We thought we’d given Joan and Peter a reasonable head start, but when we arrived in Saverne they were still here. After four days apart, the reunion would be of necessity long and heartfelt, and someone thought it might be a good idea to allay the emotion over a game or three of boules.
As the sun set slowly in the west, or somewhere slightly to the north of west for those with a compass, with Peter’s guitar gently weeping in the background, an audience appeared. We thought at first they were fascinated by the incredible sporting skills on display as they hovered with beers in hand and cowboy hats askew happily unable to communicate in a language that we recognized.
Then we noticed a couple of guitars and a twelve-string in their kit, and realized they had other intentions. By the time the first strains of “House of the Rising Sun” began to waft across the foreshore sung in their native Czechian, we had the merest of inklings that sleep would not come early for any of us this night.
And they ask if we ever get bored.