It was there last night when I left, honest.
Locals, complaining of immense groaning creaking sounds during the night, awoke to find the namesake of their village had been taken away. Confiscated by God, picked off the Earth like a tick from a dog.
Normally the mountain in this photo should be about two centimeters above the tallest power cable post so it was rather surprising to see nothing at all.
Jack The Ripper weather: cows nowhere to be seen. TV crew numbers increasing, inhabitants decreasing. Only one dog visible in the village. No cats at all. Bar still closed.
Still no sign of vans/ stalls/ musicians/ aliens/ tents/ wailing hoards of people dressed in robes/ evangelists/ creationists/ mysterious sightings of Elvis.
I parked and walked up into the back streets hoping to be able to talk to someone not dressed in black with black sunglasses and black equipment bag.
It really was quiet, no wood unloading, nothing. Eventually I saw a garage door open and risked a hello to the elderly gentleman inside it. I asked if I could talk for a moment about the phenomenon but he backed away and said that none of the villagers wanted to talk about it as they were — at that point he used an expression I had never heard before, and I can't remember it now, but I imagine it was along the lines of, totally ******* sick of the whole thing.
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