We begin our long journey back to Australia tomorrow -- north to Paris by train then two flights back to the big southern island. So here I am on the last full day in Puglia, coming out of the Trullo on the makeshift ramp my brother Joe put together for me on day one.
It's a day for soaking up the spirit of this marvelous place, spending time with Joe and Steph, making preparations for the journey (regrettably).
Neither Spike nor I want to engage with the idea of leaving. But there are timetables to meet. There are bags to pack. And when it comes to that job, I know my place.
I am a C5 / C6 quadriplegic wheelchair user. I am about as useful as a chocolate fireguard when it comes to practical tasks. So, I do no packing. Spike does it all. And she is a very good packer: fast, organised, accomplished. It really does make a difference.
The unspoken rule is well understood by both of us. Get out of the way Dougie. Give no packing advice. And make no comment under any circumstances. Not. One. Word.
So I tour 'The Estate'. One last look, I suppose. Except we'll be back as soon as we can.
There are the kittens, feeding from their mother. They are almost twice the size they were just ten days ago. And they have worked their way through two fish heads and more prawn skins than you could skewer on a pointed stick. It will not be long before they're fending for themselves. Post-cute.
A giant prickly pear, figs on the cusp of ripening (a bit too late for us) shoots of veg and herbs not long sprung up. Not all of those will make it through the summer now to come.
The 'rustic' shower, the barbie, chairs and pizza oven. A gentle, quiet, happy place.
As dusk falls our thoughts and actions turn to dinner. Joe unpacks the (never used) barbie kit (a Christmas gift from Matt, Chris and Ray -- perhaps with their own visit in mind). We're having giant salmon steaks tonight.
And for the final time (this time) we eat too much and talk too long then make our way to bed. Our last night in the Trullo.
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