Canterbury Tales

I celebrated the summer solstice in 2008 with a druid who lived in a goat shed on the outskirts of Bath. I met him under a bridge along the Kennet-Avon Canal, feathers and tinfoil in his beard, carrying a sceptor. Had it been a street, I probably would have crossed to the other side, but as it was, the contact was unavoidable. His appearance was remarkable. Even more remarkable, however, was his professorial knowledge of American politics and the election cycle. We talked of George W., John McCain, and Barack Obama as if we'd met outside a lecture hall at George Washington University. He was polite and brilliant, and he exuded such gentleness and peace that it made me wonder about the turn of events that had led him to be living in squalor. I never asked, and he never said. We just shared the news--two travelers, passing on the road to Bath.

The good stuff:

ukelele music
bleu cheese
shooting stars
birdsong
banana splits
old friends
new pencils
Moleskine notebooks
long-distance phone calls
train stations