I hesitate before giving her my hand. “Does Barry know you’re here?”

“I do as I please.” She wiggles her fingers at me. “Now, come along, young man.”

So hip,

So cool,

So what?

We ride in Tinsley’s green Triumph Spitfire. There are some among my cohort who would balk at the materialism inherent in this current craze for British two-seater convertible sports cars. But to me the stylistic design and aerodynamic lines of Triumphs and Jaguars, Austin-Healeys and MGs, and of course the car James Bond made famous, the Aston Martin DB5 (though I’ve never seen one in real life), transcend materialism. They are works of art. And while Tinsley may go barefoot and dress like a hippie chick, it’s pretty obvious that she’s what Barry would call a postcard hippie, who’s not willing to completely abandon the good life. To have a car like this, one suspects she has a PhD, as in Pop has Dough.

The Spitfire’s top is down, the wind in our faces, and the new group Crosby, Stills & Nash on the tape deck. Their harmonies are mind-blowing. And guess what? They’re scheduled to play next month at the music festival. Cousin Barry says that if he goes up to Zach’s farm near Ottawa, they’ll drive down and we’ll meet there. My cousin’s musical tastes lean toward blues and hard rock, so he’s keen to see the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, the Who, Johnny Winter, and Hendrix (and so am I).

The late-afternoon sky is blue, and the summer air warm. We are two longhairs in a shiny green British sports car. It feels more like a movie than real life. Whenever another driver stares too long, I flash them the peace sign. Some flash one back. Some frown. A few give me the finger.

The Planting Fields are part of an old estate near Piping Rock, the golf club where Arno’s parents believe he toils away the summer days as a caddy. Tinsley gets a blanket and her camera from the Spitfire’s trunk. (I’m relieved that the English riding saddle remains behind — I can just imagine her wanting to play horsey in public.) We venture past a stone mansion with spouting fountains and out among the gardens and lawns.

Visitors are mostly divided into freaks and older gentlewomen. The freaks stick to the sod, a few playing guitars or throwing Frisbees. The ladies in their summer dresses stroll along the paths, admiring the horticulture.

Tinsley settles in the middle of the broad green lawn. Having not been prepared for this adventure, all I have with me is half a J. We smoke in plain sight. If any undercover caretakers come along, we can put the joint out long before they reach us. Eating the remaining evidence is always an option.