An artist needs his solitude. In the hurley-burley that we choose to call society, the deeper voice of the soul cannot be heard. Man alone with nature, that’s the way it should be. Like Thoreau at Walden Pond, Hemingway battling it out with the marlin in the Gulf of Mexico, Amundsen eating his own huskeys to stay alive at the South Pole... Yuck, maybe not that last one. But you get the idea. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no woman-hater. Far from it. While I was living in the city, women were my obsession. And it wasn’t just sex. I felt I needed the warmth of female companionship. Male bonding was all well and good, but without a woman nearby I felt a cold, black emptiness within me. Hell, once I even let an old bag lady share my loft, just for the company, but I had to throw her out when I found out she was stealing my art supplies and selling them to the guy next door. When it comes to women, out of sight is out of mind, which is where I would have been if I’d stayed in the city. On. It takes a few hours, but the site she finds is about as perfect as one could hope for.The terrain they cover is always changing. There are hills of varying sizes, plains, thick forest, and a minor deserts along with rivers and lakes. There is life to be found everywhere. The site of their home for the next few weeks is a natural cave set in a cliff. In front of the cave there is a clearing of hard stone worn smooth by eons of erosion. The cave entrance is just big enough for a single person, hunched over, to enter. What starts as a 1.2-meter tall by 50cm wide entrance opens out into a two-meter tall room after ten meters. The ceiling gradually rises higher until it is no less than ten meters high. The width went from three meters at the entrance to twenty meters wide at the rear. Plenty of space for their needs.A careful inspection shows that there are no other entrances unless there is one up in the ceiling. Nor are there any signs current inhabitants. Signs of past habitation does.
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