At least I had found a place to stay for the night and I didn’t have to make a lean-to. It wasn’t quite like the comforts of home but it would do.
Upon entering, I was able to see, with the little bit of light that was left, that there were candles on a make-shift table under the part of the dwelling where the roof remained. Quickly, I lit two and examined my surroundings. There wasn’t much to see but there was a fireplace and next to that some wood which was very dry but not rotted. I then realized that somebody had been using this place in the last year or so. Maybe somebody like me who needed shelter for the night.
My suspicion was confirmed when I found three empty cans labelled, “Hunt’s Beans“. The logo on the cans celebrated the company’s 50th year in business. The company was founded back in 1959. So, it was just a short while ago that somebody had been here. I decided not to eat anything so as to conserve what food I had. I started a fire and lay next to it on the stone floor.
Despite the Spartan conditions, I slept soundly and was woken up by the sound of birds. The sun had already managed to rise and the night chill was beginning to recede. As it got lighter, I became more aware of my surroundings. The dwelling looked to be very old judging by its style. I had seen similar types of buildings in Salem and in the oldest parts of Boston. Yet, here I was in another country in an area more than 800 miles away from home.
I decided to eat some of the sandwiches I had prepared the day before and then try to return to civilization. Thankfully I had brought some instant coffee and had several bottles of spring water with me so I was able to make myself a hot drink as well.
Just as I was getting ready to leave, I noticed something wedged in the rock foundation near where the door once had once been. It looked to be a book but it was hard to tell as it had moss growing on it. Pulling the moss away, I saw it was indeed a small book which clearly had seen better days. Its cover was in extremely poor shape but it appeared that the rocks which had entombed it, also had prevented it from rotting. It was about four inches wide and six inches long and about one-half inch thick.
It had been wedged in tightly and it had taken me many minutes to ease it out of its resting place. I had to be gentle because I was scared of damaging it.
It was a personal journal or what most people would call a “diary“. It had been written more than 100 years ago by someone called Moses Jenkins.
My thoughts of searching for a way home were delayed by finding this book and I began to read.