I was going to catch up on writing Yorkshire while I was in the Highlands. Then I was going to catch up on writing Yorkshire and the Highlands while in New Hampshire. Then I figured, “Hell, might as well wait until I get home. Then I’ll have time and a comfy spot from which to write about the rest of my trip.”
Now it’s August. Well into August. I’ve been home for two weeks. I’ve done none of the above. No one knows what I did after my last post. I don’t even remember where my last post left off. You haven’t heard about my great day crossing the England/Scotland border. Or about my solo hike up to where I saw line after line of Highland peaks stretching away from me. Or anything about the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful German couple that was renting the cottage next door to my housesit in Foyers, near Loch Ness. Or about the Great Rental Car Upgrade. Or about how great it felt to arrive in Glasgow and know I was traveling home the next day.
Dang, that’s a lot.
Is someone playing Steve Miller in the background somewhere? Because (yes) time keeps on slipping into the future.
I’m unsure as to whether I should write about those lost chunks of time. That would gouge out chunks from now. And now is pretty full too.
So… instead, I’m stalling.
That may be my answer right there.
This evening I’ve abandoned the swamp cooler and my dog to head downtown. It’s the last week of Bandstand in Santa Fe. I missed most of the summer’s music. Nae bother. I was off having other adventures. But now seems like a good time to catch the last tunes while writing to you good folks.