Five years of folk. I took a train to meet up with my mother and Riley in Lowell, where we donned our forest green volunteer shirts and began sorting through the compostable externalities of the Lowell Folk Festival. Mom and I have annually volunteered here for half a decade—Riley joined us for the shirt and
Farewell, English countryside. We left Ampney Crucis today. Jenny—the caretaker who chauffeured us to Cirencester each day—dropped us off at the bus stop, instructed us to leave a good review for the airbnb, and bid us goodbye. We arrived in London and made it over to our hotel in West Kensington to discover that the
People in Cirencester are legitimately shocked to hear my accent. We drank a pitcher of Pimm’s Cup in unspecific celebration today—we have a lot going for us. We saw the England vs. Colombia game at a low-key pub. Once the game bled into overtime, we moved to the rowdy bar with all the local youth.
Giles drove us home. Jenna and I spent the day in Cirencester, a stone village dripping with ivy and teeming with shops and restaurants. On our way back to Ampney Crucis, we persisted along a stretch of road with zero shoulder. We leaped into some variety of rashy prickles to avoid a strand of antique
“Oh. That’s far.” – everybody. After spending the day working, drinking coffee, and watching the world cup from a bar in Stratford, Jenna and I combed through our options for getting from Stratford-upon-Avon to Ampney Crucis, near Cirencester. In other words, small town England to even smaller town England. Our only option was to take