Wednesday, 18 July 2012

The salt sea nipped at his bare feet and a high tide threatened. Blowing in from the open sea, twisting round the white masts and making the halyards slap, something rattled its own name; 'Craignish Festival'. And he found himself running to the beat. Suddenly, perhaps swamped by the rhythm, or intoxicated by the heady sent of fun, he let his foot slip and he stumbled on the rocks. Recovering his dignity, he laughed out loud. He wouldn't be the last person to fall in this village over the next two weeks. With a different band in the pub every night, Black Umfolosi in the hall on Monday, poetry night at Rorys shed on Thursday, not to mention the pirate parade, it would be a wonder if there was anyone still standing at the end.

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