The forecast was:
Sunny with a chance of buttered toast.
The air was breezy and summery and rolled over and around me like fresh nostalgia. Gently drifting Corabelle toast accumulated, forming crunchy moraines. Magnifying glass in my rucksack, brownie-sized pyre of twigs and a concrete cooker at my feet, the urge to put on the kettle for tea was fierce. Home on the Kettle Moraine.