The Man With No Name

Today began with me taking Lucy for a stroll around the area that prompted this blip. Then, as we sat by the sea sipping a beer and refuelling on some kind of magical taco-based joy, along strolled Robert, a friend we'd made a few days earlier.

Robert's a seventy year old American who's more full of beans than your average twenty year old. He was staying in our hostel, but was now before our very eyes lugging two huge bags to his next port of call - the house of a Mexican friend he'd made where he'd been offered a bed (this 'bed' actually turned out to be the stone floor of a balcony, 'I like to sleep under the stars...and the moon' exclaimed Robert, happy as a sandboy).

I offered to help him with his bags, painfully unaware of the gradient that lay ahead. After much hill climbing, and more steps than I care to recall, we could hear Robert's friend playing the guitar and singing beautiful songs, accompanied by his friend on the bongos.

He was quite the character, a potter by trade who was setting up a wheel and kiln in his home.
He proceeded to show us an amazing collection of fossils, animal skulls, and ancient stone artifacts, some of which he'd even found himself by 'knowing where to look, and what to look for' in the Mexican mountains.
His house was a modest affair, but transformed into something special by the view. He had a large patio area outside, that looked across the rooftops and out over the Pacific.

And so we sat, listening to his stories and putting the world to rights over a cool beer, watching the sun set over a beautiful day.