Rainy Days
18th August 2006
To recap:
- It�s pissing it down with rain
- The campsite is full of Germans
- Not one picture has come out
I don�t know why the latter happened. Apparently, the little knob next to the rewind lever wasn�t turned back into the right position after I changed the film on the boat. But at least the digital pictures have come up alright.
Today was a day for smoking a pipe in the bar. Failing that, I retreated there for a few cigarettes. David Gilmour was up on the big screen, looking like one of my old college professors, pumping out �How I wish you were here�. He reminds me of my age. They were good once—how does it feel to be seventy-something and look back at that?
Slowly, the fog was creeping in from the sea, obliterating all the colours outside, wrapping everything in a grey blanket. Ping Floyd are a hell of a soundtrack to the fog.
Another excursion boat left the harbour. Hell of a day for it. It is too expensive to go on these boat trips and for once I was glad that I didn�t have one planned until Sunday.
On the screen, David Gilmour laid down one hell of a guitar solo. He still has it, but it is scary to see how old he is now.
The humid cold seeped through the walls of the bar just as it did through the pane of my tent, my sleeping bag and my woollen blanket the night before. It chills right to the bone.
Gilmour made his guitar howl. I think of the dogs howling last night, every time the rain picked up.
�Shine on you crazy Diamond� came on, and it reminded me of my time at the Danish boarding school, where we always used to play that song; then of the Pink Floyd gig John took me to just after we met. Life�s coming full circle.
The fog was lifting. The prospect for tomorrow and the weekend should be brighter.
Denni