Capercaillie's Charlie hasn't weathered all that well. He looks old in that wiry drawn out way you expect to see puffing on a pipe in pub corners. Age might have wrecked his looks, but the guy's still a genius with the fiddle - his playing is unbelievable! I make some very rusty forrays into the world of ceilidh dancing. It turns out to be most unlike riding a bike, and in spite of knowing all the dances from University I botch every one. Then again, that's half the fun.
Later the dancing turns free form and much to the horror of the kids Max, Anne, Fraser and myself make utter spectacles of ourselves... To be fair the sight of Max flinging himself about the dancefloor in a blue tie-dye sarrong is probably more than the fragile teenage psyche was ever meant to bear, and I know that nobody should ever have to see me try to moonwalk (in my defence the floor was just too slippery not to give it a try.)
Sprinting between the hostel and the hall has also become a feature of my night - I've made two circuits already this evening at full tilt, once to herd up some stray kids, then again to grab my camera (pictures in the album - of the ceilidh not of me sprinting!) I'm a bit impatient when I'm enjoying myself...
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