Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 4

Vol 4 was always going to be a tricky one, I have to try and tie in the band, the album and the song for my own amusement and by a very slim, very tenuous but rather happy piece of luck the old photie above does have a slight echo of Vol 4’s cover in both colour and pose.

The pose though is a conundrum, I know what I’m doing but not why. I’m looking at the OMM chest pouch attached to my Villain pack, or maybe in it? What I was after I do not know but this was obviously before I got better at taking selfies with a timer. Not smooth, but definitely natural looking.
Above is the night before the morning below which was a very fine night indeed spent on the summit of Gairich by Loch Quoich. This is another clear and sharply memorised trip where it was late when I left and subsequently the last pull up the rockier ridge to the summit was in fast fading light with cold hands and sweaty brow.

The view I scrambled to get to as I could see the colours above me looking west over Knoydart and to the Cuillin was one of the moments that I’d only really seen in the guide books and it became part of why I kept going back.
All these miles traveled for often short ascents to sit on the top for twelve hours just to look, to listen, to sit with a cuppa on a rock and just be there.
Utterly pointless, endlessly glorious.
In our 24hr racket of modern life to find a place that just stops you dead and that freezes time in what can be an unexpected perfect moment is so precious. But also so accessible, you just have to go and claim it.
Though, if you’re one of the good guys, you’re currently waiting to redeem your ticket to joy.

I can’t help but smile at a memory of the way down next day. It was early summer so I was up early with the sun and heading down after breakfast, quite happy with my lot.
I met a stern faced crew of three on their way up and the leader’s face told a story. They’d left early, they’d got the best parking spot at the dam, they’d be first up today, wait, who the hell is this guy? It looked like I’d kicked their ball into the neighbours garden, eaten their last sweetie and left toast crumbs in their butter all at the same time.
The two followers were smiley and chatty, but I bet they weren’t allowed to stop until they got to the top.

I will never understand why folk take this stuff so seriously, it’s supposed to remove angst not fuel it. Try twelve hours on a summit, that’s soothe you just fine.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 3

I can recall most any day spent in the hills in some capacity, photies do help with a prompt, but a map or a dog eared copy of SMC’s Munros starts the wheels turning too. Even years after my last walk, I can describe almost every step of the West Highland Way.
Sometimes it’s the little things that stick though, not just the wow views or the near miss that gets hairier with every retelling. This axe is one that stuck.

This is the cairn of Carn Mor Dearg which I visited on the fun way around to Ben Nevis on a fine winter’s day in the late 90s, I think it was ’98 so we’ll go with that.
It’s a photie of a printed photie which now I see it on my dark mode (Aye, dark mode. “Oh my eyes” folk used to say when the read stuff on here, now any site that doesn’t have dark mode it circled by snarling Gen Z’s. I am totally assuming the told you so high ground and also claiming an early adopter shoulder stripe for my uniform.) I haven’t cropped very well, but what the hell.

So, it’s an old wooden ice axe, stuck deep into the cairn. It was clean enough, no rot or too much rust on the head so I felt like it hadn’t been there long.
I barely saw anyone all day and the internet wasn’t what is now back then so I had no wider world to ask about it.

It just looked, I don’t know, enigmatic, poignant, mysterious, even funny. Without context there was no way to know quite how to react.
But it just looked magic where it had been placed. The light catching the head, the broken leash hanging loose suggesting tales of glory and a hard life lived and all on a glorious clear day where cloud lazily poured in thin waves over the low point on the CMD arete. But, it’s the axe I remember most.

It’s not there now of course, I’ve been back many times to check. And that adds to the mystery, did the owner reclaim it, did it slip away with wind and weather or did someone with not quite as much heart and soul as you or I take it home for themselves?

The hills have so many stories to tell. They have their own history as living, breathing islands of both delicate and harsh nature and wonder and then they have what we have woven across and through them over the years to tie them onto our sea-level lives.
I think that’s why so many of us long time hill goers treat the hills with an unthought respect, we see it as that precious, fragile environment, not an entertainment venue.

I hope the many new feet of the past year passing through the contour lines of our wonder high places learn to see the difference sooner rather than later.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 2

We had made an attempt at this camping spot by going over Stob Coire Sgriodan but it took so long to just get the start point at Fersit with much fannying around on the way that by the time we got to that first summit on the route, Beinn na Lap was just too far away to reach with any joy to spare before it got dark with a big descent and reascent and we just couldn’t be arsed with it so we spent the night there. Which was no second prize at all by the way.

I went back a wee while later and looked at it another way, sometimes the long way around is the quickest, or at least possibly the most fun.
It was a long walk but it sticks in my mind vividly. The weather wasn’t great, it was raining some of the time and the clouds sat low and dark, scraping the summits ahead of me, Beinn Eibhinn and Aonach Beag.
Looking back I wasn’t scared as such, but I felt I had to be focused because I was a little bit out of my comfort zone, making new steps towards the many summit camps and solo adventures that would follow.

It was exhilarating.

It had calmed considerably by the time I got to the summit and it was dry now too. I got 360° views and even though I don’t necessarily remember it, I just know I was grinning from ear to ear. I am certainly grinning now thinking back anyway.
I do remember what I had for dinner though, Travellunch Chicken Noodle Hotpot. I had a lot of those back in the day. Would I eat that now? Ha.

I don’t remember the night itself, maybe I slept, I think a night of misery would have left its mark. I do remember a very fine breakfast, I was out of water on the top and had to descend after making a cuppa with the last drops. I sat in the sun on warm rock by the Allt Féith Thuill boiling water scooped from the fast flowing burn.
It was a glorious feeling, feelings indeed.
Apart from all the flowery adjectives I could apply to my state of mind then, it was also very rewarding, I felt I’d earned that moment of bliss, I felt free, light of heart and soul. I suppose that sounds like a hippy thing, it’s a natural high man. But it’s more grounded than that, it was an exchange of joy for effort.
I think that’s partly why exploring the hills especially with overnight stays is a very complete activity, you put effort in and you get something back.
I mean, it’s not always instant gratification of course, sometimes I’ve payed in advance by sitting in a tent or worse in the truck in a layby in the pissing rain waiting for it to stop so I can get out and enjoy even a wee bit of the day.
Then I’ve lucked into more Broken Spectres than I can count because of that, so aye I’ll sit in the rain sometimes.

It’s all about taking the chance I suppose, being willing to take a couple of days and risk it coming to nothing. But it never really does come to nothing, wet and cold misery is a stirring tale to tell, it also leaves a deficit which you burn to make up for next time, that next trip which you plan on the way home as your pile of wet kit steams the windscreen on the long way back down the road.

Taking a chance? Aye, I can do that.

Tomorrow’s Dream Vol 1

I had a nice question in the comments this week about the last post title and I realised that in nearly 15 years of post writing I’ve rarely had a relevant title, in fact I don’t think there’s much on here gives a clue as to any of the actual content. Ha, I like that.
So. with that in mind I’m starting a wee series of posts as lockdown grinds on called Tomorrow’s Dream. It’s a Black Sabbath song (of course) but it’s also a very real hope. I’ve hit the wall, I want out there and I can physically feel the tension now.
I didn’t think that would happen, I thought I was in control etc, but no. To choose not to go to the mountains because there’s more important things at hand is one thing, to be barred from going by factors beyond my control has finally got to me.

So, I’m closing my eyes and going through 20 years of photies with a few words alongside to just touch my feet onto the ground, back then and right now.

We’d climbed a fence and a wall to find a path through to the lower crags. I was doing a route for Trail Mag and I had assured them I had one for Ben Nevis that I’d never seen published. We were now looking for that, one step and pencil mark on an A4 printed cropped and enlarged map at a time.

It was fine spring day and there was much banter from Z and Brian as we climbed the long drag from the glen up the south of Nevis to find snow and surprisingly, people for the first time that day.
So much scree and boulders, but also views. The Mamores were wreathed in cloud but also streaked with sun and the grins stayed wide. My face was tight with sun, wind and snow when I got back down. That’s a sign of a good day.

The route ended up a good one, I took in the CMD too and told the readers to walk back up the Glen to the Polldubh car park if they had to return to the start point.
I know folk did my routes because I got frequent feedback. One bloke on another route I wrote complained that my distances were unrealistic and he’d had a rough time, I’d walked it in deep snow while stopping to take photies and make cuppas, and he was there in summer. I learned a lot from feedback, didn’t change my approach though. This stuff should sometimes be aspirational, not always easily accessible.

I’ve often thought of going back and repeating the route, there were views that you just don’t get from anywhere else. Seen from high on Nevis the Mamores level out, on the southern flank, they look just awesome, the peaks stand out individually and impressively.

This was still on borrowed camera time, above and below. Below though that bigger pack show me arriving at camp on the summit of Carn Dearg to the north of Rannoch Station.
This was an early summit camp for me and it’s still fresh in my mind for what I woke up to the next morning, which I’ll probably get to when the photies pop up in whatever folder they’re in.

“Are you not scared?” I’ve been asked a lot and no is the answer. On any summit in any conditions I’ve always felt at home despite some hairy moments such as wrecked tents or a blizzard trying to bury me in the night.
I hope that feeling comes from an understanding of my situation built from knowledge and experience and not just bravado wrangled from stupidity and being lucky. I’m going for the former, I think I know my shit by now.

That moment there, the arriving at somewhere new, touching the rock, digging the tent peg in and hearing the stove roar into life.
That moment there, that’s tomorrow’s dream.

Difficult to Cure

As the sun slipped far below the horizon on Monday the colours got ever more intense. Looking behind us it was dark, or maybe just seemed more so after turning from the burning oranges of the western sky.
The surfaces, the gathered faces, all glowed with the fire above us, eyes still fixed upwards with some grins evident and some faces just still and mesemerised.

The colours shifted, purples and blues bled in from the edges before the flames burned out completely. It was all done and dusted in 30 minutes. If felt like seconds and it felt like hours.

Over the years I’ve stopped the car and got out wherever I happened to be, ran for a summit until I thought my chest was going to burst, downed tools and bolted for a viewpoint on a church roof or just stopped mid conversation and walked away when I thought I saw a flicker of flame on the horizon.
Being handed this on a plate just at my front door doesn’t diminish the deep and total joy of experiencing it.
It’s like standing in a shower of colour letting it wash away worries and stress and repairing a smile that was maybe slipping just a little.

Make time for this stuff. Please.

*No psychedelic edits, straight from the camera, it really was like this. Crivvens.

Rainbow Rising

I was meeting Linda on the beach at half five, just so we could get a wee walk in. There’s always a chance of a view, but jeezo Monday night was epic.

We just stood and stared with the wee group that gathered to see it. There were phones and cameras, but mostly eyes up to the sky like it was the alien mothership arriving.
It was quite an astonishing event to witness as it all evolved above us over half an hour or so.

Nature always wins, from the most depressing miserable day to the most life affirming moments of joy, nature brings it all.

Part two coming up, that’s when it gets properly psychedelic.

Three (giant) steps to heaven*

The sun was breaking through off and on all day and it was a little distracting. I was taking calls and I really was trying to be where folk needed me while keeping Holly on track with school stuff as she drifts into browsing online fashion shopping every time she thinks I’m not looking.

I can’t complain, she’s done so well considering all the stuff she’s had to deal with and her work completion rate is very high. It’s not always correct (she has my maths brain), but she’s trying. Best girl.

I got some work done eventually, but I went dressed for the crags. I’m no’ daft.

The sun was still there, way over there actually and the rain swept in just as I got onto the edge of the crags. It was very windy too, definitely shell jacket and hood time. It was just magic.

I had another old jacket on and I was very comfy, I remember saying years ago that Gore Tex Paclite was fine, folk were just using it wrong. It’s true, with brand new Polartec 100 weight fleece under it and a couple of hours of constant sweat, it was fine, excellent in fact. The rain was intermittent so the jacket never wet out completely which I know would have accelerated the condensation build up inside, but still, happy.

I tried some timer and tripod photies, although most of the shots in this post are from my phone. I used to be so quick setting up for doing shots as I was doing them all the time for on here or for my actual outdoor work stuff back in the day, now it was a faff with unfamiliar buttons and gangly tripod legs.
Most photies have me looking directly into the lens to see if the timer’s gone off. Jeezo. I’ll get there again.

It was lovely light though, the cloud was broken and fast moving and I did get to see some glorious blue between the showers. The land just glows when the low winter sun hits it and the horizon is snow streaked and familiar but unreachable peaks. Beautiful to see as always but it wasn’t tugging at me today, I was happy enough with the buffeting from the weather and playing with the camera. It was quiet too, hardly saw a soul, I hate to say it given my propensity for random banter with strangers, but I think I enjoyed today’s mini adventure even more because of the solitude.

I’ll need to watch that.

I nipped into see the cup marked stone and check on the other possibles nearby. One is now buried under moss and the favourite one with the dice style five indentations is also looking very mossy. That’s good, nature will protect them better than we can

A march downhill and home to warmth and dinner and dealing with being caked in red mud. I love being out but I love being back home more, glad that’s not changed.

*the giants step reference is about the ascent route, the steep and quite craggy feeling giants staircase. I’ll take you sometime.

 

Sgurr na Cladach

In summer, beating the first rays without being in a tent at height is a thankless task with tired eyes behind the steering wheel and joyless miles before setting foot on the ground that had drawn you so far.
Better to see the low sun warm the slopes across the glen with a fresh cuppa sitting on a cool rock or a dry patch of grass if you’re lucky with a rainless night. The slopes are thrown into relief in a different and more subtle way than under snow, but it’s no less grand.
Dawn gold slides into fresh green as the new day’s warmth reaches your face and evaporates any thoughts of another wee kip before setting off on day two of a leisurely and most likely unnecessary mini adventure. But what hill isn’t worth two days of your time, one is never enough.

The pack is lighter with food eaten and water drank and it sits easy on shoulders that are soon damp under the straps as the sun climbs towards a warm noon.
A bead of sweat escapes my hat’s soaked brim, day two was warm and the ascent was maybe more than I was expecting. It was longer certainly and my pace was slow as much to subconsciously stretch the day out than the usual tired legs and burst lungs.
Slowing down your steps means that the end of the day is yours too, long after the day trippers are back on the road I’ll be watching the sun slipping away again. Just enough left to drink to get me smiling before I get downhill to a burn to fill a bottle, just enough snacks will be found after a rucksack rummage to keep the rumbling at bay until I get close to home.

Close your eyes, you can feel it too can’t you.

Sugar Ring and The Jam

We had a wee window of opportunity and it was early enough that the stupids would not be present in great numbers, we packed and ran.

We know this place well, as a couple as well as on our own separate adventures but we’ve not had good winter days here together, I think we knew this was going to make up for that as we rushed the two minute drive there.

The views were simply spectacular. The hills pure white with cloud cast shadows flowing over them throwing their contours into focus but also showing just how windy it was going to get a little higher up.

Ben Lomond just looked epic. I’ve rarely seen it look so, yes I’m going to say it without a hint of irony, Majestic.

We had spikes on early, the turf was frozen and the snow was thin over ice and every step was a pleasing rip of teeth digging in.
We talked options, I’d taken the gully a couple of days earlier, but Linda was keen on the view from the crag edge, so we’d go that way.

Conditions had changed a lot since then and the snow had been blown or melted away except for the top where a cornice of sorts had fallen down and made it all feel rather mountainy. Linda took a moment or to think this through, because believe me, it is steep. But the cursing soon gave way to giggling once she was up and over .

A few mountain bikers appeared from the east. Shouting and whooping away, they were having a blast. They stopped at the lip of the crags for photies and swapped stories of the trail to this point and the way ahead.
Good effort in these conditions, I haven’t ridden on snow in years, don’t think I’d have the balls for this stuff now. I’d just think of the recovery time from any crashes.
That’s not getting old, it’s being pragmatic.

We slipped away the way they came through the coldest wind I’ve felt in a long, long time, even at just over 1000ft. I had my big insulated winter gloves on and my hands were still frozen by the time we crossed the Black Linn reservoir to find some glorious sunlit and windless shelter for lunch.

Home made pieces and a flask in the sun without a whisper of wind reaching us. It was just perfect.
I like being part of a team, I’ve spent so much time out here on my own and now I have banter and laughter and it makes the day better. Aye.

It’s going to be interesting when lockdown is behind us and I can head for the far away peaks with a tent. A lot has changed for me in the past few years, I’ve either been in the hills with a pal or exploring with Linda or Holly, or both.
I think the lone mountain man is still there outside somewhere, but I don’t if he’s very high on the guest list for getting in.

It’s not a big climb from the Black Linn, it’s swing across an undulation the moor, or should I say arctic tundra today, before it rounds a little in outline to swell into the little rocky outcrop that is Donut Hill’s top.

The view though is just, I don’t know, what would the thesaurus say? All the words that go with awesome.
Hitting this top with it’s tiny wee crags and familiar trig point is like going into your local pub and finding 70s Black Sabbath playing up the back. It’s a “No way, this can’t be right” moment. It’s that much of a surprise and that big a reward.

The photie below does kinda show it, it just doesn’t show it big enough. I’m typing this on my laptop (hang in there old boy, you can make it, another few months if you can…) and I can see it big on the screen and it makes me all giddy and happy, but I know on my phone it won’t be the same. Damn you modern life.

But still. Happy, happy, happy.

His and hers?

Saying When

I had to get out for a bit, even if was just for a round of golf with the girls. No, that’s Sybil from Faulty Towers isn’t it. Crags it was.

The new snow had been taunting me, not a directly personal way, but in a passive aggressive dismissive way, it didn’t care if I could get there or not, but it was enjoying my pacing and clock watching I’m sure.

I was already packed, all my favorites were right there to be grabbed, I just needed a wee flask and getting from front door to the Overtoun gate wasn’t even long enough to hear a single song on the stereo en route.

It was pretty grey lower down, I was initially a bit disappointed thinking I might have missed the best part of the day where the snow clouds were mixed with startling blue sky patches.
There were groups of people happily breathing germs on each other all around the accessible lower grassy bits so I just motored on, even if my chassis wasn’t ready for it.

The ascent was fast and occasionally breathless but I did hit my stride after a while and I felt actually, surprisingly rather good. The paths were powder on ice and I had my spikes on pretty early on which made the going even better. I had a warning from one gingerly descending pair and funny looks from another lot on their way down.
Don’t care, good luck to ye, I’m all about solo uphill today.

I took a shortcut from the top of the crags, which as always were looking fine, into the nasty cleared forest area to get to the reservoir and onto the plateau so I could sneak up on Donut Hill from the back. It was here the sky started to mix things up a bit and I thought: Oh, I’d better hurry up.

I charged on as patches of light skittered across the moor, picking out the rounded tops to the east as well as the little rocky crown of Donut. The sky was split so many ways, deep and dark, clear splashes of blue, shards of pink and orange and always the fuzz tones of the snow streaming from the clouds which were distant, then definitely getting nearer. Aye, they were racing me to the top.

Naw, ya bugger. This is mine.

I won. And the reward was light like I’ve never seen up here. The textures and contrasts over what I will admit is not the most dramatic of landscapes had me open mouthed and laughing, even saying “Look!” to absolutely no one.

The wind was strong here too and I pulled on my down jacket (review later this week…), hid in a rocky corner and poured some 3in1 Kenco latte from my flask.
The snow flew at me horizontally while the sun burned through as best it could. I was caught between the elements and the machinery of nature but it was fine, as engines go, it’s a smooth runner and an easy ride.

I was warm, I was comfy, my eyes were wide and my head was light. I really needed this. This wasn’t making do, this wasn’t an alternative or a replacement, I was full up.
I could even happily say when and leave before it was completely dark.

Epilogue.

I was in a fine eclectic mix of gear which did make me think several times as I walked. ’98 shell, ’94 rucksack, ten year old repaired trousers and a brand new fleece and test down jacket.
It all works together perfectly.
I’ve got a better perspective on this stuff that ever since I’m up here so often at the moment. How far has gear actually come in the past 30 years? I mean, really, design, not fabric and construction.

I’m enjoying fit and features on clothing that are clunky to look at but perfect to use. My pack is not very user friendly from a storage and accessibility perspective but it’s more comfortable and stable that anything new I’ve used in years.

I know what I’d like to do with this, but I don’t think I can. Well, it’s been done once with my Karrimor Whillans pack right enough, but I want to do more.
Who will make me old gear from new fabrics? Anyone? Contact form at the top or the side depending on what your screen is, give me a shout.

You’re just copying me

I occasionally dig out my piles of old photies and leaf through the packets wondering what to do with them as well marveling at my original hair colour.

I took some shots of them, just to try and copy them on the cheap in a half arsed way. Of course it didn’t work apart from these two which threw up a couple of rather lovely surprises.

Above is the Five Sisters of Kintail ridge looking westish around ’95 to ’97 I think. I camped at Morvich with my old mate Jimi and did the round up the Glen and back along the ridge to come down to camp in the dark tired and hungry.
It was a monster day and remember it well and fondly. The memories are on paper though, I wish I had the oomph to digitize all this stuff, but it’s the sheer volume of it all that I can’t face.
Eventually my misguided enthusiasm for unlikely and pointless endeavours or a desire to relive my youth etc will probably overcome that. Until then, I’ll take occasional half arsed shots in the kitchen like these two where I put the print against the wall on the worktop and took a photie of the photie.

Above it worked out well, it’s somewhere between a Horatio McCulloch painting and a colour plate from an old guide book. I actually really like the accidental effect.
Below is an early indication of the obsession to come  and I have no idea what hill I’m on. Deary me.

 

One Way or Another

I have my favourite spots on the crags, some on the track, some hidden away for those who know or for those with a little adventure in mind.
So it’s bound to happen that I get a few photies that repeat themselves.

Don’t think I could have done this any better if I’d tried and I just realised what I’d done as I was deleting the folders from the laptop now tat they’re all safe on a hard drive.

Before and after, late autumn and in the midst of this winter, the wonderful Lang Craigs.

Norwegian Blue

I could’ve skipped a stone and hit the shore of that far off land, a land of winter wonder, mountains, sunshine and cold air to nip my cheeks above my face covering.
Well, I could’ve if I didn’t have that damned rotator cuff tear. I miss skimming stones, I was actually really good at it. It comes from living on a boat in Bowling harbour in the 70’s with plenty of open water around and an endless supply of old broken slates from the then recent industrial past to hone my skills.
The last time I skipped a stone was near Luss about five years ago and it undone months of ultrasonic treatment, physiotherapy and home exercise. Oh the tears, the anguish and regret etc
I really don’t care if I never rock climb again, but I really missed skimming stones.

The man in the kayak looked happy and rightly so, the swans flew past him low and graceful, the ducks floated in front of him and we chatted as he passed, the poor bugger actually said “I’m local!”. Good lad.
There must have been nothing but peace out on the water, no engines were heard all the time we were in Balloch Park. It was simply glorious.

The Ben was better seen this weekend, not sure that helped my mental state any.

We put in few hours walking, stopping once to chat to a elderly lady who had a lovely lyrical old school local accent and stories to tell. The pace of life now seems to be slow enough to really enjoy moments like this, nowhere else to be, nothing to hurry to. We only left her because my toes were getting cold in my Converse, that sun might be bright but warm it was not.

Across the burn and through the fence away from the trails is where we found peace to enjoy the views. It’s an amazing place to be on a day like today and although just minutes from my door we’d overlooked it because I just thought it would always be mobbed. It is near the carparks right enough, but just a little further on, where it’s muddier, it’s quiet, almost deserted.

It felt, good.

Linda sent me this from here phone with the words “Look, you’re pining”. Aye maybe, but today we got so close.

Chicken Burger

Ohemgee. Going through the old unpublished drafts to clean up the blogs’ cupboards I found this which I’d started writing on 10th February 2018.

Other than misting up seeing my brilliant girl Holly aged 10 and also seeing her as a wee teenager through the kitchen door as I type this, I’m struck by how today looked exactly the same as this day did.
The Ben stark white and the air cold, the broken cloud and strips of pink in the evening light.
But today we can’t be at Luss, on the beach and eating a chicken burger. Not yet, one day though.

Oh, I miss these days.

 

Nor a lender…

I didn’t own the camera I took this with, it was borrowed. I didn’t own a camera at all at the time.

The red LaserComp was a loan from the manufacturer, as was the experimental carbon pole holding it up and Brian was in my own green LaserLite version.
That was thirteen years ago. I think we’ve probably reached an unspoken understanding.

I suppose blogger and blagger is only one letter different.

That red tent is currently optimistically packed and ready, as is that experimental pole (aye, go to production…). And they said lightweight gear wouldn’t last.

Places Everyone

I do video now. Maybe.

Linda got me a wee action camera for Christmas and on my first crag trip with it I failed comprehensively and recorded a bunch of blurred silent film.
Luckily YouTube has plenty of throw away soundtrack you can stitch on so it doesn’t feel as awkward as it might.
So, here’s a minute of the Lang Craigs. It brings me joy, even in lo-fi lo-def lo-brow format.

I’ll do better next time. Maybe.