At 11pm on Saturday I am perched on the small stone wall of a Bakewell residence by the open boot of our car. My partner has fabricated a roll of blue paper, like that seen in primary schools, from somewhere to try and wrestle my wellington boots from my feet. I am stubborn. I am unhelpful. I am drunk. My boots are removed and deposited in the back of the car. My next memory is waking in a bright bed & breakfast room at a guest house opposite Bakewell showground. As our heads try to revive enough to make our way across for breakfast, the memories of the day before are touched upon. The delicious currywurst in both meat and vegan form, the sight of disgruntled campers fetching buckets of water, the beer heavy meet the brewer events from brewers in varying states of hangover, my reaction to discovering Jarl had gone on the cask bar and my partner’s reaction to the price, dancing to Whitney Houston in the muddiest of fields at dusk and then trying to remember the ve