The hay bales at the end of the universe.

The idea was to go into the Chicou wood where Mendez swore there was a carpet of cèpes. 
Nico wore Mr Ryan Air's Ecuadorian jumper and said we wouldn't need water.
The woods were inaccessible; thigh deep in brambles.  We found nothing and got ourselves lost. It got hot and we hid the jumper in a bush and still didn't have any water.
We did a little trespassing swing up to Picotalent because we had no choice and did that head switching thing you do when you shouldn't be somewhere but you are and finally there's no one to tell you off anyway.
The front of the farm was full of bamboo meditation points and a state of the art water fountain that I could have looked at for hours and would have distracted pangs of hunger. There were yoga decks and woodland  that was crying out for tantric stuff.
There was an up-cycled camping car that shouted psychedelically that love-is-all-it-needs and all-is-resolute-in-the-absolute.
We tested the resolute to its limits.  A path will take so long to walk  so  long as it's not interrupted .
It was.
The plural of dice was/were falling around our heads.  We struggled out of briars into a field of cut hay.  If the tractor had got in it must have got out again.  We stumbled around like rats in a bag looking for an exit but the field had been mown by a helicopter.
We followed animal tracks into woods but the boar had handed their paths onto hares and they onto mice and they onto ants.  
The paths led to nowhere for a long time and then the string untangled and we managed to find our way to the square for a beer.