Campfire chatter and clean clothes
Lots of new roads to follow. We’ve decided that exploring those narrow trails leading towards the shore (and the requisite For Sale sign) will lead to new vistas. Usually you can get turned around at the end without calling for a skyhook, and tourist licence plates explain wanderlust better than any words.
We have even used that premise to bewilder, when we were sitting in front of our own “place to be”. The “to be” neighbour stopped to see if we needed directions, and when the appointed driver announced our plan to “live here”, it was a funny place to be.
Out around town, we’ve discovered that nice real estate agents remain friendly even after the transaction has been signed and sealed. Who knows? There might be an upscale sale at some future moment. Never offend a potential client.
This evening, the campfires were burning brightly, and from our cheap seats we could hear a large number of conversations. Either the crackle of almost dry firewood ups the sound transmission index, or the talkers were louder than necessary. Funny how campers from different parts of the country seem to find common ground: the weather and the government, in that order. Since we can do nothing about either, the degree of vocal displeasure is predictable.
Our laundry is done. Another bit of evidence that we’ve been camping for more than a few years; we set aside time for watching the suds rise and fall, and we collect the required quarters and loonies in advance of the operation. Oh, for the days when a dime and a dryer were partners.
The tuna fishery has begun. We could see the boat lights and hear the motors for most of the evening.
