Blood wine and Trevellyen's corn

The fog on the harbour is so beautiful, and will be missed. In this last May in Halifax (he hopes), it is just that kind of enveloping weather that convinces you to hit the ancient/modern ferry. As Larsen studies and Clarke works and you scheme about escape and June 8.

"My blood sings like wine..." and "low lie the fields of Athenry". The lonely trek across the harboring Atlantic always warms the heart.

And the imponderable questions. The Cooper lunch and the Wallace atheism and pseudo effort around the divine right of kings and true lies. Mentioned here only so not to forget. Eh?

As slow as you drink this Guinness, it still seems so long between boats. But with Mcguinty, I think the OT calls, so let us have another Guinness back on the Halifax side.

There needs at some point, to be a frank sit-down about post-August, whether alone or with a sounding board. But. It is there, and I think you need to celebrate this Christmas far afield from 207. But at least say this, the idea of a return to Sydney on June 8 seems a good one. Rental car at least. And in that, an instinctive blue sky thought makes this a day worth remembering.

Perhaps there will be more. For now I return to the boat for a return crossing. Where darkness has descended with its water, but the fiddle is beautiful.