Could it be magic?

I've been quietly admiring this tree stump for a couple of months now. There is a large strip of bark peeling away on one side of it which has been home to a family of snails, over ten of them at one time, todays visit sees the number whittled down to four.

I wonder where they have gone, what magical mysteries they have encountered, before inevitably falling prey to a beast further up the food chain.

I can imagine them having awoken from their hibernation and slowly dragged themselves up the tree to feast on some fungus, later to be gobbed up by the swans or more likely a seagull and inflicting with one last hoorah an epic halluciongenic experience on the gull. Somewhere around Irvine there is a seagull flying higher than normal, spying in flight the remains of a greggs sausage roll discarded on the ground and swooping down through a technicolour sky only to pull away at the last second as the sausage roll becomes a cat made of puff pastry, clawing at the gull with paws made of yum yums and empire biscuit eyes glinting in the sun.

So I was working late tonight, it was dark when I left, so there wasn't really any opportunity to get anymore photos on the walk home.

The streets were deserted (and even the traffic on the roads was minimal), not too strange given the wind chill factor, of the two people I passed they seemed like me to be the source of the song I was listening to through my headphones. We all three were Poor Wayfering Strangers, trying to find our way back home.

It was Eric Bibbs version I had on, from the album Bookers Guitar, it's Bibb's tribute to the late Bukka White, an album made of songs inspired by holding the Blues legends original guitar.

A favourite of mine from the album is New Home.

A tale of a man with dreams of making a better life for himself, no matter the cost. Wrestling with his conscience, it's a price worth paying.

One more sleep and it's Friday, my favourite day of the week.
I'm off to plan some adventures, after all I am a fungi