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It’s still pretty

Sorry for the lack of a serious post yesterday guys. Your vagabond was, well, laid up with a serious bout of “stop treating your body like battered pick-up truck.” Although we had a beach party yesterday that I was excited to attend, my body had different plans and I instead ended up sleeping for about fifteen hours. I feel a little better.

And although I heard I missed some great lobster, I also apparently missed the tainted clams that made a few people sick, so perhaps best I didn’t attend. There are, I hear, pictures of pirate ships and merriment that I’ll try to post when and if I can steal them off Troy’s hard drive.

This morning as Blue Lightning took us into town, I caught a glimpse of the mist settling between the valleys between Pylos and Iklaina, and marvelled at the simple beauty of the gray fog set against the green of the olive groves that carpet the ridges and mountains.

“That’s not mist,” Kyle tells me. “That’s forest fire. They’re burning part of the countryside down.”

Which would explain the strangely camp-fire smell I was wondering about. Sure, controlled destruction isn’t quite as romantic an image as morning mist, but hey, it’s still pretty

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