It was sunny and cold and the mountain air felt good. It was the day after.
It was the day after New Year's Eve, and we were feeling the effects of a night with the Whiskeydicks.
We had stayed at the Howe Sound Inn and took in their New Year's Party featuring an energetic Celtic-punk-party band that kept the crowd on their feet and dancing. Yes, dancing. Even Jeem.
Fortunately no pictures remain of the night, and it was all in good fun. Perhaps I consumed a wee bit too much of the Howe Sound Imperial Stout that goes by the name: Pothole Filler. It's a bracing ale to be sure; a full litre in every bottle and a nifty nine percent alcohol content. That and the wine with dinner and hopping around like a banshee to an out-of-control fiddle player contributed to the morning after.
Throughout the town and through the night, and even from my now good friends in the Whiskeydicks, we kept hearing that the Eagles have arrived in Brackendale. The Eagles. Well. Of course we had to see them.
No. Apparently not those Eagles. Their fighting and scrapping wouldn't do in peaceful Brackendale anyway.
So New Year's Day morning, the morning after remember, we went to Brackendale. To see the Eagles, whatever form they might take.
We walked and waited. Watching. Waiting. With hundreds of others. In the cold and snow. Looking for the eagles.
Hundreds of eagles, possibly a thousand, winter here every December and January. However.
Are those the eagles?
Apparently the eagles were having a morning after too.
Photos, except for the band
by Jim Murray. Copyright 2015.