Summerisle

- What of the true god... to whose glory churches and
monasteries have been built on these islands for
generations past. Now sir, what of him?
- He's dead... and he can't complain. He had his
chance, and in modern parlance: blew it.
We touched shore at dawn on Mayday. The coast was
striking, with it's palm trees and blooming flowers. It
could have been an island of the Mediterranean. A horse
(...) was waiting for us at the docks, in order to take
us to the Lord's castle. We had been invited by him.
Upon arriving, he hugged his boat, and kissed us on
both cheeks, smiling. In silence I cried, for I had
found my father after 27 years. We rested on soft
couches, and ate the fruit for which the island is
famous.
At midday we travelled to town, for the day's
celebrations. I was particularly intrigued by the boys
(...) surrounding the Maypoles. And the girls (...) had
brought (...) for all to wear. Everyone seemed to be
smiling, and generally happy to celebrate their gods,
that elsewhere had been forgotten.
The communion lunch was surprising. I had never seen so
many brown baby cakes (...) all (...) in the form of a
(...) Everybody was happy was happy to share. And we
ate giant and plenty, while the Lord and some of the
youth delighted us with (...)
In the afternoon the procession assembled. Everybody
from the youngest child to the oldest (...) was wearing
masks that resembled every animal created by the gods.
Wolves, fish, cats, horses. I was handed the fox once,
and followed the hobby horse. Punch and the Lord (...)
We offered beer to the gods of the sea and later
slaughered lambs in honour of the goddess of the
orchards.
Later that night, after having danced around the
bonfires, and after having spoken to the old villagers
about petty things, we decided after all that the Lord
had been right, and that home have a new name, and that
(...) were no more in this place we call home. And this