With a knapsack on my back continued. Well, if nothing else, this is proof of how out of condition, this Unjustified Sinner, is (Im sure Mr James Hogg, wont mind me taking his books title in vain. I do recommend it by the way, one could almost call it Scottish Existentialism). Im having a short rest before continuing, so time for a gulp of water, and redressing the fact, that I missed my mid morning moisturise. The true gentleman should always make time to moisturise. It is a mark they separates those of us that are civilised from those that listen to Celine Dion. My rest is aided by Mr Campion and Dowland, in a pleasant amiable melancholy. Its the interplay of voices, that separates, merges and separates. Woods, even the tamed variety we have in the city are strange places. We frequent them in a search for solitude, yet should we happen upon a another rambler, the etiquette of the pathway, insists upon a friendly nod, as a sufficient, Hail Fellow, Well Met. This does not preclude I must add, a muttered but sincere, afternoon. As I said, woods and forests are strange places, as our ancestors can testify to. I can understand, why they thought that being in them, meant crossing over into another realm, places of not always benevolent mystery and wonder. After an open fire, the woods/forest, is probably the last connection we have to the wild. But time is my master and I but its servant, and so it is that I must turn for home, lest mistress Autumn throw her cloak over means make me her night time companion. The cheerful whistle of the kettle on the hop, the clunk of the toaster, and the bitter-sweet smell of brewed coffee now hold my allegiance. I travel north, with my knapsack on my back.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 14:22:40 +0000
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