Gypsies live alongside the banks of the river. Their long standing camp delineated by the devil’s rope (barbed wire). Strayleaf tells me her clan has the notion of biding its time before the reclamation of ancient territories. Wishful thinking, i fear.
The camp is part run down farm, part scrapyard with derelict machinery: bits of spare wheels and cogs and metal car…cases! i was going to say disused vehicles, but that is not true, a use invariably is found such as undrivable buses doubling as dormitories.
The gypsies of Wilders have long since kicked their television/screen addictions. Dig-ether-al pan loathed.
General rule of thumb: verbal interaction good, screen interaction bad.
There is, between the gypsies and the Kommunards, a grudging respect. Each community recognising in the other the same refusal to bow to authority. Calculus says it is an absurd (fundamentally unfair) state of affairs to have people ordering others around, as though it were their divine right. Gypsies believe that too. They have always accepted my presence in their camp. And i have spent many happy (summer) days in their company.
i learned to swim...
… thanks to their unconventional tuition. The whole (multi-generational) clan enters the water in one big splash. Holding hands with Strayleaf and Julie, i was dragged in. The options presented to me being either sink or swim. To my considerable relief i managed the latter. In doing so i obeyed granddad’s sage and succinct instruction for swimming: stay on the surface!