August. The place itself was more than full by the time we arrived and so we sat on some of the rocks that edge the garden nearby. Everyone was there: high school girls with tanned skin, slim bodies and perfect breasts, tattoos around their navels; boys with gelled up hair and eye-shadow; a portly man wearing a wetsuit, smiling and nodding beatifically; a baby ten days old. A twisted looking man with a state of the art wheelchair. Rich tourists from the yachts. Kids, old hippies, retirees, couples, friends, family, us.

The waitresses wore sparkling evening wear; the waiters had low slung trousers with four inches of underpants pulled up above their belts. A cabaret artist from Germany mixed traditional cabaret with swooping, operatic vocals. It was getting dark by the time Harry came on and by then people had climbed up Mouat's fire escape and the crowd completely filled the surrounding area. There was some easy, bluesy music to begin with. As the sky darkened, the music grew more complicated - more sitar, more cross rhythms, but always it was visceral, and loud. The kids pressed against us, loving not just the music but the people, the clothes, the thick darkness, the lateness itself - and soon we were all dancing and could have gone on all night but as is the way of things, the kids suddenly needed their beds. The music faded behind us as we drove back past the park and through the tunnels of overhanging trees; a huge moon hung behind the house.