A River of Fire

Everywhere there is fire: held aloft on torches; in barrels pulled along in carts; in the sky in a million moving sparks. There are explosions, then there are whoops. There are drum beats that hit me in my stomach. Police with eyes like eagles stand tall as the procession passes slowly under them. I do not know these people: they carry banners with words I cannot decode; shout things I do not understand and wear clothes I've never seen. There are loyalties here that go back four centuries. Children inheriting them are carried by their fathers in matching outfits made in miniature.

Ben and I have crossed the South Downs on November the 5th. Here we are, near where the river finishes its course, in Lewes, in England, totally at sea.