Plane Crash Island
See? Plane Crash Island.
The ground is covered in bright red berries. I wish they were cranberries because all I can say is SCONES, SCONES, SCONES! But they are harmless, non-cranberries so no scones for me.
This is a cranberry and he is perfect. Fat, northern, autumn cranberry. He is a deeper, richer colour and he and his pals are hiding few and far between the harmless, everywhere, non-cranberries. You have to want them to find them. I found enough to make half of a scone recipe. I just might do it.
Mark built a rock campfire that was brilliant. The wind was blustery and his fireplace shielded the flames to s'more perfection.
Mark sussing out a little lunch.
Me taking photos of the loveliness. This is the thing. I feel this side of useless on a camping trip because all I want to do is read and eat oatmeal and nap and take photos of mushrooms and water. Mark builds rock fireplaces and fillets fish for supper and puts up tents and canoes the high lakes and lugs things. I made several cups of tea. Well, and I did put together my first campstove supper so I am that side of proud of myself in some regard. That side, mind you. It's far too soon to be bursting my buttons about anything.
Who can burst buttons when there's sparkly water to be looked at?