My beachcombing diary posts have been curtailed (with results of drooping cur tails) for a very good reason. I haven’t been able to get there. The jungle has used the opportunity of a two-month break to reclaim its own. While the local briar, bramble and nettle types are mere wimps and pussycats compared with their British brethren, they are still enough to discourage the bare-legged and –footed. They also tend to harbour some interesting fauna which are not too well disposed towards being disturbed. A mamba in a hissy fit is something to be avoided.
I am making progress, though. Some energetic swinging of my trusty (and rusty – inevitable, here) panga has seen some definite results, with a path that was being impathably difficult now quite pathable to stroll down, as may be seen:
However, there is still some way to go. This is what the path looks like from where I have now left off. If you study the picture carefully, you can see traces of quite a high bench which is supposed to provide the weary returner with a resting place and vantage point over the ocean. Walking through something or sitting on something where one’s legs and feet are intruding into the land of creepies and crawlies is not the ideal though, and more swinging needs to happen:
It was sad not to get there, though. A perfect day, warm and with balmy breezes, and a whale of a lot of whales bouncing out of the water like minnows. Of course, now it is raining …
It seems that Royal Mail (and Royal Femails) can do nothing about my wandering cameras. Their spokesman makes soothing sounds about the fact that within a few weeks the ex-con descendants in Oz will wake up to the fact that the items don’t belong there and, now being reformed characters, will redirect them to where they do. Should I hold my breath?
© Colonialist October 2011 (Letterdash/Wordpress Blogs)