The whole village was there in a flood of different colors and kilts, everyone cheerful and laughing—many was the night when they had had to hold the ceilidh in Lennox’s barn and dash about in the mud, when there was absolutely nothing to be done about that except to deal with the fact that you were going to get very muddy indeed. But on a night like tonight, the heavy sun hung in the sky like syrup, slowly and patiently lowering itself; the midges buzzed and hummed imperceptibly; the fiddlers played wilder; the grass came to your ankles; and the elderflower wine tasted like nectar and could persuade even a nervous, slightly uptight Londoner, Lissa was explaining to all and sundry, to dance.

On the straw in front of the barn, she could see Joan hoofing merrily up and down with Sebastian the vet (in real life they were everyday nemeses, as she was constantly second-guessing his diagnoses and making his clients crazy), galloping the pair of them to the same reel that was taking place in slightly more cramped conditions five hundred miles to the south.

The contrast was stark: there, different people from different backgrounds were taking a shot and throwing themselves into things and having a laugh. Up here, it was a deadly serious business, like people playing a sport. The fiddlers played fast and clean. There was no caller, just a brief announcement—“Flying Scotsman!” “Cumberland Square Eight!”—and then people would immediately dissolve partnerships or join up with others, pull the awkward-looking teenagers off the walls they were leaning against. And Lissa had danced every one.

Lennox had strode up, little John on his shoulders, and was watching cheerfully, leaning on a barn gate—he wasn’t much of a dancer. But Lissa, emboldened by the music and the alcohol, was watching everyone else and suddenly was determined to join in the fun. It was just fun, in, of, and for itself—not showing off, not spending a lot of money (it was five pounds for entrance and a pound a glass), not wearing clothes they couldn’t afford that would get returned in the morning, not queuing for hip restaurants in the rain only to be jostled into a tiny space in return for handing over vast amounts of money for bao. Yes, people were taking photos—but only snaps in which they were laughing, not making puffy-lipped pouts for Instagram, nor were they insisting on taking the same pic one hundred times. They didn’t have time for that; they were too busy having fun in the hazy, dripping golden light, with a drum, two fiddles, and a big double bass.