The declamatory voice of the announcer clanks out of the speakers, spreading across the 850 acres of the Ashton Court Estate. Children and adults, couples and families, youngsters and elders, tourists and locals, everybody is holding their breath as the countdown blows in the wind. The air is packed with excitement: we are all waiting for the magic that is about to happen.
A cider hangover is something you wouldn’t wish on your worse enemy. A cider hangover on the day you are supposed to move out from your flat and relocate somewhere else is an experience closer to the end, rather than to a new beginning. Still, the second chapter of my Bristolian summer (the one that will go down in history as the ‘Stokes Croft‘ chapter) began with an acid smell of peach, which, around Stokes Croft’s rough alleys, is a totally ordinary smell, although it usually doesn’t come from me.
Actually, it’s now becoming evident that Bristol’s continuous rain makes those few minutes of sunshine we get every other day sincerely held dear. Whatever I’m doing when the sun peers out, I drop it and go for a walk, savouring every step gratefully.