The ambience: locals, tourists, mad fishermen, rednecks and the odd journalist saddling up for endless Jägerbombs before dancing the night away to any number of consistently good live acts.

When he wrote the word, / the o's were joined / like eyeglass lenses without / a bridge. Cross-eyed, hypnotic, / they threatened to merge, / become Cyclopean. […]

We waited for him a fortnight, went muffinless for fourteen days […]

What the Devil have you done to the horse?