Oh please God, just don’t let anybody have told her about the photographs!

I jump on to my bike and pedal hell-for-leather. Even as I approach the turning into Toot Rock, I can see a series of cars spilling out on to the Sea Road. Stranger still, a camera crew up on the sea wall and a dramatically shirted and skirted individual with long, hennaed hair performing what I can only presume to be some obscure Travelling Ritual on the shingle up there.

It’s Sorcha! It’s got to be! It’s definitely Sorcha! Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. I throw down my bike and stride out towards her, clambering up the sea wall and waving at her (quite bossily – yup. That’s it, Carla. Be strong. Be brave. Or else she’ll smell your fear) from what I consider a respectable distance. Sorcha stops what she’s doing, exclaims (inaudibly) at the sight of me and then bends down to pick up … What is that? Is it a … a video camera? She affixes it to her eye and walks over. I cover my face with my hands (to indicate that I am not at all happy to be filmed), but peek at her through my fingers as she draws within shouting range.

Sorcha must be pushing sixty, but she looks much younger. Her skinny, tanned arms are weighted down with bangles, her nails are filthy from … from, well doing what she does (foraging for herbs, lighting real fires, setting spells, tending to the horses). Her head is crowned with its habitual daisy chain. Her eyes are a smoky grey and keen and hard and searching. She is covered in bells, tiny bells. She jingles and jangles as she moves.

Oh please God, don’t let anybody have told her about the photographs!

‘No cause to worry yerself, darlin’.’ She chuckles as she draws in close (I know her voice is low, but it’s always still several tones lower than I actually remember). ‘I got me no film in this here damn ting. I’m just doin’ it for the TV folks over there …’

She indicates, airily, over her shoulder. Bells jangle.

I don’t drop my hands, just the same.

‘Sorcha, your vans are blocking access to the road,’ I tell her. ‘I thought we had an arrangement …?’

‘Well it’s lovely to see you, too, my beautiful girl.’ She grins, lowering the camera, then encasing me in a firm hug. ‘And we did have us an arrangement, yes …’

One, final, violent squeeze (a lovely blast of sweet musk from her nape) before she releases me (social etiquette compels me to lower my hands at this stage). ‘… and we still got us an arrangement, Carla,’ she insists. ‘All this galvanization and doodah is only for them TV peoples. They needs a measure of drama, see? They cleaves to certain, well, I suppose you might call it “stereotypes” of we Travelling Folk; they expect free behaviour – colour – song – mischief – mayhem, fisticuffs – rumpus – bedlam … It’s just … just show-business, Carla,’ she pooh-poohs, ‘nothin’ else.’