Step, cross, brush, lift, our leader modelled the steps as we alternately circled or snaked through the dance hall, the music picking up in pace and forcing us to do the same. Glowing with sweat myself, I spied equally sweaty faces grinning wildly back at me, and others with eyes closed in ecstacy. I wondered what scholars of dance have to say about why this style of dance prevailed in so many cultures. Whatever theory one prefers, hey, this joint is really jumping. Gradually, reluctantly, the crowd disperses, flashlights bouncing in time to the music left behind, humming on the way to tents or cabins or campers.
Some teens never seem to turn up at their parents campsites.
One of the beauties of this place is that no one worries. For those who could rise the next morning after a night like that, there were lots more choices to be made after breakfast. Just outside the dining hall you could see a knot of people pondering the list of offerings on the chalkboard, a 6 by 10 timetable on which staff members had listed their workshop offerings. Those who came with one instrument and one style to master had the easier time of it. Devout fiddlers went off to their Irish, or Greek, Cape Breton, gypsy, Yugoslav.