It's a funny thing, moving house, especially when you move to a place you've been chasing for two thirds of your life but step into the reality of making a living while attempting to live a dream.
We've dropped anchor four minutes from Bells, and an hour and a half from most of my life's work. Stuff is on the boil and I am now getting into gear for several projects that I have high hopes for. In the mean time the winds have been mostly from the devil direction, with weeks of on-shores, the odd smattering of off, and a little bit of swell.
My errant son has returned home with a carpetbag full of bad habits and an attitude to match, but I am glad to have him with us, bless his barbed wire, ...er cotton socks. Our journey continues.
Totally under inspired to write, mostly from utter shagged-ness, and too much to process as the emotional roller coaster of relocation lurches towards the scariest ride on Magic Mountain.
The highlights of three weeks so far include a high tide body bash with a hand board and small alaia yesterday just a 100 yards from home, and a few individual waves that have had me acting surprised that I did that.
Mostly though it is the intense quiet at night, albeit a quiet punctured at around 4am many mornings as a possum lands on the roof from a nearby tree with all the finesse of a fat burgler. You read it right. Nothing catlike about this creature.
Must be eating a lot of some neighbour's fruit.
It ain't coming from me.
Pics. A couple of dawns over the past few days, plus our friendly new pets having their morning snack, and a young Chinese lass, visiting Bells, with a clear lifetime companion in Little Pooh Bear, on location.
I'm pinching myself all this is out the back door.