Nobody’s Home?

A sign on the door of the four-room Huckleberry Inn read, “Call or text if nobody’s home.”

I called, being from a generation where that was appropriate means of communication, and left a message.  I schlepped all my gear to the front porch, looked around and saw a comfortable chair to wait a return call.  I pulled out a book and read after making my daily journal entry.  Three hours and eight chapters later I decided to text the number.  Within 20 seconds I got a reply, “Did you ring the doorbell?  Someone should be there.”  I got up off my fat arse and pushed the little white button, by some miracle a young woman appeared.  I was introduced to the blue room, a nice large room with a kitchenette, 1 king & 1 queen bed.  I was in the green room last year, and the charm of this place draws me back.  I killed the evening hours with some reading and cucumber sandwich.

The next morning, I took a long hot shower (knowing that I’d have to compete with hundreds of BC BEEMERS this weekend for the three campground stalls), loaded Trafalgar, and headed into town for a quick breakfast before I stormed the beaches of Normandy–saving campsites for the NORWESTARS.  I stuffed down a egg bagel concoction at Broadway Deli downtown; I arrived at the city campground to find only one site available, but the RVs and tent campers were slowly awaking in preparation of departing for the motorcycle event.  It was about 0730, so I deposited my gear in the one campsite and circled the soon to be available sites like a vulture.  Ray and Brian wandered through, shocked to see that I had secured 6 sites.

With reinforcements I felt more comfortable in fending off the riders that wanted our beachhead.  Ray and I lost a quid each to Brian who guessed the groups arrival.  Once reunited, our army of NORWESTARS, began our usual entertainment: deciding where to eat and telling tales of adventures gone wrong.  Must go, but will continue the tale tomorrow.