None of this newfangled fireworks stuff around here on New Years Eve.
Unsurprisingly, pyromania appears to be an occupational hazard among ceramicists, and Frank the Potter is no exception.
“We have to have a fire” he said when I proposed the idea of their seeing in the New Year at our place.
Repeated at increasing intervals until his arrival with a boot/trunk-load of well-dried wood.
Fire basket set up, newspapers twisted tightly as starters (as learned from Grandfather Ramsden), birch and pine strategically stacked, liberal application of meths, whooosh.
Couldn’t really compete with the semi-professional displays around the neighbourhood that we watched for free, but the sparks were quite entertaining.
In a low-tech sort of way