It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

One of my absolute favourite festival nights was at Wheaton Aston a few years ago. Back on the camp site peole standing about playing, chatting singing. Mist was coming in about 2am when the curragh of kildare started drifting in, like fairy music, from a hammer dulcimer. It was serene, beautful and then it turned into Curry's of Kildare and the magic was gone. I love Les B but still struggle to forgive him for the bursting of that sublime bubble.