We’ve just returned from a fortnight in blighty, the heart of which was an extended family weekend. One cousin’s husband was seventy, a cousin was sixty, and another was fifty. The day they chose for their celebratory cèilidh was, by chance, significant for me and my partner.
I’m lucky to have a functional family, with no discord beyond something that was either sulking or toothache, and probably neither. Despite differing politics and nationalities, none of us has hit another since we were small and silly. We get on, —ish.
My cousins held their revelry in the Northumberland village of Alnmouth, on the East Coast mainline. It’s an odd little touristy place, with an ancient golf course and some surprisingly good eateries (with one all–singing all–duff glaring exception, or so I was assured, anyway).
So, thank you, siblings, nieces, and cousins, for a raucous heart to a splendid holiday in a declining land.