We begin to wind down and think about leaving. Everything is cleaned, packed away and stored for next year. Oh and for DSing we all get a lovely backwoods knife and in our final DS meeting a small piece of brown bearskin with hair. Holding it I was immediately flooded with its wild life, an experience that can’t be taught or told or set to words. So what is this group of souls, a caravan club, the Baptist Church on acid, a boot camp for the wacky? No, they’re beautiful, genuine and generous observers of a simple yet powerful ancient traditional way. The rest was my stuff. It’s not my way but who am I to know? And on the ferry home, reflecting alone on a cloud covered sun deck, a crewman in dirty day-glow overalls glances at my beer in one hand and a fag in the other and gives me a big jolly smile, “That’s the life.” It was as if my deity had paid me a personal visit to round off my trip. I smiled back.
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