I am sitting on the root of a blue spruce, looking out across the clearing where our green Dragoman tents look like they've sprung up out of the turf. Loads of people have left to make the full day walk up to the glacier (for some reason I keep wanting to put a capital letter on glacier). I am waiting here for the second shift of pony riding. Eight people want to ride today, but we could only get four horses. One stallion and three heavily pregnant mares. I suspect today's ride will be quite sedate. It is probably just as well. I am still bruised from the short burst of speed and the unfortunately positioned metal studs on the last ride.The saddles today look very well padded.
It has been quite a week. There are a few larger than life characters on the truck. I am fighting the urge to slag people off. In fact, I've had to do what I used to do when writing school reports. Write out what I want to say and then start afresh writing what I am allowed to say.
It is hot in the sun, but there is a gentle cool breeze here under my spruce. We had omelettes for breakfast and, later, there will be a pony ride.
I am going to go now and pour mate for the driver who is fixing the truck. I have been trained in the art of mate pouring for just such an emergency and I don't mind doing it, because I get every second one. I am slowly becoming addicted to it. I love the way the metal straw burns against my lip. I love the slightly bitter liquid that promises caffeine. I love the ritual of pouring and passing.
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