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Friday, December 21, 2007 - Foscue Creek Park, Demopolis AL

Site 51 overlooking the river, Foscue Creek Park, Demopolis AL, December 21, 2007
Site 51, overlooking the river, Foscue Creek Park, Demopolis AL, December 21, 2007

Let's get this winter solstice behind us

It's about 6:00 am here at Site 42 as I write this and I've been listening to the great blue herons honking in the dark for hours now. It would be nice if they had a little more light than the few street lights here at the park to see by.

What's in season?

Hunting season for some bird or animal requiring cannons must have opened here in Demopolis AL today. The dawn burst forth with considerable gunfire across the river from the campsite. Big guns. Shotguns I might think.

Site 51 is right on the river

My morning walk got me thinking as I walked out to the river it might be fun to rent Site 51 for a few days and sit here with my arse hanging out over the river barge spotting. LD's arse that is, with mine securely planted within on the sofa whilst I gaze out the big picture windows in the rear of this old 1992 Lazy Daze 26-1/2 MB (mid bath that is). That might be a hoot. I see from the hang tag on the post that Site 51 is reserved from today through the 28th so I might look into reserving it from the 28th through January 2, 2008 or so. Later: no go - site 51 is reserved right on through January 31, 2008 with the exception of a couple of days mid month. It looks like things will be picking up around after Christmas. Maybe it's time to move on.

Night camp

Site 42 - Foscue Creek Campground, Demopolis AL

Life is Strange

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusion most stale and unprofitable.

A Case of Identity, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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