It happens biennially, so I forget each time how tiring it is. It's all right for the dancers, who only have to carry a pair of clogs and perhaps a bottle of water. They don't have to humph great hulking saxophones about town all day.
You park at the top of the hill at Bransty, and walk down. It takes 6 minutes to get from the car to Tesco's, at the bottom. On the way home it takes 14 minutes to do the same journey back up to the car, what with the steep slope and the sore feet. Oh yes, and it takes over half an hour to get through the heaving mass of fast-food guzzling humanity on the quayside before finding the rest of Belfagan.
There are tall ships and short ships, jetskis and aerial display teams, actors dressed as pirates and people dressed as pirate ships, an old seaplane, buskers and jazz bands and singers and dancers and yachts decked with flags. The chip vans do a roaring trade; the pubs' clientele overflows into the street; stalls sell German sausages, Chinese teddy bears, Cumbrian foods, hippy garb, toys, pirate flags and model boats.
We play and Belfagan dance, up on Sugar Tongue. The crowd is happy and relaxed and enjoys the show. It's OK, but my feet ache and my bags are heavy and it's a long walk back. Each time I say, "never again," so why am I here?
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