It was a land strewn with faeries and faerie lights surrounded by woods and gnawing Augustian insects and curious lit-encirclements which appeared to the naked eye as re-enactments of early-19th century homesteads albeit ahistorical ("must have flush toilets," said the beefy, tatoo'd ex-truck driver brother-in-law and Bluto look-alike with the heart of gold).
I walked our dog along the narrow blacktop'd campground road, cringing inwardly when the klieg lights were colored because it reminded me too much of Christmas and I was morally opposed to seasonal reminders outside of the season because I suffered from rigidity according to my flexible wife. (She could even read in the presence of other campers, a characteristic I longed to ape.)
Our favorite homestead, I say speaking also for my dog although I can't say for sure he agreed, was the one that had old country music playing, so old such that it might only be found on an eight-track tape buried under other eight-tracks in a flea market so obscure that even the fleas wouldn't find it. It sounded Conway Twitty-ish though even I, a wanna-be connoisseur of old time country, couldn't identify song or singer and so I was necessarily filled with wonder. I gaped at the figures sitting around a make-shift country porch, as if they were the wax figures at Madame Tussauds, feeling the same joy of possibility I'd felt as a kid while reading Ripley's Believe it or Not!
The campfire beckoned as I pulled out "one for sorrow, one for joy", Kathleen Norris and a history of the Cincinnati Reds (which is which will be left intentionally ambiguous) and just as the solar grill light lit up the page it lit up the tongues of previously quiet campers.
The air smelt of woodsmoke and ash and the heavens were dotted with seldom-seen stars up there where seldom, if ever, is heard a discouragin' word. All was pleasantly disorienting as I made my way back to the car, the dark making the road only slightly effable and I had not a flashlight with me other than a full yellow moon I named Mary.