I fell into this through a glossary. Plaque tournante. The words unsettled me even before I understood what they truly meant. The turning place. Not just some junction where paths cross, but a point where the weight of a single decision bends the rails of your life onto a new course. Like the time I parked my car before formation and a military policeman stopped me for speeding when I wasn’t speeding. It isn’t a crossroads, not really. Crossroads imply options laid out before you, inviting you to pick them. This is different. This is the moment when the path

I like sharing a campsite with chickens and goats and sheep. It’s barebones in the best possibble way. Some of these places can be over produced like they’re trying to create a luxury experience in a field. This place, Grange Farm, is the opposite. It’s just grass, canvas, animals, weather and the small practical ritual of keeping yourself fed, dry, and reasonably human. Although, three days without a shower and I’m starting to feel ferel. On the first of July I started a 31-day weblogging challenge. I wanted to blog in the original sense of the word: not posts designed

There’s something beautifully ridiculous about camping and caravaning. Looking out across this fieldand I’m thinking at that here we are, modern humans with houses, central heating and air conditioning, broadband, sofas, fitted kitchens, proper beds, cupboards full of things – and for pleasure we hitch a small white box to the back of a car and go sit in a field under a grey sky. And yet somehow it works. Maybe the secret to the absurdity is that we’re not really leaving comfort because we hate comfort. We’re leaving it because too much comfort can become stale and invisible. The