Under cover

I've just taken delivery of a new, larger tarp for the hammock. I'm planning to use it extensively next year and the recent rain got me thinking about how miserable it's going to be trying to stay under the tiny rainfly that the original Asym ships with. Nothing wrong with this for sleeping, but if you want to sit, read, listen to music or a podcast - or even cook - then it's hardly going to be the epitome of comfort.

Hence the new hex rainfly. It's here, it's still rolled up and I've promised myself that I won't unroll it until I've finished the first chapter of my next book. On the one hand this is deeply sad. On the other, it's giving me something to look forward to. So, when everyone else is casting unwholesome, lustful looks towards Christmas, I'm thinking about my tarp.

I'm good, I am.

Lounging about

Nothing to say really. It's late October on the hill above Frensham Little Pond in Surrey and I've strung the hammock to enjoy the view and catch up on some reading. Fantastic light and a very comfortable couple of hours. I'll be doing that again.

First Night

Blackberry Wood in East Sussex, England. Damp. Misty. Smoke from the fire and there, hanging to the right of the hammock a Blair Witch style poppet, left by some jokester while I slept?