You know - as these post-equinoctial evenings draw in I really miss my clay church warden; one of the true joys of my old Brancepeth Castle days, holed in from the tempest, leafing through hoary old copies of Child and centuries old Popular Ballad collections in search of something truly strange before a roaring fire of logs & coal whilst necking a cheap bottle of Hungarian merlot to a soundtrack of Transylvanian field-recordings, or Ritual Flute Music of New Guinea or Bach's B minor Mass or Popol Vuh's Affenstunde or my cherished vinyl of The Clemencic Consort's Carmina Burana originals.

Times I might yearn for the whole antiquarian whiff that these days seems long gone as I snuggle up on the sofa in centrally-heated domestic bliss to watch The Great British Bake Off, or the new BFI DVD of The Changes full of spectral Folk Horror & Hauntological inspirations in the classic soundtrack that has Paddy Kingsland conducting his sonic seance in the Radiophonic Workshop which rests at the heart and soul of a whole Folk Vision, itself born of a yearning for that which never was but never the less seems a good deal more real to the increasingly bland MOR shite that passes as Folk these days. To my ears at least, because...

Thing is, Old Man - it's all a matter of taste. And the best of it is, it will ALWAYS be new to someone, so - Keep Moving Gentlemen, even if it is just on your grandad's old rocking chair.