Hilden Scullion’s Irish Ale
Summer’s dying – it’s late August, early September. You’re standing by a woodpile at the edge of a forest as the sun is thinking about maybe calling it a day. Your mouth is full of washers and you’re on the lookout for hedgehogs – and although you haven’t seen one in months, you’re feeling very lucky about finding one.
A Robin may or may not be floating at the edge of your vision. You are unsure about this.
