Odd, from this distance, it looked like they were old-school wood and stone buildings—thatched roofs and everything. Did he get so off-his-blinker drunk that he had travelled halfway across the country and ended up in rural Galway or something? No scratch that, Galway had no good forests to speak of. McConnaughy be damned, that was the most blighted landscape he had ever seen. This place looked fertile and green and sunny and— wait. Sunny? It was January, and it had been nothing but rain and storms and snow for two months. He had taken off his ruined jacket a while ago, but he was sweltering under the heat of the sun now. At first he thought it was just the after-effects of the drink, and that was indeed part of it. However, he had shown no signs of stopping sweating since he got up. It was hot, summertime hot. A creeping thought gnawed at the back of his mind. It was warm, almost as if he missed a season, and his hair had grown out, when the last he recalled was that he had cut it down to the bare minimum of social acceptability. The thought was less of what did he do last night, but how long had he been out of it?