I'm sitting in the roundhouse at the camp in Rath Lugh. There are sausages in the pan and tea, sugary tea, in never emptying pots and kettles. I've been drying my socks and boots, the legs of my trousers and my damp feet by a scorching stove. This morning a branch broke by a stream to leave me up to my knees in yesterday's rain. The sun is shining again but the breeze is strong and cold outside. Hearts are warm in the piping shelter - stronger than bedrock.