by a Tesla. Different size of battery pack.
