Geoffrey Dyer is dead.

He painted Richard Flanagan and won the Archibald Prize in 2003.

I am reading Flanagan's new novel.

Artists and writers inspire me: their craft, their dedication, their toil, and their need.

They are like old friends.

I had a glass of something with Dyer and a glass of something else with Flanagan in a bar on Salamanca.

Geoffrey Dyer's painting of former Premier Paul Lennon and his portraits of the genius behind MONA, David Walsh, choreographer, Graeme Murphy, and environmental campaigner, Bob Brown are captivating.

Richard Flanagan told me he had a new book coming out that I should read.

It was The Narrow Road to the Deep North.

The novel won the 2014 Man Booker Prize for Fiction.

I bumped into his brother, Martin, on Brisbane Street, just the other week. He is also a wonderful writer.

Only in Tasmania. It is raining again. No, wait a moment. It is pouring.

The campgrounds are sparse and plentiful. There is enough grass to cut hay.

There must be an overworked lawn mower or slasher somewhere that keeps the growth at bay.

There will be no animated, nor strained, nor terse conversations about reversing and etiquette today.

The composting toilets are a great idea, but I struggle to hold my breath for the required time.

The rivers run and the trees gently whistle, but I sleep unbroken.

You cannot see very far, but you can see far enough.

Stringy barks and blues and browns and greens and greys stir my imagination.

Some say that huge old gum trees block your view. I am not convinced.

The outlook makes me think of unwavering friends and how often or not you see them does not really matter. They are always there until they are not.

I am not very good at keeping in touch. It is a running joke. I move on. Always have. I find it hard to say goodbye. I say see you later instead, until you cannot.

COVID-19 has slowed us down. It is a good thing.

We can focus on Tasmania and family and ... friends. I can text or message. It is easier than calling.

We have returned from camp. The wind was coming, and the downpour was not far away.

The wind and I are far from friends. He shortens my temper. Always has, always will. The rain is welcome, but the wind is manner from the devil. It agitated the campsite, and me.

Do not overreact to the smallest things I instruct myself; take time to listen and contemplate and understand. Time for another coffee to ease my tension - relax and unwind they say.

The wind whips.

The tough as nails, Rancilio is at the shack and the pompous, The Little Guy can wait his turn.

The Italian espresso pot on the gas, way down low, will do nicely.

Perhaps a few roll casts will diminish the error of my ways. The fish in the river are small, but the challenge is great.

Hooking a small smart trout can just be as satisfying as landing a big dumb one.

The chosen lure is bigger than the fish. They are all bravado and gumption until they see me close to the riverbank after stalking an inedible piece of plastic. I stop fishing.

The lost GoPro, which captured relentless rapid runs, can keep an eye on them for now. The wind wins again, and I am difficult. We are home.

I should have put that grate at the bottom of the driveway years ago. Now, with a new entrance and inadequate curb and guttering, there is a flood at the bottom of our drive.

An "old-school' siphon to lessen the puddle will have to do today.

I suck a 13 milimetre piece of garden hose to remove the excess water.

Gravity works well but the dirt does not taste so good.

Black hose and old terracotta pots and a few moments of oxygen deprivation successfully substitutes sophisticated civil works that should have done the job.

A 1990's ski jacket with outrageous colours is not really a raincoat at all. I am soaked, yet satisfied.

I like the rain although I worry about leaks. The rain is soothing because it makes me relax. But the leaks do not.

There has been tragedy enveloping us.

I am grateful it is not our family this time but that feels selfish.

Heartache and ongoing trauma occupy our thoughts and our feeds and our discussions and our lives.

Disbelief. Responsibility. Sadness. Sorrow. Fear. Loss. Nothingness. Grief. Silence. Hope. Remembering.

You will not read that process in a book. I am just telling you.

We often refer to incidents involving motor vehicles as "accidents".

We do it to soften the blow. Tasmania Police refer to "accidents" as motor vehicle crashes. They do it for a reason.

Perspective returns with a thud. Books and music and volunteering and work will quell my agitation.

The wind no longer has horns.

Geoffrey Dyer is dead. Richard Flanagan's novel is finished.

Count your blessings.