Heavy bread and hidden lairs
A new exploit; we spent the whole twenty-four hour period at the campground. No quick trips down the road to see if anything had been altered during our absence. No longer excursions to the city, to see if anything… you get the general idea. Just us, a tent, some noisy crows and stealthy hares, and proof that we don’t spend our waking hours elsewhere.
In future, I will adjust the style of bread acquired for campground sandwiches. No more healthy, multigrain, heavier than air loaves. Condensed cloud will do the job. I take umbrage with any bread where the grains have not been ground. No more seeds, no more lumps, no more images of life among the peasants near the manor.
I’m almost through the second volume of Ken Follett’s cathedral masterpiece. No wonder it took centuries to get the job done; the common folk were too busy scheming and cuddling and acting like serfs to concentrate on anything else. Great books for a summer read, and that includes by flashlight in a sleeping bag.
Out to the beach, for a walk in the water (not on, for any that think I have godly pretensions). No jellyfish of note, only a small harvest of sea weeds. We took one detour up the cliff face (a beckoning staircase) and discovered the lair of little people.
On the perimeter, hand lettered signs warning of “video surveillance”, “no trespassing”, “Campbell blood only”, “you have been warned”. Down in a grove of bushes, a temporary bridge over the local stream, some comfortable canvas chairs and refreshments (juice packs). This was good enough to require a second visit (with a camera) on another afternoon.
