There is a joke in England that throughout the ages, after all the clan wars were done, the political arguments settled and the bar brawls ended, the border to Scotland is actually demarcated by the sudden absence of the midge. A vampiric little blighter that serves no other purpose than to make the inhabitants of Scotland want to peel off their skin for the itching. Luckily, up to this point we have avoided them. However I think this morning they had a meeting and realised they had let us slip past so converged on us in mass at sunrise. Buzzing around the van, there was a midge cloud so thick you could have described it as midge soup. Instead we chose to drive away and fix breakfast somewhere less dangerous for our skins. They must have been so annoyed not to even get a taste of our exotic southern blood.
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