In July we go to the Cambridge Folk Festival. Crackle is there, and someone and someone, and x, who’s from Cambridge and will steal books from Heffers to order, or in this instance some of the festival p.a. He has a wolfish grin and is faintly alarming. A. comes too, on her Honda 70, and meets us there. It’s all a bit awkward, and memories of last year make it more so, until the Albion Country Band lead the dance in a big open sided tent, the smell of crushed grass taking us all back in time, smiling, whirling.