Thig an nathair as an toll, la donn Bride
Ian hadn't understood what she was going on about, quite. It had started early one morning, while they were still in bed, and had continued clear through the next day. There was some sort of festival, he gathered, that had to do with snakes and spring and babies being got. He didn't pretend to follow it, and the talk of babies made him nervous, but he had managed to extract that what she really wanted was another bonfire, and they'd meaning to have a wedding party anyway.
A bonfire, Ian could do.
It wasn't as big as the one for Samhain had been, down on the beach, but it was big enough. This one didn't have to go on burning for five days and five nights. The clearing below the treehouse was big enough to house both bonfire and room for dancing, trestle tables for food (which Ian had persuaded the pretty blonde lady in the kitchen to help with) and, of course, glasses for drink. Ian reckoned that close to half of the whisky was left, maybe a little more. Mamet had given him an empty bottle and Ian had squirrelled away nearly a litre for special occasions,, but that left an awful lot of drink for the party.
After twilight, the fire was lit and people started to trickle in from all over the island. While Isolde flitted here and there in her bright blue dress, Ian was content to sit on the bottom step of the stairs to the treehouse and watch the party go on around him.
Two months married for the second time hadn't been bad, not at all.
The Scotsman raised his glass, in an idle toast to the Spring which, it seemed to him, was already there.
(ooc: the Celts are marauding, the whisky's flowing freely, and the fire'll burn through the night. Come, eat, drink and be welcome. Gathering post, so tag whoever the hell you want!).
A bonfire, Ian could do.
It wasn't as big as the one for Samhain had been, down on the beach, but it was big enough. This one didn't have to go on burning for five days and five nights. The clearing below the treehouse was big enough to house both bonfire and room for dancing, trestle tables for food (which Ian had persuaded the pretty blonde lady in the kitchen to help with) and, of course, glasses for drink. Ian reckoned that close to half of the whisky was left, maybe a little more. Mamet had given him an empty bottle and Ian had squirrelled away nearly a litre for special occasions,, but that left an awful lot of drink for the party.
After twilight, the fire was lit and people started to trickle in from all over the island. While Isolde flitted here and there in her bright blue dress, Ian was content to sit on the bottom step of the stairs to the treehouse and watch the party go on around him.
Two months married for the second time hadn't been bad, not at all.
The Scotsman raised his glass, in an idle toast to the Spring which, it seemed to him, was already there.
(ooc: the Celts are marauding, the whisky's flowing freely, and the fire'll burn through the night. Come, eat, drink and be welcome. Gathering post, so tag whoever the hell you want!).