The lads of the village have been working all morning to collect the nine sacred woods for the fire. The old druid, Nevvyn, has been directing their efforts, walking the hills and valleys with them. Now the woods are neatly arranged in two towering stacks, one to either side of the stone circle. All is in readiness as the sun sets in the west.

All afternoon, the people have been gathering in the fields nearby. Tents and wagons dot the landscape. There is much coming and going, with some folks bringing early gifts to the fire circle. A veritable feast has been prepared at the nearby Inn, the Mull of Cean Tir. Now, the fires in the village and in the campground are being smothered and doused.

In the fading light, a few torches are lit and the people begin to gather. I with my harp, a drummer and a piper, lead them from the wide meadow at the edge of the village. Up the old, well-worn path to the stone circle which crowns the hill. We dance and sing as we go, welcoming the coming of the summer season.

Nevvyn meets us at the entrance to the circle. Three times, he leads the line around the aged stones. It is a glad time and the folk are bright and happy. The hard work of the plowing and planting are done. Now, the growing time is upon us. The old Druid halts before the altar, with the old fire now burning fitfully before it. At a signal from Nevvyn, the music is stilled. The singing and the laughter and chatter die out as he waits, as patient as the stones around us.