The tranquility of the night had been disturbed by racoons doing their routine dumpster inspection and the late night (well 10pm) squealing of the youth camp across the road, but the morning was all soothing birdsong and crackling fires. A Swiss motorcyclist approached from behind a massive tree trunk to commiserate about the price of camping in America. He felt he had more in common with cyclists than motorbiker riders, whose forums were all bravado and bling.

A rather idiosyncratic gentlemen was packing up his worldly possessions to move on to another campground, he muttered conversations under his breath, something that sounded like an internal argument about which bus to take. I recognised these solitary murmuring from our first campsite in Golden Gate Park. I had been lying in the tent napping he had arrived and I had thought at first he must have a child with him, on inspection out the tent flap it would have to be a very small child he was talking to, then as his bag was discarded on the ground, or he was just chatting to himself. Dylan reported back later that his landlord had put up his rent so he was camping until he moved to Europe where he had lived previously. Whether pure fancy on Dylan’s part, or not, he thought this guy was a super intelligent but socially inept musician or intellectual, I watched him flit from lying on the ground, to bench, sitting against a tree, waiting for the bus never restful.

It was a rest day, only a little trip to Point Reyes Station for supplies (zooming don paved rads this time not muddied ruts) and a lunch we felt earned by the savings we made with accommodation.
As I lay eye to the canopy above I watched a falcon wheel through the patch of blue above, my mind drifted to sunny days riding through the french countryside, camping with guiltless restaurant meals from the savings of sleeping under the stars.

Little dancing flecks of yellow caught eye tiny, birds birds chirruping and flitting from branch to branch. I followed them to the riverside to most unsuccessfully to capture their frivolities on film. Then another wonder of the forest a huge and glistening slug slowly absorbing a a leaf in a fashion reminiscent of a typewriter, munch munch munch ding, back to the beginning, munch munch munch ding.

As the sun roved the sky, cobwebs glistened in ancient redwood grove, the occasional leaf trapped on a sticky thread slowly swirling in he breeze, the original garden ornament. Mushroom fairy forests sprouted in he dappled sunlight, forget-me-nots blanketed the river bank. First one then another cyclists rolled into camp. One a frenchman called Luis, who had been riding 100-200km a day from Portland, with no touring experience to put my 30mile day to shame. The other on a bike from he same rental as us, an Australian and to add t the coincidence from Melbourne. Will as full of he exuberance of his first day riding, pulling out his borrowed camping toys like was Christmas. One was a propane stove which lit up when water was boiled, in he background Luis was pulling out cans of food from his pack. I could see Dylan, ever the lightweight camper, struggle to conceal amusement. It was great to have the company, to chat about home and French film, the camaraderie of the road. We toasted sandwiches over the fire and darkness fell.

After a traditional Mexican breakfast, delivered hot by the neighbours with a refreshingly cold hibiscus tea, we set off, but didn’t get far. We discovered the little town of Point Reyes Station and lingered a while. due to tired legs it was going to just be short day, so we were in no rush and this was just the place to be in such a state. Rocking chairs out the front of the organic grocery, community garden nearby and unrelated but note worthy a mechanic garage bursting with stag head trophies (although my city bred sensibilities squirm at hunting I believe it is the most ethical and sustainable way of eating meat if done right, using every part, wild and fresh, but killing the strongest member of a herd for the head on your wall is not my thing at all). We were content like a lizard on a rock, until that midday uneasiness set in, the road was calling.

After another oh so delightful hill climb oh much blustering and heaving, we came to a choice. Down the smooth hill road and out of sight, or hefting our bikes over a stile and up a rutted dirt single track through fields and past cows, guess which one we took? But of course we chose that one, there were cows and secretly for me an excuse to walk the bike up the hill, it was muddy you know. The cows were walking single file across the path, a long gangly but unbroken line, then one paused to bellow and three stragglers crested the hill and cantered, almost skipping to join the herd, it was all rather lovely. I had some fun testing my mountain biking skills on some down hill segments but when the mud began turning into tram tracks I hopped off and just took in the view. Rolling green hills, sea beyond, my idea of paradise. Then over a rise and before us were a glad of gum trees bathed in sunlight, oh what a sight for tired Australian eyes, that familiar smell. Then down down into darkness, hands getting tired from grasping the brakes and then light. After car streaming roads and rutted tracks the bike path through the woods looked about as perfect as we could imagine. We sailed along, no hills, just flat and smooth and car free. I liked to imagine this was how it would be in France, flowers and trees and sunlight.

We entered the red woods, towering soldiers of timber, leaves making a soft carpeted floor. We set up tent next to a family making camping magic with fairy lights and red and white checked table cloths. We opened our bear locker to find it full of wood, of such joy there would be a fire tonight!