In one of the trees there's a stick, in another a bag of possessions, the stick's used to dislodge the bash before both are returned to their perches in the branches, the stone bench a bed of sorts.
Around him the ring road around the old town, a main walking street, tourists and travellers clutching their beer as they move between the traffic. The sad thing is that I can remember him from before, same place, same setup as five years ago.