Festivals and Farmyards

Festival International de marionettes.  
First weekend of August.
Dreaded by some and loved by others.
The former see it as the arrival of the Great Unwashed.  The latter as a Platform For Artistic Innovation.
15 years ago I was a former; seeking out mind-expanding performances for the children, checking out edgy fringe stuff for me (you can take the girl out of North London etc...).  We did the rounds of airless, blacked-out halls, took the shuttle bus to the festival's satellite venues and danced until late under a fug of weed smoke.  
Living in the mill has pushed me over the edge to the other side, gone native - a fallen angel made reactionary by age - The horror! Mr Kurtz, he dead.
Bourgeois Bohemians come from all over, parking their beat up trucks along the banks, pitching their Decathlon tents along the river, perineum sunning, guitar strumming etc, going back to Ma and Da's for a hot shower at the end of it all (OK, sorry, that was harsh)
Bernard's river is troubled.  He's unnerved by the Unwashed washing but still collects his sheep and brings them back to his canal-side farmyard, gathering his troupeau around him and letting the odd pig in.