So there it is, barely three hundred yards from my front door, behind the dyke the first International Huckelriede Kiosk Festival. My neighbourhood hosting an international event?
I’m standing on the dyke top with the scruffy, neglected playground and Buntentorsteinweg, the main road, behind me and, before me, the Kleine Weser, the narrow southern arm of the large river that divides our city. On the grass below me is the familiar old kiosk hut, from which, however, nothing has been sold for over a year, but into which new life has now returned. And: it’s enjoying company for a few days four other kiosks, lots of long beer tables and benches, sun loungers, bales of straw and a tepee, in which the Huckelriede singer-songwriter is sitting and playing his guitar.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’ asks a man with a pair of nineteen-fifties glasses on his nose and a poodle on a lead. I shrug my shoulders and reply, ‘Art, probably.’ He gives a brief sniff, has a good look round and turns to me again. ‘Art?’ I nod; he shakes his head.