Wheeling free
GRANDFATHER MEZEI, in trilby and suit, plays the viola clamped vertically to his cheek, together with his daughter, as her brother saws away at a double base. Her husband and son, in trainers, jeans and Puffas, deftly swing a pair of fiddles, their haunting, squeaky folk tunes soaring as we tuck into steak, spicy sausages and potatoes fried in a huge outdoor cauldron. Surprised by the troupe’s arrival just as we’re discussing the unconnected origins of the words Romany and Romania, we tap and sway happily to the rhythm. Between the sets, the musicians throw back glasses of wine; on departure, they purloin our last bottle for their journey.
‘The reality, it turns out, is not unlike a
