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He slips through the hedgerow and in no time is seen sitting down on the bench surprised by it all.Within the shadow of Old Sarum he rests. Salisbury is in sight. It slopes slowly but surely from the old to the new. Now starving rather than too sure what to do about the rue he concludes...."I could live with the cravings for food for a bit...however the thirst I can't."He detects a thrown water bottle and mind into town down a road sloping into Salisbury. Just short of the city, he passes by way of a park and areas a fountain. He doesn't think he just wines, with thirsty urgency. He rinses then fills up his bottle.Rote returns to his hideaway without even venturing into the town proper. He's pickled by the predicament. He's embarrassed. His pride is absolutely riding him. He's struggling to make eye connection with people transferring by.Again at the bench he crawls back to the bushes when no one's looking. He pulls out his orange plastic material bag and his basically completely new sleeping bag that after yesterday evening looks old.It isn't even midday yet.He doesn't want one to see him. He has no money. He has no food. He has water. He has a briar bush for a home. It's damp and always seeping. It's infested with all sorts of crawling things. And there's garbage strewn occasionally. A few of it is blown in and then torn by puppies.He's fraught with the facts - he's f--ked.That afternoon and nighttime he stays on burrowed in his bane going insane, wrestling with his issue. He's haunted and daunted by his cravings for food. He tries to disregard his starving belly.He tries to cover up his pride.The following morning hours he awakes slobbered with saliva, cleaned with froth from another friendly face, truly a restoring sophistication. Those dogs please him in their exuberance upon sensing a bushwhacked bum. Aye, a found friend, wagging him well with a non-judgmental manner. It means a lot. They in their way, help increase Rote's spirits by permitting him know its ok also to keep his chin up.

Category: Travel