29th August, 2011; Cotswolds, England

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Sometimes, Scotland thought that that the compulsion to put on a pair of shorts at the first sign of sun must actually be hard-wired into their psyches; a reaction as automatic as breathing. It was the only explanation that made any sense, because it was a look that sure as hell didn't do any of them any favours. He leant away from Wales slightly, shielding his eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" Wales asked, sounding suspicious.

"I just keep getting dazzled by the sunlight reflecting off your legs."

It didn't help that Wales seemed to believe that when it came to shorts, there was no such thing as too skimpy, which meant the effect was rather more noticeable than it would otherwise be if he had a shred of common decency. Wales didn't tan so much as his freckles gradually multiplied over the course of the summer to the point where they provided much the same effect, but as this was the first hot, cloudless day the country had enjoyed since May, that phenomenon hadn't had the chance to set in anywhere other than over the bridge of his nose.

"Like you can talk," Wales said huffily, but Scotland could hear him start to shuffle around, regardless, no doubt trying to stretch the meagre material of his shorts so they covered a little more of his thighs.

Scotland shrugged, because, even though Wales observation was correct, he doubted that the modest slice of skin between the bottom of his much more sensibly cut shorts and the top of his walking boots was bothering anyone. Scotland didn't tan, either; he burnt then peeled, burnt then peeled, rinse and fucking repeat. France had insisted that it wouldn't happen if he built up his exposure gradually, and had therefore dragged Scotland, slathered in SPF 50, to a succession of his, far sunnier, beaches over the course of a month or so.

It hadn't worked, but the whole episode had led Scotland and France to make separate, though connected, discoveries. Scotland, that there were times when being covered in cream by France wasn't an entirely enjoyable experience, namely when the cream in question was aftersun; and France, that any small joy he might feel upon persuading Scotland to visit a naturist beach was mitigated by the subsequent cessation in sexual activities necessitated by crisped vital regions.

Wales was still tugging at his shorts when England finally reappeared from his tour of the town's tourist shops. Northern Ireland was trailing a few steps behind him, his stride slow and rolling, and his eyes slightly downcast, doubtless trying to project the image that he was simply out for a casual stroll instead of having been dragged unwillingly along with his brother because England had needed someone to listen to him coo over overpriced bits of tat.

"Having problems, Wales?" England asked, eyebrows and the corners of his mouth twitching in tandem.

Wales' patience was obviously at a low ebb, because he snarled, "You can fuck off, as well."

"I was just wondering..." England broke off whatever justification he was about to offer with a short sigh. "Never mind," he finished, probably deciding that he had no real wish to be enlightened about any difficulties that Wales might be experiencing in the vicinity of his underwear, anyway. "You should have come with us; it really is a lovely little place."

"Naw, we were fine right here." The town looked picturesque at a distance, but they'd visited so many similar towns and villages over the past couple of days that picturesque had lost a lot of its charm. There was a limit to how many quaint cottages and narrow cobbled streets he and Wales had it in them to appreciate, apparently, which was why they had chosen to remain with England's car – sitting side by side on the bonnet, and chain smoking their way through Wales' last remaining packet of Italian cigarettes – instead of exploring in the first place. "You get everything you wanted?"

"I did," England said, patting the plastic bag whose handles were looped over his arm. It no doubt contained a selection of souvenir tea towels, as England seemed to have made it his life's mission to obtain an example of every single one available for purchase in the UK. It was a never-ending task, as their designs were constantly changing, and the fruits of his labours now filled several cupboards in his house almost to bursting point. "Though, I thought you might actually like to wander down to the town square for a bit, rather than get straight off. There seems to be some sort of little festival going on, doesn't there, North?"

Northern Ireland didn't react to the question, although it was impossible to tell whether he was ignoring it or simply didn't hear. He had stopped several yards away from Scotland, England and Wales, and was performing a very convincing impression of a person who didn't know any of them: head turned aside and posture nonchalantly slouched, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of his jeans. He, at least, seemed resistant to the shorts-urge, though Scotland suspected he was paying dearly for that immunity, given that his jeans were so tight that they looked like they were almost painted on. Poor lad must be sweltering.

England's slightly louder repetition of, "North?" prompted an almost imperceptible head tilt that could be extrapolated as a nod with a bit of imagination, however.

"Sounds good to me," Wales said, sliding to the ground to stand next to England.

With two ayes and a possible abstention, it wasn't as though Scotland's vote would hold any weight, either way, but whiling away an hour or two at a festival, no matter how small, did seem like an infinitely brighter prospect than resuming the search for a souvenir shop in the area that England hadn't already patronised. "Come on, then," he said, nodding his assent towards England. "Lead on."
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The festival turned out to be very small, consisting of little more than a few strings of bunting stretched between lampposts and shop fronts, a handful of food and craft stalls, and, to Scotland's fast-creeping horror, a small group of people crowded around a morris troupe who looked as though they were gearing up to start performing in the near future.

"Did you know about this?" he asked England accusingly.

"They weren't here earlier," England said, and he sounded genuine enough. "What a wonderful surprise, though."

"Wonderful…? Jesus Christ, England." Scotland cast a desperate eye around, looking for a means of escape. His gaze settled on a little pub at the far end of the square which had a sandwich board set up outside it, advertising the large array of beers with ridiculous names it apparently had on sale. "Looks like that place sells real ale," he said, nodding towards it.

"Well, if you'd rather grab a pint, please, go ahead. I'll join you later."

The sharpness of England's expression belied his mild tone, and Scotland suspected that if he followed his brother's suggestion, then the fragile peace they'd managed, for the first time, to sustain over the course of the bank holiday weekend would be shattered irrevocably.

"I suppose I could stay and watch one dance," Scotland said grudgingly, because he supposed it would be nice to not be nursing any bruises for once after one of these breaks, and it was far too hot to be fighting, besides.

"And then we can all go to the pub afterwards," England said, beaming happily. "Splendid."

"Fucking marvellous," Scotland grumbled under his breath, turning his attention back to the troupe's preparations, trying to gauge how long they had left until they had morris inflicted upon them.

Not long at all, it seemed, because the six dancers formed themselves into the rectangular set the dances always started off from, white handkerchiefs clutched in their hands, the fiddler struck up a jaunty tune, and then they were off.

Scotland had been given to understand that there were a wealth of different types of morris dances in existence, but to his eye, they all looked exactly the bloody same, except that the dancers sometimes carried a sword or stick to brandish at each other instead of a handkerchief. It was all hop, step, jangle bells, wave object, back away and then repeat, ad infinitum. Even the music didn't seem to change, whether it were played on the fiddle, accordion or pipe. Always the same, year after year, for centuries.

England, however, never failed to look delighted whenever he watched a dance, eyes bright and foot tapping along to the beat of the dancers' steps. Scotland was actually quite surprised that he'd never given it a try himself, especially given that the morris costume was as close as he had to a national one, or so his people seemed to think. Imagining his brother decked out in the white suit, brightly-coloured baldrics, and, most importantly, the rows of bells was a welcome distraction from the dance, and kept Scotland thoroughly amused until it ended.

"Well," England said, clapping enthusiastically, "shall we head off for that drink, then?"

"Are you sure you don't want to watch them dance another, Lloegr?" Wales, the traitor, asked. Morris had nudged right up to the border of his country, and Scotland had to wonder if it managed to bleed over a little, somehow.

"No, I'm good," England insisted.

"I thought you enjoyed it?"

England looked a little shame-faced. "While I do appreciate that they're keeping the old traditions alive, and it's important to support that, there are other traditions I appreciate more." He gestured towards the pub. "The proper brewing of beer, for example."