Jun. 25th, 2015

hirez: More graf. Same place as the other one. (pillock)
I am not a natural camper. I'm probably an unnatural camper because the sight of middle-aged blokes in shorts, long socks and brogues clambering out of a caravan at 8AM leads me to question my life choices, rather than nod in an English way and go polish the Caravan Club badge on the front of the car.

(NB: Does Not Exist. NT badge only. Tangentially, I never used to wonder at the number of CSMA badges I used to see as a small child. They were just there. Only very recently did I stop and think 'I lived down the road from GCHQ. Oh...')

Anyway. The weekend past (and part of the week) was spent in a field at the far pointy end of Cornwall, handy for both Porthcurno Telegraph Museum and the Logan Rock pub. Both of which we visited mob-handed. Because if you're going to go off camping with a mob of hackers (I think the 'and makers' goes without saying.) you might as well visit one or more of the key places of historic (and less so) interest.

It was fucking marv. Even though as first person on site (a terrible mistake for everyone else to make there) I didn't spot the direction of the prevailing wind until after erecting my tent on the 'wrong' side of the windbreak fences. Hey, and indeed ho.

Sat around, talked rubbish, drank beer, generated a set of fine ideas, walked around and looked at things, got a bit sunburned, drank more beer. Really didn't want to leave.

May 2025

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