...deep old vinyl house memories of doing it ourselves, babbling behind our screens of smoke in squats of liberation...
Weaving our slow way down to Cornwall, a few forestry pit stop stays to divert and amuse, perplex and explore, we plotted up in front of one of the best views I'd seen all week.
Fully utilised up with all mod cons, for a while anyway, mobile home style, the gentle degradation of said facilities as civilisation slowly faded and the sheer brute force of mother nature took away our much scorned and mocked city born frivolities prompted this to be one of my fondest memories of that weekend.
With a sturdy pair of boots, a coat and an umbrella England, our dear England, Albion, is yours for the taking.
In them mad old days that we love and cherish with a pride that only we can understand. A land of travel, festivals and music, which I relive with all I talk to at encounters exclusively love4life, I feel we kinda need that legacy to be remember and this get together, you know, did that for me. A bit. No a lot. No, it touched me. The people did.
We were in our twenties...
Clare remembers that's it's all been lovely. Breakfasts have been great. Lovely music and everyone filling the place with their lovely.
Cornish village shenanigans; parking right up the hill, the walk into town, buying bottled Cornish beer. Long boozy lunches, lush... Great views and seagulls and tutting locals, pasties the size of a ... and the thickness of a...
DJing outdoors, daylight, sunset sunrise, deep old vinyl house memories of doing it ourselves, babbling behind our screens of smoke in squats of liberation.
We were stuck down this lane, the bridge to low, the gradient too steep to reverse. DK for some strange reason in the car behind asks us if we could move out the way as he going somewhere and is somewhat pressed for time. All satnavs take the tourists to this bridge.
Friends off planes arrive with arab pleasures fried and scoffed at breakfast filled with disparate ingredients rounded up from bags, sacks and tents.
Tesco economy pot noodles with dry roasted peanuts ensure the Andy-tainment prospers and spiked acid casualty is loved and guided through his journey only to be rewarded by a steep walk down down a long, narrow footpath to a secret cove and a swim that refreshes all the parts that beers cannot reach.
Isn't it great getting older? They says its going to be shit and you think it's gonna be, but it's not. It's a fucking great secret.
A journey back of chilled reverence and much time consumption to a man of Kent. A place that couldn't be more diverse in landscape or topography to Cornwall but a pleasant warm glow to be back in the loving arms and gaze of missed friends and their love and smiles.