Yes, the Gris was the usual Gris. Crowded, noisy, fun.
(Personally I have never understood folks who say they come to hear a particular person, in this case Cliff Haslam, but because they are "regulars" getting together proceed to talk all through the performance, and we were unlucky to have such a table right behind me, though lucky enough to be at the edge of the stage, and I did overhear one of the chatters comment, "Oh, listen, that next table [us] sounds like a backup group on all the choruses.")
The YTB is still a good place to be at the right times, but it had gotten so big, and more and more people were coming there, and while it was once "performers only" swapping songs, it became quite full of volunteers and other folks, so folks now do seem to cluster into small sessions here and there, rather than massive announced ones, so what happens after the pub sings end is largely a matter of who you are hanging with. (That is, of course, the way it was before Pub Sings became "official", though I do like the idea of them being right there; going to a pub in town never seemed to me to work as well.) I was with a small group of two dozen or so, lots of good bluesy stuff, but that was great fun until four or after; the birds were singing by the time I got home.
I always love to see the musicians who come even when they are not on the schedule, and of course one could have put on a festival with only those. This year John Roberts, Jerry Bryant and Robbie O'Connell were official though they generally are there anyway; Jon Campbell, the Johnson Girls, NexTradition, Stefan of Liereliet, Windlasses, and a number of others added their voices, instruments, and energy as well.
The youngster who belted them out at last year's sings was not there (his mom tells me he grew six inches and does only rap now; what a shame) but another youngster is being well broken in.
There were as always plenty of great moments.
Carl Thornton's utilikilt (khaki kilt with attached pockets and hammer loop), and a flock of men who, for no obvious reason, turned up in sarongs. Every one of them looked GOOD, too.
Jerry Bryant answering April's rendition of "The Fox" with, to the same tune, the song about the stone trolls (Weathertop?) from J.R.R. Tolkien.
The S.S. Shanteens standing in a circle under a tree on the grounds, in their matching t-shirts and their blue hair, piercings, chains and whatnot, and through a gap in the circle Martin Hugill talking earnestly with them.
Celeste doing a ballad out on the grounds, described to me (missed it, drat) as "awful pretty," enough so that she evidently drew a crowd of folks who were headed elsewhere and never made it.
People gathered around the diminutive Fishtown Chapel, leaning their ears up to the open windows to listen to Geoff Kaufman's ever sweet voice.
The row of young musicians perched on the edge of the staff building deck, after Saturday night's concert, singing with Gabrielle of Serre l'Ecoute and swinging their legs up-down-up.
Stefan's rendition of "Hant ofer Hant" which makes us all forget we don't even speak Dutch.
Danny Spooner "lecturing" in the Greenmanville Church, starting his brief history of Australian music with Gondwanaland, leaning up against the side of a too-tall podium. Barefoot.
The human free-reed Gabrielle of Serre l'Ecoute presenting the French naval victory song (who knew?) with vivid acting. I can't have been the only one who had a Monty Python moment when John Roberts sang a version of "The Weeping Willow Tree" (aka Golden Vanity et al) in which the enemy "jeered at the crew" of the Willow Tree, occasioning the planned attack, followed immediately by what could clearly be described as French taunts.
Margaret MacArthur's sweet smile, and her tendency, despite being one of the foremost ballad singers in contemporary America, to give the impression of being someone's happy mamma glad to get to come see all the singin' folks.
Plenty more, no doubt, and I will think of them as I go through pictures to post.