Where's Scott?

I’ve been trading emails with my childhood friend Sam (aka Samantha), and we’ve arranged a visit in her home city of Bristol. It takes very little time to get there by rail from London, and so I jump the express, and am soon outside her small two bedroom in the fringes of city. I’ve chosen this auspicious day as Sam has espoused the virtues of the local annual St. Werburgh’s Festival at “The City Farm,” a colorful pub where I’ve had many a fine ale with Sam and her boyfriend Chris.

Chris meets me at the door, 3 sheets to the wind, on orders from Sam to escort me in the general direction of the festivities. The fair is a very local, and Bohemian, affair; much bigger than I’d expected with several hundred people gathered in the block or so surrounding the pub. Parked near some tents hosting local bands, I find Sam lounging on a blanket surrounded by lots of friends and cocktails.

Catching up is easy with Sam, as it usually is with old friends, and she introduces me her entourage; Debs and her precious daughter Jessica are there (we met on my last trip to the UK), and I can barely believe how much Jessica has grown. The crowd is filled with long hair and grunge, and it has a comfortable buzz you find in an “extended family” gathering. I’m especially impressed with the public loo, which is basically a pile of hay bales that the guys can dispose of processed beer and wine in! (I didn’t spot the ladies bales)

Sam has planned for some people to meet at her place for a little post-fair party, and once we get there, there’s a regular flow of jovial friends passing through. Chris can’t quite keep pace with Sam’s incredible constitution, and finds a nice spot on the floor to collapse, unconscious. It doesn’t take long before the artists in the group provide him with a suitable “I passed out before 11pm” face painting. He sleeps soundly through the whole affair.