This weekend saw my final music festival of the season done and dusted. Although – after a summer of hot, dry, and dusty festivals all across the UK – it would be more accurate to describe this last event as done and mudded. The rain returned, and with it the opportunity to wallow in nostalgia as I slid and splashed from van to stage and back again, and watched bands play to crowds whose size was determined by how many could fit within the shelter of the structure of the tent, beyond which a curtain of rain fell and fell and fell.
It all felt very retro. Which meant my ancient campervan (fifty-five years old in much the same way as Trigger’s broom would make it to that age) fitted right in. I treat any trip away in it as some kind of small adventure – how long will it take to get there? will it get there at all? how will it cope with hills? will it start when it’s time to head home again? – and revel in the small joys of a comfortable bed, the ritual of boiling a pan of water on the stove for my morning coffee, and the decadence of crumpets toasted under the grill with cheese and chili flakes. Bliss.
This morning, back home, autumn is in the air. The sun is shining, but the shadows are noticeably longer than they were six weeks ago, the yard is cool and damp till mid-morning, and I still haven’t quite got my head around how short the evenings have become. As festival season recedes into memory, I’ll turn to writing more poems, begin the process of pulling together a new volume ready for publication in Spring, and start rehearsing my sets for upcoming gigs in the cathedral city of Ely, and the seaside town of Morecambe (September 16th and 20th, respectively).
I shall be keeping my fingers crossed for good weather for both, and if you’re within striking distance of either, it’d be lovely to see you. In the meantime, I shall leave you with a beautiful tune by The Breath, who absolutely blew me away this weekend. Rioghnach Connolly’s voice is incredible. Have a listen. You deserve it.