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Scarecrows interrupt plotting...

Monumentally distracted from writing today by the extraordinary Durrow Scarecrow Festival. I'd meant to go for a few years now and never quite made it, so I was determined to do so this year. I also have a project (half-academic, half-creative) percolating in my brain to do with Irish Folk Gothic, and I rather thought the trip could be classified under - and therefore justified as - fieldwork.

The festival is nothing short of amazing. There's an official 'contained' scarecrow village in the small town centre and some truly astonishing scarecrows - Jurassic Park, Father Ted and Star (Straw) Wars set-pieces that are wonderfully constructed...

But the real joy was to come. We happened upon an off-brand version of the 'official' village. Run by an enterprising farmer who stood in wellies at the entrance, smoking fags and charging visitors the princely sum of one euro.

It's the cheapest price I've ever paid to look upon one man's vision of hell...

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