Sarah and I are so glad Vivra agreed to write about our experiences--they were strange, to say the least. Anyway, let me introduce myself properly.
I'm twenty-two years old. My father was a Gypsy--a true Romani, not one of those fakes known as Travellers that make nuisances of themselves,setting up camp and leaving litter in places where they are not welcome. My father called them Diddicoys--fake Gypsies.
Mother didn't like the Romani life, and father wanted her to be happy, so after I was born they settled into life in a brick and mortar house. After my sister was born, however, Dad became restless and rejoined his Romani family. At the time of Sarah's and my adventure, he was living in a shelter home, being too old and crippled with arthritis to continue the Gypsy life.
I knew Sarah way back when she was about eight years old, before her American mother took her from Ravenwood back to Texas. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember me! I'd been spending the summer with my dad, in the vardo he still owned at that time; there was some big Romani gathering up in Scotland and we were on our way there. We'd stopped, as we had many times before, to camp for the night by the back entrance to Ravenwood Hall. Sarah's father was always good to us, turning a blind eye when dad surrepticiously acquired a chicken for our supper. I used to go up to the Hall and try to sell wooden clothespins. Sarah's Aunt Emma would always buy some, whether she needed any or not!
I think I've said enough for now. Vivra should be back again tomorrow. Who knows maybe I can talk Sarah into posting something one day.