Last night my air mattress leaked a lot, softly depositing my warmness onto the cold ground causing strange dreams about open windows and doors and drafts in unfinished houses, and ultimately waking me half a dozen times to the need for more air pressure.
An air mattress is not entirely for comfort. A sleeping bag when you lay on it compresses and looses a lot of its insulative capacity. An inch of air insulates much better than a sliver of compressed goose down.
I find a secluded knoll in the Portuges pines overlooking the ocean and camp early. Must make repairs. I fastidiously search with spit and a light and tend to the small hole with glue and a tire patch.
The surf is droning and light is filtering through the trees. The air is cool and breezy. The glue is drying, catalytically accelerated with two drops of spit.
My emotional soundtrack for the last couple of days:
live without care,
like the fish in the water,
like the birds in the air.
“You never know how it’s going to go. One year you are abandoned by the side of the road dreading the county mower, and the next year you are cycling around the world. So I don’t worry, nope, I wear purple, charm em with my smile and embrace it all.”
There is a great bicycle path most of today. It really surprises me because this part of Portugal is unpopulated.
Pines, ocean and cycling. A good recipe for pleasure.