By the end of October, 2022, I had returned to the freedom camping domain where I originally parked up in May prior to heavy rains closing the domain and I moving into a caravan for June and July while working before house- and animal-sitting for the couple whose property the caravan is on. The domain is a fantastic open space with two long-drops and 4 rubbish bins, and doubles as a night star-gazing location for any astronomy enthusiasts (though I have never seen any turn up).

When I originally returned a month ago, I walked down to the riverside that runs alongside the Great Taste Trail for cyclists (mainly) and found a perfect spot to build a campfire: two stones adjacent to each other (or one stone broken in half!) that created a gap in which I could drop sticks and twigs into that would boil my water in the morning. Here would be my new spot for a fresh cup of coffee every morning (weather permitting). And it was made so.

By the end of 2018, Annie's Park had changed: Rains had come and gone, the river had risen and swept my campfire away, someone had come and stolen my dish-washing liquid and similar items while I was in town (immortalised in my poem 'Liquid Dish-wash Thieves' from The Tasman Journey), a council member had driven 10km out to where I was and questioned me about living in my vehicle, despite the fact that the park had no official council designation and the 'no camping' sign had been put up by a man across the road who lived right next to the man who actually looked after and named the park in honour of his mother and whom I had approached when first arriving and told him what my plans were, of which he had no problems with, and neither did any of the other surrounding neighbours in the community who I met!

My life moved on as well, as I met a woman and we started our own adventures together, travelling south (forthcoming poetry & prose collection Two Left Feet), and then North to do house-sitting. When that relationship ended, I stayed in the North Island for some time working to gain funds for my distribution drive of The Tasman Journey, only to have that interrupted on my way back to Tasman by The Kapiti Coast last year (of which makes up the entire second half of what will be my third collection of poetry & prose, currently titled as A Crook in the Elbow).

I revisited Annie's Park and it still felt welcoming (apart from the sandflies), but it was time now to be somewhere new, and Wai-iti Domain was that place. The walk to the riverside, however, is, at least from where I park my car all the way over on the other side of the domain, about 120-200 metres away, and it seemed a bit of a distance to take all my cooking gear and food for one cook-up and then return. So my first two campfires served as morning coffee trips.

What happened to the first campfire?

Ahh, the first campfire. Nature happened to it [fig. 6].

But I did not fret! When the rain ceased, and the river lowered, I went back looking for anything that might remain. I did find one rock still showing the sooty burnt face, and so, I set about rebuilding.

And then the council interfered [fig. 7] and left a wake of destruction right where my campfire had been [fig. 8], and all for the sake of reinforcing the opposite side of the bank that time will eventually erode away regardless.

Disappointed as I was, I did not give up. And I built a third fireplace, even better than the first two, and even better than any of the ones I attempted at Annie's Park. Once I had spent a few mornings making coffee on the riverside, I took my grill down and set up a cooking spot, and now I pack a frying pan (first one that replaced the original fry pan from fig. 1) into the same bag that I store all my collected sticks and broken branches, hand axe, paper rubbish, and matches in, and make my way down for an evening meal watching the sun fade into clouds on the horizon....

The 26th begins this tale of the last days of July. Come into the passenger's seat here with me, listen to the wind bow the trees, truck suspensions grunting over potholes, rapids winding downriver settling the storm; and the ticking of time as feet point upwards perched between door and window.

I have you here in my heart. A thought, a happiness long past. We shared days in the sun, cuddled for warmth during rain, joked about opinions and rational assumptions. 

But numb are the laughs. Dying days for ghosts.

I sit by the fireside, coffee and poached eggs, morning light drifts between trees. I wonder: Is this the end? All I have to look forward to - collecting wood, drying it over ashes, washing dishes in the river, reading a book when mind and body are too tired for anything else.

Or will spring raise the spirits up and remember feet are for walking, the pen is for writing, the mind is for thinking? Is today just a dead day?

I have you here in my heart. Sleep wants me to forget, light all I can see. I awake to me, as I have always been.
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