There’s a place where the common folk pass by, acknowledging not the wayward glow of the fires stoked by gypsies deep within the marsh’s grassy knolls, a bog which holds more traditional secrets than swamp flies.
This is the place where summer brings fish to the waters, men bring their guns and fishing sticks, women bring their flocks of hens and the children their curiosity.
Each night there’s a bonfire that reaches mid-treetop while bellies full of fish and drink settle and the string instruments make an appearance. Tired feet from the day’s preparation for a feast drag their bodies to shelter and the chickens roost on the the lower branches of the nearest tree to the fire.
Each morning another dog comes around begging for scraps and dodging boots. Wet socks are dried and the women get to washing and defending the morning’s fresh egg deposits. The men are already gone before the sun rises, each one determined to go further than the day before and catch ‘the big one’. The children do as they’re told, keeping out of trouble by hunting frogs, flies and minnows.
It is here the gypsies muster and stay for the summer; with their canvas tents, mud boots and bourbon, a song in their hearts and a jig in their jaunt.