Somewhere Between the Pines and the Firelight

As told around the fire at Land Rovers & Campfires

It started, as the best weekends often do, with the sound of tyres on gravel and a sky just beginning to turn gold.

There was no sign, no grand archway. Just a narrow track winding into the woods, where canvas rooftops rose like old expedition outposts and the smell of pine mingled with the faint scent of engine oil. The kind of place you wouldn’t stumble upon by chance — you had to be invited by the road itself.

By the time we’d set up camp, the forest had begun to hum. Fires flickered to life. Headlamps swung like fireflies between trees. Land Rovers stood in a wide arc, some muddy from the trail, others polished like showpieces. Each one different, yet all belonging to the same tribe. The silent nods between drivers said more than any handshake could.

That night, the stars came early — first in singles, then in whole constellations. The smoke rose in ribbons, soft and lazy, while a cast iron pan hissed and snapped over flame. Someone was slow-roasting wild meat on a spit. Another guest passed around a flask of something dark and sweet, with a story about a cold night in the Pyrenees to go with it.

No one was in a rush. That’s the thing. Land Rovers & Campfires runs on a different time — not the ticking of watches, but the slow unfolding of moments.

I remember someone reading a passage from a leather-bound journal. I remember the way the fire danced in a dog’s eyes as it curled beneath a 110. I remember falling asleep in the back of the Vixen, wrapped in wool blankets, with the distant sound of laughter still echoing in the trees.

And in the morning — oh, that morning — the world was a soft blur of mist and sunlight. The grass was heavy with dew. Brunch was already laid out: bread torn by hand, thick-cut cheese from the village down the road, and black coffee served from battered enamel pots. Someone played a scratchy old tune from their dash-mounted radio. Someone else handed me an apple, still cold from the crate.

It didn’t feel like we were leaving. Just... pausing. The kind of pause that only makes sense to people who travel with maps folded like old letters and boots permanently dusted in red earth.

And as the convoy pulled away — one by one, like chapters closing — I watched the last Defender vanish around a bend in the trees, exhaust trailing like a line drawn on a map.

Some say you can’t go back to a dream. But Land Rovers & Campfires makes you wonder.
Maybe the dream is still there — flickering softly between the pines, waiting for your return.

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