Mark making

We broke camp this morning and headed home. Part way we paused, in the town I grew up in, for coffee and a big stretch of the dog's legs on the golf course. It's a wonderful spot, South Cotswolds, with a view stretching down to Bristol and over to the Welsh Mountains. Today didn't disappoint, clear and windy. In the far corner, furthest away from the club house, is this little Cotswold Stone hut. It has unglazed 'windows' to the sides and an open front for drinking in the view. As teenagers we'd do a bit of the other kind of drinking, (liebfraumilch I recall *groan* I know! it was the 80s) and working out where the juice was going to come from in our lives.
This place is full of grafitti. Some from before I was born. It's not painted, just carvings in the stone of initials, names, dates, people who've been here and want it to be known. The hill was given to the people of the town and over the years they've taken ownership with their marks. I like that.