Shall we compare the high diving display?
Today, the weather forecast set the tone. A change was in the air. With the offer of cabin space, the tent was rendered surplus. There’s a certain utility to packing up while things are dry, so the roof box left the tall grass and returned to its place of honour atop the car. The tent was stuffed into the appropriate bag, a last boil of water for French press coffee and we transformed from tenters into cabin folk.
Yes, I’m sad. The thought of a long, lonely winter in a cubicle isn’t one that fills me with anticipation. Weighed against the last month within earshot of the shoreline, I’m indignant (in my own subdued way). By this time tomorrow we should be back in the city, with nothing but election campaign drivel to distract. I’m going to miss the steady parade of foxes, hares, coons, fieldmice, earwigs and crows that imitate screen doors. And I’ll never know if Suicide Squirrel succeeds…
On the visiting front, this summer rates a fail grade. I’ll have to improve my marks next year. My attendance at potluck was up, but live concerts were down. Fewer books were purchased; more books were read. My tan line is more distinct. The radio QSO rate was dismal, but my gear pack is a keeper.
We headed down to Montague this afternoon, to Isaac’s. Nothing astounding… there are some lovely older homes in the town, though. The rain showers were heavy at times, enough that we pulled over to listen to the news on the radio. Apparently the Olympics have been underway. I doubt their high divers compared to the birds we watched plunging for capelin this morning.
