Pine cone land mines threaten toes freshly dipped in a coat of cold. Trails written in floral scriptina font invite exploration on the sofa cushion wrapped in grass. Sawed off tree stumps, a frog’s paradise or a squatter’s dream. Blood spilt on wooden beak, dragon fly landing pad, ants drift like confetti, kayaks echo observations, home grown tomato gushes on teeth unbrushed. Camp fees paid, phone calls made, a whole day with only one thing to do – breathe.