Tors Beedles' sick

Roll The Barrel. Denbigh ‘13.

Every boxing day a medieval town in North Wales attracts residents and hill dwellers to its highest, most central point to celebrate the land and it’s traditions. Farmers ride into town and parade their tractors, followed by the affluent, neutered huntsmen mounting their steed. The major greets the onlookers with hand shakes and the foxhounds bound around the children. Men and women then compete around a hay course rolling beers barrels vivaciously, competing for the title campion which they will hold for a year.



"There ain’t nothin’ I can do, or nothin’ I can say
That folks don’t criticise me,
But I’m going to do just as I want to anyway,
And don’t care if you all despise me
If I should take a notion
To jump into the ocean,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do, do, do
If I go to church on Sunday,
Then just shimmy down on Monday,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do, if I do
If my friend ain’t got no money,
And I say, “Take all mine, honey”,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do, do, do do
If I give him my lasy nickel,
And it leaves me in a pickle,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do, if I do.
There, I’d rather my man was hittin’ me,
Than to jump right up and quittin’ me,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do, do, do do
I swear I won’t call no copper
If I’m beat up by my papa,
‘T’aint nobody’s business if I do. “

Bessie Smith. New York. 1923.

La Brisca Loca

Parc De Tyrona lived up to it’s reputation, secluded, festering with green, and over priced. The latter was solved with the four cans of tuna, mayo and rum i’d bought as supplies. After banging on about how much i love hammocks over the past few months, the grass had been proved rather greener as heat, sand, and all night animal ‘noises’ don’t make for tranqui rest. I did enjoy the cocoon feeling that the mosquito net added, not so much the furry spiders that it attracted over the eve. Wading through the park prices increased from 10 pesos for a hammock to 20 to 30 (as the views got all the more idillic), much to everyones rage and western greed, all forgetting that this was once mere pocket money. The scenery was the silencer.  

Taking the speed boat bouncing back to Taganga, my arse was fairly bruised and I’d grabbed the Aussie’s leg (i hope) next to me a few too many times for my liking and probably his. Or not. With my newest pal in toe the giggly Austrian Susanna, we head back to Santa Marta and the best hostal in the world ‘La Brisca Loca’ where you can buy sugar cubes from the balcony. I cannot express how favourable and friendly the locals are, this city is a little dirtier than most on the caribbean cost and passionate with it too. Thriving markets, street stalls and hoards of locals buzz as you dodge the motor cycle engines and jump to the shaded spots, coco loco in hand (this is a coco nut with rum in, enough said). My last week shall be remembered as one of the best, despite the two day travel weight on route back to London, Colombia left me a nice present in my bowls.

Summer in London awaits.