I mean really. Around a raging campfire, listening to the game on the radio, drinking red wine from our New London wine cellar?
And then we left northcentral Florida and headed south. In the rain. Naturally.
But then, finally, it stopped. And we arrived in South Florida. And to us, South Florida means only
one three things:
Big Daddy . . .
. . . Suzannie . . .
. . . and Uncle Norman.
We have been popping in on these guys, and camping with them in the Keys, for years. Years.
The Westy knows the good people, and the good places to camp, after all.
Kirk and Suzanne live on a canal, which has a fabulous view looking down . . .
. . . or looking up.
They also have a friend's boat that -- when it's way too windy to go out on -- provides shelter from the wind, is in full sun, and somehow the newspaper appears on a cool, windy Wednesday morning.
And a little otter showed up in the canal to play, too.
Awwww. He came to see his Uncle Norman, noted otter whisperer.
Across the street is access to the beach. To the Atlantic Ocean . . .
. . . in all its glory.
Mistah skipped stones. . . .
. . . and collected shells . . .
. . . and we walked by the house we've watched being built for years. There was a rumor, years ago, that that it was Sly Stallone's house, but Suzanne told us yesterday it actually is the home of the guy who invented the bar code..
Either explanation will do, frankly.