What a glorious couple of days!

I was a few hours late for the off (clients!) but caught up with John the Barden of England and Jan at Cottington, hurriedly levelled the vardo, they even put grub into me and off we went by taxi to Walmer folk club where John and I got a few songs and a few pints (and truth to tell a little whisky) each. Which one were you Arnie - or are you Adrian O in disguise??

Then taxi back and John and I put the world to rights and drank his port for a couple of hours!

Saturday morning I fried for 3 which improved heads, and taxi back to the Bohemian where the sun shone and the beer disappeared and it was the nicest of sessions - not too many people at any given time, so one never had to wait too long for a song, but not so few that one felt abandoned. Even Dead Horse forgot (mostly) to heckle. A couple of totally spectacular guests (they know who they are and I understand do not want to grandstand) - one with a voice to make my noisy daughter sound quiet, and hands like albino tarantulas with alopecia on speed all over the guitar neck - I swear I saw a 7 fret left hand stretch while Brian Rodgers was getting a ribbing about the guitar being out of tune...

Then the Great British Fish'n'chips (it seemd like every folkie in town was in that chippy) and a stroll to the Ship.

Ship! It was rammed like a slaver on the the Atlantic run!

But after a while Brian and Marion restored just enough but not too much order (although I did count at least three people who will not have enjoyed Sunday morning, one of whom was a pain in the bum), but the bar staff were from time to time slow and surly. Nonetheless the beer kept somehow vanishing, joined by some brandy.

You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw a young lad (maybe 16 to 18) singing along with me on Roger Watson's "Watercress-O" which I think of as a fairly obscure song, and there were a couple of other people who I would have guessed to be under 20 paying close attention to the singing, too.

Adrian O produced a couple of lovely songs, and Synbyn had us all in stitches several times.

Then taxi back to Cottington (the taxis are SO reasonable, unlike on the peninsular), nibble at exotic cheeses I found in a lovely little shop near the town hall and collapse, largely voiceless on my part.

Sunday more frying and a leisurely trot home.



Why can't every festival be like that?   Great singing, great company, mostly helpful locals and some who obviously were totally up for the fest.