my feet carry me to my tent

Up at 7:00-ish, shower, complete packing and out the door at 8:00-ish. To Paddington, get a ticket and some cash and on the train, which leaves at 9:00. With no -ish.
Change at Swindon. When I was at college and going between Newport and Oxford, I used to do this all the time. So I have some point of connection between then and now, which is quite appropriate, as the event I’m heading for is a reunion of people who were at that college together.
Arrive at Stonehouse, call to see if anyone’s at the venue yet, find they aren’t and slip into the Wool Pack pub. Have a pint of the least potent local beer and conversation with some of the local characters. The main topic of conversation being the guitar, as I’m carrying mine. There is some admiration expressed for Hank Marvin and Bert Weedon. And Gene Krupa, come to that.
After my pint, I call for a cab and get taken to the venue, a lovely old rambling house off the main road. The taxi driver is audibly impressed by it, which is a good sign. I’m the first to arrive. Then Titus, Dan and others begin to appear. I assist with the erection of the tent I’ll be sleeping in tonight. Food is placed on the table and a PA is installed downstairs.
So I’m meeting lots of people I’ve not seen for twenty years, something which I approached with some trepidation, but which turns out to be increasingly enjoyable. On one level it’s instructive in terms of the way one’s character is consistent (and separate from the more transient elements of the personality). This kind of helps me come to terms with me-from-twenty-years-ago, someone I’ve had fraught relations with over the last couple of decades.
Anyway, I eat lots of food, perhaps too much; drink some wine, perhaps too much; play some songs, hopefully not too much; party some more. Before the dancing really kicks off, my feet carry me to my tent and, having been carried, I take the hint, lie down and go to sleep. It’s extraordinarily dewy out there, but with an incredible number of stars visible.