After what seemed like more than a forthnight, but must actually have been a single night, the storm abated.
I ventured a look outside, and was rewarded with the blessed feeling of a tentative ray of sunlight on my face.
So I set out again, pulling the sled with my haul behind me.
As I crested the final hill, my hermitage came into view.
The storm had not spared it either: my lock had obviously become lose, as the wooden gate clattered against the stone hedge I had built to discourage trespassers.
I would have to replace it, I supposed, but then there was like to be a lot of work around my place after such a deluge.
Closing the gate behind me, I couldn't notice any damage to the lock, or anything to explain why it may have gotten loose.
Weird.
At least it seemed that my cart had, miraculously, survived the storm well.
Delighted, I went down to make sure of the knots tying it.
Something nagged at the edge of my consciousness, though, and I must admit that it took me rather too long to notice that it was not mine.
The make was all wrong, and the planks were of a type of wood that I did not recognise.
The gate lock had not been broken after all!
Someone had unlocked it and simply been too negligent to close it.
All the while cursing myself, I hurried to check the braziers I had built for such a scenario.
Two seasons ago I had spent several fortnights building braziers wherever they would fit.
Aside from the obvious defensive capabilities, the braziers also provided a nice comfortable warmth.
And then it hit me.
In a particularily pleasant mood with the prospect of the hunting trip, I had lighted all my braziers the night before I left.
And I had stupidly forgot to put them out.
So.
****.