Last night saw a
Puerto Rico marathon with Hugo, Abby and Nick which probably lasted two hours, one case of beer and a bottle of two buck chuck too long, given the human wreckage strewn about the house this morning. Despite two nights of minimal sleep and the resultant fug that would accompany the enthusiastic emptying of alcoholic drink bottles, between sips of iced water I could still distinguish rays of bright sunshine seeping through the gaps between the blinds. As surely as hangover follows six pints of Stella, it was a beautiful day out there.
A hasty plan was hatched: to go and attempt self-healing through taking lungfuls of fresh air. A certain degree of elevation would be necessary to get the requisite degree of freshness; some kind of mountain would be involved. Hugo must be persuaded to come; he looked worse by some distance than had I felt even the previous day (which is saying something). In the event, it took maybe three rashers of bacon to close the deal.
(The walk, incidentally, was splendid.)
Hugo, Mt Diablo summit, and a big bird of prey
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