The Wanderer Returns

So, here we are back in the bosom of our home and returned again to the blogging machine. I have missed you keyboard; I have yearned for you flat screen, giver of brilliant light and two dimensional graphics. Believe me. I filled half a thick notebook with thoughts and poem drafts over the last week because I couldn't get to the computer. In a way it was just like the old days, only not as good because I knew what I was missing: the convenience, the ease, of keyboard writing, and instant communication everywhere in the world.
Remember I promised you a tedious holiday story? (that is, the story of a tedious holiday). Well, the stories may filter out slowly over the next few days, if I can be bothered to tell them. It was long, it was boring, we were forced to live on top of each other (almost literally), in a manner that just doesn't suit a lonesome angel head, and the service users we took with us made cool meditative holidaying a challenge that defeated everyone. The only thing that made the week bearable for me was the breathtaking beauty of the bay that housed the caravan park. I found a pathway up to a hilltop that looked down over the park and the sea and went there every day at dawn and at dusk to meditate, write poetry and clear my head. I christened the hill "point splake", though none of my work colleagues could wrap their brains around the smith nom-de-plume and kept calling it "Bruce's Hill" instead. Some of them even started hiking up to point splake themselves to marvel at the panorama beneath them.
For the first few days the visits to my hilltop eyrie rescued my spirits. But then--ah, even beauty is not sufficient consolation when there's a hole inside you shaped like a 400-year-old cottage four hours drive away from your present location. I'm happier to be back here now than I can possibly tell you.

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