Celtic Illumination, part 250, When is a house not a house?
New Year was a great time to be at Shotley Gate. We sat on a little peninsula where the Rivers Stour and Orwell met. Looking out to sea, on our right hand side, we had the port of Harwich and, on our left hand side, we had the port of Felixstowe. At midnight, on New Year’s Eve, every vessel in port would sound their horn. If it was a clear night with all the lights and horns it was a fantastic atmosphere. After joining in with the passing of the hour we would all then turn to the serious business of getting legless. I had been elevated in the local civilian society and had been asked to join in with the private party at the local pub. This was a lavish affair, with free booze and free food until you could no longer walk. My sort of party.
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