So, we were driving home on Friday night after a hard night spent eyeing Scottish bar-managers (you know who I'm talking about. Roaaar.) and what do we see over the brow of the hill, but flames. I was all for ignoring them 'cos, Goddamnit! I had a can of Fanta to drink, but Ross was in lifesaving mode and sped swiftly through the darkened countryside in search of the fire. Jenny rang the guards while I pooh-poohed the whole thing and recounted my hilarious fire story when my entire family spent half an hour looking for a fire in Garrarus which turned out to be the lights from the driving range. In Newtown. So, yeah.
Anyway, we got as close to the fire as the road-blocks would allow (yeah, road-blocks. And swarms of Gardi and fire-engines. At three in the morning. And Lucy still drunkenly maintaining that it was probably just a golf-course or something) and Ross, overcome with the drama of the situation, did what any brave young man would do. Jumped out of the car to take pictures with his camera phone. Of course, I hate to be left out of anything so I jumped out to do the same. What you see here is what I took. Or else it could just be two black squares. You decide.
So that's it. Fenor was set on fire Friday, burning almost two acres of forest, was still smoking on Sunday, and started again on the other side of the hill on Sunday. Unsubstantiated chat in the library tells me that Cullencastle and Annestown were also set on fire on Sunday, helped no doubt by the frankly uncommon NINE DAYS OF NO RAIN. Wow. Anyway, there's an arsonist in the South-East. Frankly, I blame the terrorists. First Heathrow, then fizzy drinks on flights, now Fenor. I adore Fenor. I worship and love each and every one of the seventeen farmers that live there. Sometimes, physically.
MUST YOU TAKE ALL THE GOOD STUFF, YOU BASTARDS?