Repent for the end is nigh! (you should have seen this before proof reading. It stated “the end is neigh!”)
The finality of our departure has just sunk in and a kind of resigned fatalistic gloom has sunk in over the team, not helped by the news that a second sillonian local has apparently perished since the start of our stay on the islands: apparently they just found his kyak near Seven Stones, half way to the mainland. The weather today has also been its usual self and I did not bother checking on it before dressing but just put on the waterproof trousers on automaticaly. However at around noon the weather cleared up a little and our day of backfilling in the rain was over.
In the evening spirits began to rise a little, like bad bread, and I undertook the apparently simple task of repairing a tent. Three hours of playing with needles and elastic later, I finaly got the bugger standing without any more poles rupturing and could at last calm down enough to realise I felt heartely sick, an expereince made worse by the uttely alien sight of Sly Dave sans facial hair. It could be worse; last year he started the Scilly dig with long-ish hair and shaved it to his now familiar black fuzz mid dig to the horror of all.
However I was soon cheered up by the awards ceremony cooked up by Edd, Owen and Rhys. Neadless to say that most of what was spoken is not fit for repeating here and it was a small mercy that all those under 15 were of crabing at the time because the language used was as colourful as a electric chamellion on bad acid locked insde a 1970’s discoteque. I won’t evern mention the role-playing and the acting out of the months most embarassing moments. My two awards were for best bum-bag and site know-it-all, both of which I accepted with my usual upbeat enthusiasm, although I was was envious that Rob and not me got the “most likley to kill everyone” award for his action with the imaginary bazooka. As if my staring down the EDM crosshairs at passing tourists and making “Bang! Clink-Clink” noises and making bolt action gestures all month was any less inpressive. I also refrained from booing for nearly all of the event. Unusualy braced by this we fell to discussing the meal we had just eaten. The quadbike sent to get food came back with two small boys that Jacqui and Ian had lost, but no chicken. Rather than eat that had been delivered, ala Hannibal Lecter, the quadbike was sent to recover the missing food. The errant poultry fillets were eventualy found in the road, in a puddle. Did it fall or was there fowl play afoot?
Aftrer that I walked to the pub with Jacqui and Rob. Three Archaeologists walk into a pub. Unfortunatly one of them is Jacqui and as the format of that particualr jopke is three blokes walk into a pub we’re working aganst the grain from the start. Speaking of working against the grain I plan to drink as much of it malted as I can and hope it can’t work against me. And in the pub there is a computer. Thus blogging happens, or is happening, or had happend from your point of veiw as unless you are a seer of have a really good long lens camera you can’t actually see me as I type this. I hope. And thus blogs, and digs, become self referential and end not with a shout, but with a whimper. Or a drunken song. Or Meta-Humour.
So here we are (well, your not here. If you were you could just ask me rather than reading it in a blog) at the end of the road (again, metaphor, there is no road to speak of- although now I think of it Bryher only really has one road and the pub is at the end of it so in theory we’re safe). The group has fallen to musing, drinking and discussing the philisophical ramifications of subjecting others to our purely interpretive veiw of the past gleaned though the last four weeks hard slog and our careful understanding of herminutic spirals where our understanding of the question asked about the past changes as does the question, and so that to answer it the mind spirals ever inwards to deeper levels of understanding of the world around us.
Well, one out of three isn’t that bad I guess.