They’d been pedalling, two mates. The sun was near to setting. Needed a campsite. Soft grass. Ablutions. Rest. Not a caravan park. Not a formal, official place of accommodation. They remembered that footy ground up in Wangaratta, back in February. Something like that, one said to the other. Something with a tap. A toilet. And soft grass. They’d been pedalling. Needed to rest. To sleep.