Just back home, after a very good week. Sang a few songs, played some tunes and listened to some great music, saw some entertaining dancing, and even danced a bit myself. And the weather was good most of the time too, with just enough rain to make it a proper English seaside holiday.

What I like about festivals is coming across performers I've never heard of or whom I've never actually got to hear. Robb Johnson was a case of the latter, and he lived up to the hood things I'd heard about home. Nick Burbridge's Dermott's Two Hours was a case of the former, and if he'd had a CD I'd have bought it (I was on a strict resolution not to buy CDs this trip, and I kept to it otherwise), partly beacause the music was so good, but also because I couldn't make out a lot of the lyrics which sounded interesting - but he hadn't.

The Wrotham Arms Woodshed session was a very enjoyable addition, alongside the always welcoming Folk Club at the Sailing Club. That's a great pub too, with the walls festooned with instruments and a fiercely pro-music landlady in Jenny. I wish there were more like her! (And the beer on draught was pretty good too, Richard, even if the Badgers had run out.)

And Mike Jackson, back from Australia, was tremendous fun. No, not that American twit, this bloke. He told me at Moor and Coast breakfast one day (and no, we don't need them doing chips) that it's a real drag sometimes having that name when you're a children's entertainer - but he had it first.

"Good Old Broadstairs" as Mr Pooter used to say. (He'd have loved it this week, and would have fitted in very well indeed - "August 16 — Lupin positively refused to walk down the Parade with me because I was wearing my new straw helmet with my frock-coat.")