Three nights in Port became four. Four became six.
Enjoying the staying-putness of this place. Of having our little campsite set up just the way we like it. Nothing to do. Nowhere to be.
Morning walks into town for coffee. Evening walks exploring the coastal paths. Plenty of dolphins around to watch in between. And naps. Afternoon naps are mandatory.
Walking around is traversing memories of family holidays as a kid. Port was one of our go-to Christmas holiday destinations. The apartment block where we used to stay still stands. The breakwater. The old observatory I used to frequent (I was a geeky astronomy nerd-kid back then) still has nightly talks and viewings.
It was kinda weird to stand in exactly the same places I have vivid memories of standing way back then. What….Sixteen? Seventeen? As if space-time had folded over on itself clean as a table napkin.
I wonder if sixteen-year-old Ian had any vaguely quantum entangled walking-over-my-grave type sensations that future Ian was standing in the same place? I can’t recall.
Two nights back we had a sudden change in the weather bringing sheet rain and sudden gale gusts of wind that threatened to traumatise Ripley’s canvas awning into one of those blow-up advertising stick figures that you see waving their arms around like crazy.
It was 2 am.
Kelly are you awake?
Kelly! Are you awake?
Do you think I should get up & go out in the storm & probably wake up half the van park and try to get our squeaky awning in?
Operation awning stow was successful but slightly less than stealthy.