Candace

I’m sitting at the dressing table, fixing my hair for the first time in days, when a bird starts singing right outside my tent. An ash warbler. For the third time since sunset yesterday. I almost smile.

When it first happened, I made Ingrid go check. We were way outside of where the warbler should be, and if it was lost, I’d consider leaving my tent to make sure it got home. The last thing I expected was for her to report some kind of insane contraption making the ...