One of the places in my dream world is a hut at the foot of a wild, misty mountain, where I spend the life of a hermit, with just one set of (old) clothes, a fireplace, a timber bench for a bed and sacks for bed covers, and I live on fish from the mountain lake, roots, bilberries, and leaves.
Recently I dreamt that I heard a lonely flute tune floating down off the mountain. I listened for a while, then I took out my tin whistle and played along, developing the tune.
Waking, I remembered the dream, but had to re-imagine the dream tune;
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