I keep thinking about that abandoned artilery position in Vietnam on the Ridge.
When I was young the busses used to stop there so tourists could take photos, then the gooks built junk shops, so many junk shops that you couldn't see the bunker.
Tourists just thought the bus stopped there because there were shops, the gooks though the tourists came to see their junk shops.
I wouldn't have recognised it if it wasn't for a rock visible on the Ridge line, and like a dream I pushed through all these shopgooks and fat tourists and boxes into the undergrowth and found the bunker. And I was sitting in the bunker totally alone staring out the gunport at the sea.
The tourists were so sure of themselves, the shops were full of junk, the bunker was full of doubt.