The Dankest Hour

All of them.

They were all dank.

Each and every minute of every hour as I left Kincardine.

The asthetics of the waterside trail should have knocked the soggy socks off me, but instead I had cloud infused with lake topped by an endless sprinkling of rain. Having said that, the merging was actually magical, mysteriously magical.

As the rain soaked into my skin, and my skin soaked into my soul, I started to become cold.... bone-deep cold. There was no point putting on any dry clothes, which would just get equally soaked, but unless I could keep my core warm, I was doubting whether I could carry on. My expensive crappy breathable waterproofs would have even been monumentally surpassed by a £1 poncho...

...hmmm...

...and so I found myself peering into the bin-bag-lined bin of a restroom wondering if I could stoop so low.

Yup, of course I could.! This was a mere paddle compared to previous depths of depravity I've sunk.

"Come to me my used bin bag, let the portrait locked in the attic take the strain."

...

Tobermory, on the Bruce peninsula, led me to a WS host that couldn't host me...but did know a bunkie that could....and I assumed this meant I might be able to find shelter in a bunkhouse or shed or something...but oh no....that's no Bunkey.....a Bunkey is actually a lovely lady originally from Cornwall, living with her husband Geoff from Wigan(!). A Bunkey is a girl born of long hair to her shoulders, whose father , at first glance, declared she looked like a monkey, and whose baby sister then declared "Bunkey" - so let it be known that she would always thereafter be a Bunkey.

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