It was not always like this. Midsummer. Watching Travellers. Small village camp. Not far from houses. But far enough. For both. Mysterious. Intriguing. Fornicating. A young girl. If I was nine. She was ten. Beautiful. Traveller girl. Her face. A subtitled movie. Her hair. The darkest Danube. Diamonds in her ears. Jade eyes. Romanian dress. Her face lined with centuries of travel. Her movements. An ethnic dance. India and Eurasia homogenised. Barking dogs. Bright sheets. Open fires. Saoirse. She was. Always out of reach. Then home. A bike. Red. Thick steel. No Brakes. An agricultural road. To new houses. Faceless. Monotonous. Conformity. But. For me. A Traveller girl. Beatified.
The evocation is mesmerising. The contrast between the boy’s reality and the idealised is well done.