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.