And so to Fender Park, where tired feet seek the trodden path; where beggars and borrowers can afford relief, where reunions of young and old gather to hear tales of distant relatives on distant shores; where we’re inspired. Where rain can never soak nor wind dishevel; where the stars don’t shine nor the sun rise but is never touched by darkness; where destruction fuels life. Where ancient dances are more than just a memory and where merriment and misery flow from every tongue. Where at once we all long to be close to, and at others far away, but where a part of us will always be, laughing, crying, living and dying. Where? The road to Fender Park is short and easily trod; the road away is long and each step echoed by God and man and fates footfall. So while we may lest rest our weary selves under its saffron skies, for all too soon we must turn from Fender Park, and lament its beautiful guise.