All Alone

There's Colin pootering away back to the pontoon having left me out on the boat. I'd been down setting up the mast ready for the morn. So, as the light faded I got over there and tied up and legged it to the Caley Sample Room where the usual suspects were having a bit of a hoedown, including some young fiddler who was distressingly good. And there was the local poet, accompanied by wir very own Toots. We wisely decided to give going to the Diggers afterwards a swerve. Maybe it was too big a swerve - we ended up in Frankie's basement with a bottle of Jura. Magic.