Several of my friends and I are climbing a mountain. (By this I obviously mean a poxy mountain that one could walk up.) There is a severe blizzard and we get separated into two groups. Two of us stumble up to a surprisingly attractive house, halfway up the mountain. It is all on one level, in a 1960's American mountain lodge-style.
[I recognise it from somewhere, and it is from a previous dream when I dreamed that I was in a scout hut, and it had a gift shop. In that dream, the house was the scout hut.]
We look for somewhere to rest, but outside the master bedroom, there are three stools arranged in such a way that we know better than to go in. We settle in another room, with a spectacular full-length window that affords views down the mountainside.
As we drift off to sleep, an ex-classmate walks in with two bodyguards. He greets us warmly, and offers us full use of the facilities. He gloats somewhat about owning the house and the bodyguards, to the extent that it makes me want to leave, so we do.
The next day, I am cycling home, up Clarkston Road. It is extremely foggy, and visibility is almost nil. At Linn Park, my bike comes off the road and I career down a hillside. The front wheel gets lodged in some mud or snow, and I am completely stuck, and mildly exhilirated.