By Lorena Villegas-Cid
‘Bang, bang!’ thundered a luminous glittery powder falling from the sky like a cascade. For minutes, the explosions were brightening up the street, revealing the procession of hundreds of souls walking cheerfully towards the big Guy Fawkes Night on the hill.
People were carrying seats, umbrellas and torches. Wrapped up warmly underneath four, or even six layer of garments, they were ready to weather the low temperatures of November. Woolly hats, gloves and scarf could be seen almost all around. Colourful Wellington boots protected everyone from the sticky, muddy field, which did not seem to bother any of them.
Once on the hill, the firework show was transforming the night into day. Full of excitement, a couple were pointing at the sky. “Look Lizzy, look!” They tried to persuade their daughter. However, refusing to watch, the little girl stood uninterested with her hands in her ears, trying to block all the noises.
Near the almost extinct bonfire and sitting down comfortably on a deck chair, an old man with a shawl over his legs enjoyed a tea from a big, old fashioned flask. The steam emanating from the cup was thick and clearly defined, slowly disappearing every time he blew onto it to take a sip.
“Wow!” the crowd gasped when the firmament turned utterly green. The fizzles and whistles were resonating in stereo, followed by a big round of applause. Almost immediately after the Red Serpentine graced the sky; leaving long and random colourful trails of fireworks for everybody to admire.
The smell of gunpowder was strong and unavoidable, mixing at times with the distinctive aroma of the hotdog van, strategically positioned in a busy corner. The sizzle and the crackle of the sausages played like a melody, enchanting everyone around. Right at the back, as if in a parallel universe, the funfair was throwing a loud, bright party in a self-contained little world. Carnival music, a wheel of fortune and a carousel were offering rides and adventures, seemingly indifferent to the bursting sky.
Suddenly, next to an ancient oak tree, a tearful and confused little girl was shouting ‘mama, mama’. A long yellow mac was covering her entire body, properly dressed for the drizzle that fell intermittently. Her eyes were fallowing every single person passing next to her. Hopeless, she failed to recognise anyone in the obscurity of the hill, so she started to sob inconsolably. The crowd was moving capriciously in all directions so the girl could be seen only at times. From the tumult appeared a woman running towards her at last. “Mama!” the child exclaimed. Both mother and daughter hugged each other tightly, relieved to have found one another.
The temperature started to descend, a dense fog gradually began to cover the field and the drizzle was turning into a copious rain. The final act was still to come, so everybody stood stoically with heads up to the sky waiting for one more pyrotechnical act. Regardless the inconvenience, the night was still not over.