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A Campsite in Hand ...
The shepherd may have had his problems, but we had our own as well. It was growing late and we still hadn't found anywhere to camp. We were searching for the perfect spot (Sharon had put in a request for a view of Serpentara Island), but the rugged coastline was making it difficult to find any spot at all - what we came across either didn't have a view, or was too rocky and windy. We eventually spied a good sheltered spot down by the sea. Unfortunately, getting to it entailed a steep ride on a bumpy dirt road. (Not to mention a taxing push back up to the main road in the morning.) "Maybe next time," we said, giving it a pass. An hour later, in darkness, I was sorry we had. We arrived in the village of Villasimius; I was surprised to see so many people roaming the main thoroughfare at such a late hour. They stared at us silently as we trudged past. In starlight, we climbed out of town. I don't like riding in the dark. From now on I'm going to remember Aesop's (slightly modified) fable: A camp spot in the hand is worth two out of sight. It had been a long time since we hadn't found a camp spot by dusk. Pedalling blindly in the dark, I cursed my shortsightedness. "We'll find something soon. Don't worry," Sharon said, offering words of assurance. Her prophetic words still hung in the cool air when, from the darkness ahead, she called, "I see a pull-off." She scouted behind some likely looking bushes and discovered a ledge large enough for our tent. That was an advantage of having such a small tent - it fit almost anywhere. We pitched our little nylon home on the narrow ledge overlooking the shimmering sea far below. Was that Serpentara Island in the distance? "Choice spot," I mumbled, dozing off to the sound of soothing waves. |
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