While Not Working

I had low expectations of my last day. Avoiding the highway, I had 40-odd km meandering through wheatfields in an awkward corner of country that was neither the Yorke Peninsula nor the Clare valley. I expected headwinds, pleasant but uninspiring countryside, and no towns or settlements to break the journey. Roger would pick me up in Dublin, a little highway town named by a long-ago Irishman who was both homesick and imaginative. I was up in time to watch the sun rise over my camp: that's my tent there under the tree in front of the green building (aka camp kitchen). The skeleton crew was already out and fishing on the river.   I meandered my way out of town, appreciating all the old stone buildings.  One of them was the bakery.  I extra-appreciated that one.   The day surprised me. The weather started dull and turned out glorious. Rabbits provided entertainment. The wind blew in fickle bursts but was controlled by vegetation.  Salt lakes dotted the countryside, breaking up the mon