The Dog That Didn’t Turn Up

When we plan things, we imagine how they will turn out.

I didn’t have much of a plan for this adventure beyond: set off from Land’s End, head east, then head north, and see what happens. But I did imagine how my story might pan out.

In the film version of my adventure, I’d be played by Helen McCrory (Aunt Poll in Peaky Blinders); I’d be climbing mountains so that the camera could fly round me on mountaintops as I sink to my knees and yell ‘Why?! Why am I doing this?!’

And on another mountain (probably in Scotland) I’d be like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, arms open, twirling , singing, because I was deliriously happy for some reason or other.

Helen McCrory as me would reach John O’Groats looking fit and fabulous, with my shoes almost falling apart, there would be a crowd of people waiting to greet me, cheering as I walk round the cliff and see them there, tears streaming down my face, people playing tunes, dancing singing, some incredible revelation happens, my life turns round, demons faced and conquered, sun shining, ruddy-faced fishermen waving at me…

…people leaving the cinema feeling that they have been on the journey with me, and determining to read the book. (Not that I’d spent much time thinking about the film version… Chris Prat or Tom Hardy would play The Lovely John..)

In another world, where I’d have got the funding to create a musical snapshot on my crazy pilgrimge, I might have booked more B&Bs, I might have been more certain about my route, and known exactly when and where I would be.

But I would have missed out on so much excitement, thrills, worries, and entering into the unknown.

In my imagined version of the journey, I would arrange to meet musicians en route, literally. They would walk to some pre-arranged crossroads, and we would spend an hour or two enjoying sharing tunes and a picnic, then we would both hug and go our separate ways.

In my imaginary journey, there was a little dog that started walking along beside me, and even though I tried my best to get rid of it, it just kept following me, and we ended up best of friends and almost inseparable. I was probably going to call the dog Groaty, or something like that. Boots maybe. But the dog would be well-behaved and devoted.

In my imaginary journey, I turn up at the John O’Groats hotel and spend the £50 note that I have kept in my hat (actual, not imaginary) on a drink, a meal or a room for the night. People cheer and pat me on the back.

In fairness, some people had said they would walk with me for a while, an hour, a day a weekend, but weather, commitments and time never quite coincided.

The dog didn’t turn up. But Naked Actionman did.

The hotel at John O’Groats has been turned into self-catering flats. So I saved my money.

I was looking forward to walking the entire length of the Pennine Way, the Great Glen Way and the West Highland Way.

Didn’t do any of them in their entirety.

I even decided to treat myself to the West Highland railway journey, and have a day climbing Ben Nevis.

Rain and fog put a stop to all that milarkey. Who wants to sit on a train for five hours and see nothing but fog? Not I. Who wants to climb uphill for five hours in thick rain clouds? Nah.

There were a lot of things I didn’t do, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I met the most amazing people, I have seen some incredible places, heard wonderful music, i have been constantly reassured that people are kind, friendly, good-natured, we smile, we laugh, we are interested and interesting. Everyone has a tale to tell, and everyone loves to hear a tale well told.

People aren’t obsessed with politics, they don’t talk about Brexit; there is much more to this world of ours, this tiny country of mine, than the media would ever admit to.

Life is full of magic, amazing co-incidences, places so delicious they make you want to cry.

These things can’t be imagined, they can’t be captured and recreated in a film. Helen McCrory, marvelous actress that she is, would never be able to show the gradual realisation that my knees aren’t hurting anymore.

Or how good it felt to climb my first long hill without thinking I was going to collapse. Or what it felt to be knocking on someone’s door who I’d never met before, because they had heard about my adventure and invited me to stay and hear them play music.

Or how, when I was travelling through Scotland, I didn’t feel like some Amazonian adventurer, I felt like Jimmy Crankie.

I felt like Jimmy Crankie because I was loving every minute, smiling at the rain, the mists, stealthcamping in harbours, beaches, lochs and lakesides, heading North, on my way to John O’Groats. I even went to visit Glenmorangie whiskey distillery, something I’ve always wanted to do.

Glenmorangie distillery

Naked Actionman posing like a pro

Could this be the best bar in the world?

If anyone is wondering what to buy me for Christmas – glenmorangie please x

I didn’t stop smiling when I got to John O’Groats, even though we’d driven all day in thick fog, and you couldn’t see a thing when we got there.

We did the obligatory photos, and were similarly underwhelmed by John O’Groats as we were by Land’s End.

The destination isn’t the adventure. It never was.

There is a phrase that often came into my head during the adventure: ‘The map isn’t the territory’. It was a phrase that was often trotted out during NLP training, and this summer, I totally understood it. It’s 874 miles to Land’s End, you can plot the route on a map, but the journey is so much more than a line on a map.

Somewhere behind Naked Actionman, there’s Orkney

It’s a bleak, bleak place is John O’Groats.

Pulling out all the stops for the tourists.

Here we are, Jimmy Crankie and the Lovely John at J O’G

Two Months earlier… equally bleak, but sunnier, 874 miles away….

Well Folks, it’s been a blast. But it’s not the end of the blast. No siree. I’ve got a hundred tunes and songs and stories to turn into something. Watch this space, give me a week or two to get used to being back in my homelands, then see what I start cooking.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get used to not being an adventurer, I’ve got to decide where I’m living and I’ve got to get me a job.

Eek.

Rain, rain, lovely rain…

After the excitement of the Devil’s Pulpit, we headed north to Loch Lomond.

It was way beyond teatime (that’s dinner time to you southerners), and we were hungry, so set up camp at the first place we saw, which happened to be the bottom end of Loch Lomond at a place called Duck Bay.

It seemed an appropriate place to teach the Lovely John a tune called Duck River, so that’s what we did until rain stopped play.

The rain didn’t stop for days. Days and days of rain, cloud and fog.

Loch Lomond – view from the van. Still raining. Still beautiful

I’m sure the highlands were spectacular, if only we could have seen them…

We’d made plans as part of my ‘holiday’ section of the adventure, to head to Fort William and climb Ben Nevis. We’d climbed Scarfell Pike a couple of years ago in thick mist and a howling gale, and last year we did Snowden, and the clouds descended as we got to the top.

The top of Snowden is a funny place – there’s a cafe and a train station, and I was desperate to have a wee as I neared the top, so decided I would hold out for the toilets in the cafe. The cafe, of course, was closed, so as soon as we’d had the obligatory photo at the summit, I found a little crevice to crouch in, not that I needed one because it was thick fog. Until I started peeing. Then miraculously the fog lifted, a train-load of people appeared from nowhere, and I was crouched with my knickers round my ankles peeing like a horse saying ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. Watch your step, it’s flowing over the path.’

But I digress – being an expert on mountaintops where you can’t see anything, we decided to give Ben Nevis a miss, as you could barely see one end of the street from the other in Fort William, so I wasn’t expecting a view from the mountains, especially as there weren’t any to be seen. But next time I’ll conquer Ben Nevis. Here’s a helpful site that will get me there: https://bennevis.co.uk/

There were a lot of hiker types in Fort William, unsurprisingly as it’s where you set off for BN and other mountains, and two of the paths I had planned to walk on (The Great Glen Way and The West Highland Way) began and ended in the town.

Astute readers may have noticed the change in tense there from ‘I’ll be walking on’ to ‘I had planned to walk on’.

Yes, it’s true. I am no longer going to walk through Scotland to John O’Groats.

Neither am I collecting tunes and meeting musicians in Scotland.

And I’m not chickening out; I have realised that Scotland is a vast and glorious country that needs a bit of research in order to do it justice. And hell yes, I want to walk the Great Glen Way ad the West Highland Way, but I want to do it when I’m feeling fresh and ready for it and even though I’m time rich right now, I’m cash poor, so I want to do my research, save up, and do it in B&B style, not hiking tent cheap. A girl has certain standards, you know.

I know that it takes about twenty minutes to drive what would take me a day to walk, so I figured that I could enjoy the holiday, still get to John O’Groats, but in The Stealth Campervan rather than on foot, and still have the most wonderful adventure.

And still it rained…

Loch Ness – we had our own little beach and campfire, and the rain didn’t dampen our spirits

No – that wasn’t Nessie, it was the Loch Ness pleasure boat. We waved, but I think the red monster on the outside ate all the passengers

This is perhaps the tackiest place in all of Scotland…Nessieland. Even Naked Actionman was unimpressed.

The Loch Ness camping was wonderful – we had a tiny beach to ourselves, and wood to make a fire and a big umbrella so we were warm and dry, and we just sat under that big old umbrella, stoking up the fire, watching the rain clouds rolling in, drinking whiskey and playing music.

Tomorrow – I’m doing it – I’m going to tell you about reaching John O’Groats, seeing seals, stealthcamping in harbours and beaches in mists so thick that we couldn’t see the castle on the beach, and how much I love Scotland.

But for now, I’m writing this part of the blog at my mother’s, and I hear the kettle going on again…

Glasgow And Grown-up Grace

My modus operandi with the Stealth Campervan is to look at google maps and work out where we’re heading then find somewhere that looks interesting on the way and stop there for a while.

I can’t do this when I’m walking.

On foot, I find a route, preferably a well-maintained footpath, and by well-maintained, I mean well-signposted, a clear path or bridlepath or cycle route, and heading North. On a day walk, or walking holiday, I’m happy to ramble anywhere, if I see a sign that points out an interesting-looking path, I’ll deviate and take it. If there’s somewhere unexpected that’s nearby and looks like it may be worth sniffing out, I’ll have a sniff. If there’s a pub and I’m thirsty, I’ll pop in and have a pint.

When you’ve got a heavy rucksack and you’re on a mission, it’s a different sort of walking. You rarely deviate from the chosen path, you take a wrong turn and you feel your soul shrivelling slightly because you’ve got to back track and you know you’ve only got so many miles in you and your feet are hurting. If the grass is long and it’s been raining, your legs and boots are going to get wet, which isn’t a problem for a while, but is for consecutive days.

You see a delightful looking pub or cafe and you walk on by even though you might be thirsty or peckish; you’ve got your bottle of water and your emergency biscuits, so you don’t need to stop, and besides the beer would make you feel drowsy. And it would eat unnecessarily into your limited budget.

I love walking, hiking, striding out into nature. If I didn’t have to worry about money, I could quite happily spend my life on the road.

What I didn’t anticipate on this adventure was the stress that would be caused by worrying about where to stop for the night. I don’t mind pitching my tiny tent up. I’m happy sleeping anywhere, me, but I hate being cold and I hate even more waking up in a tiny tent and it be raining. So when the weather looks like it might get a bit moist, I always make sure I’m not in a tent. It’s wonderful and magical when people invite you to stay over, and for the last couple of weeks I’ve been royally spoiled.

Trouble is, I’ve had an awful lot of rainy nights. But it’s not a problem when the Stealth Campervan joins the adventure. There is always a warm dry bed, food to cook and drink to be drunk, no matter where you are. So the next nine days are sorted, as The Lovely John is here on holiday with me.

And I want to treat the next nine days like a holiday. I’ve got enough unblogged blogging to last for quite a while, and I’ve had two months of pretty much non-stop adventure.

So – holidays, we’re heading to Glasgow to visit Grace and I’ve consulted my google maps oracle, and it says ‘go to Falls of Clyde, New Lanark’, it’s on the way, and it’s very lovely.

So we did, and it was.

Falls of Clyde

Next stop Glasgow, and Grace’s.

I’ve known Grace since she was a gangly teenager; she’s the daughter of my friend Janet, who I play with in the band Shiznitz, also the same Janet who loaned me her brother and his wife in Devon earlier in this adventure.

Grace is now all grown up – she’s done her degree, she’s got a proper job and she’s living in a flat in Glasgow with Ewan. I’ve been threatening to visit Grace for a year or so, because I’ve still to climb Ben Nevis, and I can’t climb Ben Nevis without first popping in to see Grace.

Ewan got home an hour or so after we arrived – he’s Scottish and it was Sunday, so he’d been out with his mates climbing Munros, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s what you do on a Sunday, when you’re young, fit, and Scottish.

Grown-up Grace cooked us a grown up meal, we went out for a drink and had a whiskey nightcap. We might have looked like we were their mam and dad, but we didn’t care, we were out with friends and it was lovely.

Me, Ewan, Grown-up Grace and The Lovely John

I even got a tune or two from Grace and Ewan. Ewan, being Scottish, not only climbs Munros for fun, he’s also an excellent piper. I bet he’s got a kilt somewhere as well. They all have, these Scotsmen. So I’m told.

Ewan Convery:

‘These are Scottish small pipes in the key of D – there’s also border pipes but they sound more like traditional bagpipes. There’s also highland pipes, but everyone knows them, and they’re too loud to play in the flat.

‘I’ve shut the drones off, so you’re just hearing the chanter.

‘I’ll play a tune called ‘John Keith Lang’, it’s a reel from Caithness, originally a fiddle tune, because most tunes up there are fiddle tunes, originally.’

‘Cheery Groove – I got this tune from the a concept album ‘The Railway’ written by Hamlisch Napier. It’s a slip jig – named after someone’s house. Musicians around Strathspey were commissioned to write songs around the steam railway line.

Quite a lot of people play this tune in sessions in Glasgow. Hamlisch Napier writes a lot of good tunes that you can pick up easily.

Grace Worrell:

I’ll play you ‘Seanamhac Tube Station’ written by John Carly. It’s a popular one in sessions up here. It’s in Gm.

https://youtu.be/5rtEnferQA0

Next morning, Grown-up Grace and Ewan were up early for work, so we headed into Glasgow to be sightseers for the morning, and with a recommendation from Grown-up Grace to go and see the Devil’s Pulpit (not in any of the books, not really signposted but well worth a visit), we headed off.

Found this little gem in Glasgow’s Kelvingrove museum. If only I’d had my little travel fiddle with me we could have played spot the difference…

I look round the whole museum and this is the only thing i take a photo of. Nerd or what?

…and here’s the Devil’s Pulpit – it’s a deep and narrow canyon that’s you can climb into via a set of well hidden Victorian steps. We found them eventually, and got to see the Devil’s Pulpit, which is, I believe a stone in the middle of the canyon. Thankyou, Grown-up Grace. For the food and the bed, and the tunes and the tourist tips.

Arty shot. Where’s Naked Actionman when you need him?

That mound of rock is, I believe the Devil’s Pulpit. But I could be wrong.

Tomorrow there’ll be tales of not climbing Ben Nevis, not hiking anywhere, Loch Lomond, fabulous wild camping, and how we found Nessie at Loch Ness, and what a bitter disappointment that was…

Gretna Green and Gussets

The magical power that is Google Maps had hinted that there might be a good stealth camping place just outside of Gretna, on the banks of the River Esk. That’s where we headed in The Stealth Campervan, because The Lovely John had driven all the way up from Scunthorpe, and it was getting late.

Turned out to be a perfect little spot. Right on the Esk estuary, miles away from anywhere, only the occasional dogwalker and we even had time for a stroll along the banks before settling down for the night.

We always position the van so that we get a view from the back doors. Saturday morning, early, this was the view:

Early morning River Esk. Yes, it’s cows.

I thought the river was deep, and you know those mornings when you wake up and can’t quite believe what you are seeing – well, this was one of those mornings.

Cattle – having an early morning paddle in the middle of the River Esk, heading out to sea.

They took a slow leisurely walk for a mile or so, then circled back, tiny dots on the other side of the bank (the side that is England, not the side that is Scotland, which we were on).

Yes, we were in Scotland. Gretna, to be precise, and there’s only one thing to do when it’s Saturday morning in Gretna Green…

…Laugh at the tacky tourism. Lordy Lordy, what a place Gretna Green is. Busloads of Chinese tourists (who knew it was such a popular tourist destination with the Chinese?), and The Original Smithies, and The Original Anvils – lots of them. Being a true professional, I let Naked Actionman get in on the scene:

Just hanging round, waiting for love. Trying too hard perhaps?

Not one person batted an eyelid at me laying on the floor getting this shot. Love, as they say, is blind. And batshit crazy.

The Lovely John and I were approached by a very nice Chinese lady who had an official Gretna Green lanyard. She was taking photographs of couples for ‘National Kissing Day‘ or something like that, and would we mind being photographed having a kiss at one of the Gretna Green photo places. My ‘just say yes’ philosophy kicked in and we said yes, and duly stood under the horseshoe love arch and puckered up, as the very nice Chinese lady took several shots of us. She even crouched on the round to get a good angle of us and the horseshoe love arch.

Here’s a salutary lesson for any photographers wearing short skirts who are crouching down getting arty angles with their camera: you, photographer, can get everything in, the couple, the kiss, the horseshoe love arch, but we can see right up your skirt. You could kneel, you could stand further back you could just go for a close up with your viewfinder, but when you crouch, legs wide part, and you’re wearing stripey knickers, we are going to notice your gusset. Notice? Madam, you were all but winking at us.

It may have been a deliberate ploy to get people to grin, and I did want to mention it to her, but she was off looking for another couple before I could have my quiet word.

‘Thank you so much’, she said, as she left us.

‘No, thank YOU’, said The Lovely John.

I couldn’t help it, I had my tourist head on, and we had the Stealth Campervan at our disposal, so we headed up the A75 to Dumfries and an afternoon of unabashed Rabbielove. I love Robbie Burns, and Dumfries is to Burns what Liverpool is to the Beatles. Like you can’t move for references to Burns. Like his face is on everything. Like you can’t move for tea towels and tam o shanters and tartan.

Dumfries is a gorgeous town, we did the Robert Burns walk round, and yes, I love The Rabster, but after a couple of hours, I’d had enough Aye fond kisses and Best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men to last til next January 25th.

Three of my favourite men all trying to look cool

The Lovely John wanted to throw Actionman in the River Nith, but luckily I saw this sign.

We called into a pop up shop – I can’t remember what drew us in, but the shop was Pensioners for Independance. Their tactic seemed to be: draw them in and ask them if they think Scotland should be an independent country. And when I say ‘ask’, read as ‘demand to know’.

Me, I just said ‘yes’ straight away, don’t know whether it was fear, conviction, or witnessing the withering looks and scathing remarks that followed a woman who said ‘absolutely not’. The Lovely John, never one to shy away from words, answered, ‘I don’t care, I’m happy right now.’

This seemed to melt the stoic, granite hearts of the two pensioners/potential inquisitioners and they ended up sending us away with armfuls of buns, fudge, a cd and a top tip on where to head to stay for the night.

I’l give you the top tip, if you’re ever in Scotland and want a night of wild camping, after a Rabbie Burns overload. Go up the A76, turn off for Wanlock Head, and it’s magnificent. Mountain pass, with a small river running through, and you can camp there. Lots of people do. It’s like party valley.

However, we drove on, waiting for the next place, and the next one until we came out the other side of the pass, and realised that we’d missed our chance. Note to self: if there’s a perfect looking place, stop, don’t wait for the next one, cos sooner or later you’ll run out.

So we challenged ourselves to find a lovely place near water, and to be honest we were sailing a bit close to the wind, thought we’d end up in a lay-by, but this is Scotland, if you miss the perfect place to stop, carry on, cos the next perfect place is near. We drove on to a place called Douglas, cos there was a lake showing on google maps and when we saw a sign for ‘Dangerous Castle’, it sealed the deal. It wasn’t a wild mountain pass, it was a beautiful peaceful land with a lake and a Dangerous Castle. Perfect.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about how Grace is all grown up now, and the Devil’s pulpit, and I can’t remember which road we took, the high or the low, but we got to Loch Lomond…

And you may have noticed I’m not doing much walking at the moment. Therein lies a tale to be told….

Gorgeous people, gorgeous music, a grand buffet and a goodbye for now

I’m sitting here in The Stealth Campervan camping on a deserted beach writing my blog from a week ago. Only a week, and yet it feels like a different world. It has barely stopped raining in that week, but, as with the rest of my adventure, it’s been a magnificent week.

But back to last week. I was still staying with Frank and Corrie, I’d had another massive bowl of porridge for breakfast, managed to finish it all this time, and me n’ Frank were up early, going to Gateshead because he had a gig at a community gathering and we had to be there for 10am. We drove along the Hadrian’s Wall road in the Tesla, me marvelling at the enormous satnav that picked out all the ancient forts and walls and earthworks. I do so want a Tesla. I’m saving up.

We arrived in good time at the Gateshead church hall and met up with the other musicians, Trish (flute and whistle) and Ian (pipes and bazouki/cittern). As often happens with these sort of gigs, the band is often made up of musicians who might not have all played together, but share a common repertory of tunes. Frank and Trish have played together before, as had Trish and Ian, but the three of them – it was their maiden voyage. Not that you’d have known, they were all brilliant players. I did wonder if the audience realised how high the musical skill level was.

The event was a Mobilise and Socialise dance event – Paula Turner (artist, researcher and activist) runs dance classes for ‘mature’ people with an emphasis on the creative and social energy of moving together.

This ‘Loosely Come Dancing’ – session mixed together two different groups and brought in live music, encouraging dancing and togetherness.

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it at first – a church hall with all the seats in a large oblong and the musicians setting up at one end, as the participants, mostly elderly, came in and sat down.

The musicians and the first tune were introduced, and Paula suggested the first dance should be one where everyone extends a hand of friendship and walk/dance round. Start with one person then get more up.

By the end of the tune, everyone was up and twirling round each other, huge smiles, the years and aches and pains melting away.

Another dance – everyone stands in a line, both ends facing inwards and snake in between each other.

These weren’t complicated dances, they weren’t even called like a ceilidh or barn dance, the dances just evolved from the music, and the dancers unashamedly and joyfully danced for the joy of it.

Another dance -the dancers hold hands in circle, in and out, maybe kicking, maybe raising hands, nobody tells them, they just do it.

I didn’t film any of the dancers, as some were vulnerable adults but I filmed some of the music and their dancing feet.

Here’s some Northumberland tunes:

Here’s ‘Dance to Your Daddy’ – and the dancers join in singing

Here’s the feet, on a spontaneous weaving line dance:

Here’s sitting down after the nosh and listening to some lovely music – band playing ‘Far Away’:

They danced for over an hour, the musicians played, and then there was a special buffet.

Nomnomno. Of course I had some too. Church Hall buffet? Don’t mind if I do.

And then the musicians played some more. So of course, nothing finished on time, everything over ran, and nobody was in the least bit bothered.

Events like this should be treasured and encouraged. Simple, strange, and beautiful.

My original plan for the day went like this: I go with Frank to the running session in Gateshead, then we’d get back to Brampton by 1pm ish and I’d spend the afternoon walking to either Longtown (10 miles) or Gretna (14 miles) where I had arranged to meet the Lovely John who was driving up after work and would be there by 8-9ish.

We didn’t get back from Gateshead til getting on 3pm, and we were both in need of a nana nap after all the cakes and buffet, and Corrie would be in later in the afternoon, so I’d get a chance to hear Corrie and Frank playing together.

And it just so happens that the Tesla needed recharging, and there’s a charging station at Gretna, so, I stayed, I heard Frank and Corrie playing together, it was magic, and I got a lift to Gretna after tea.

Of course I could have said to The Lovely John to come and pick me up from Frank and Corrie’s, but then he’d have fallen under their spell as well, and we’d never have left.

‘So?’ Said Corrie.

So indeed. Very very hard to leave, but wonderful to have been there.

And I’ll be back…

And in the meantime, here’s Frank and Corrie:

https://youtu.be/vqwmhUbjXyQ
https://youtu.be/uwSDgfFtv_g

Newcastle:

https://youtu.be/ACNTAfRUdNk

Bonny at Morn:

https://youtu.be/tukp5leo2lU

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about the old dulcimer, as I completely forgot today, and I’ll definitely tell you about the gusset in Gretna Green…and the herd of cows walking in the river, and Burns Burns Burns everywhere…

Whiskey in Porridge and Tesla Dreams

Thursday – Corrie was up and out early as she teaches a violin making class, so came downstairs to find frank making a huge pan of porridge.

‘Do you want whiskey in your porridge?’

‘Hell yes.’

I have this new philosophy where I say yes to things that I previously might have been polite about and mumbled a sorry-arsed excuse like – ‘it’s too early in the morning for me’, or ‘no thankyou, I couldn’t possibly… (insert whatever nice thing something is offering)’

For the record, it was the first time I’d had whiskey in porridge, and the first time I’d left some porridge in the bowl. This was nothing to do with the whiskey, more to do with the huge bowl in front of me. There’s something about porridge – when you’re making enough for one person, you always get it exactly right, if you double the amount for two people, you end up with enough to feed a small army, but you still give it your best shot.

We took our instruments and cups of tea out into the garden and pretty much picked up where we left off the night before, playing tunes, waiting for the arrival of Rachael Hales.

Rachael is a graduate of the Newcastle Folk course – turns out that she knows a couple of people I know from the course. Frank had invited her over to play some tunes together.

Rachael and Frank in the garden playing tunes

Rachael Hales:

‘The romanticised story of Northumbrian music is the discovery of the music of three shepherds: Joe Hutton, Willie Taylor and Will Atkinson; they were recorded quite extensively by people like Alisdair Anderson as being the Northumbrian tradition, and taken round festivals as the authentic Northumbrian sound.

‘My friend wrote three tunes for them – ‘Farewell to Joe’, ‘Memories of Willie Taylor‘ and ‘ Robin Dunn’s Compliments to Will Atkinson’.

I’’ll play you those three tunes – all written by Robin Dunn who I play with quite regularly and I play in his ceilidh band. He’s from Ashington’

Frank:

‘I knew joe Hutton quite well – i taught his two kids and sold him my old bike.’

Rachael:

The next tune is a waltz written by Mairead Green – she’s Scottish : ‘Maggie West’s Waltz .

This next tune I got Rachael and Frank to play so I could record it. We’d all been playing it, and I rather liked it. Something about the strange timing and tune structure that appealed to me.

Five broom besoms – (Blind Willie Purvis) early 19th century Newcastle.

That evening, the Morris team Frank plays for, Hexham Morris were dancing at the Whalton Baal Fire. For those of you who are not au fait with the custom of Baal Fires, here’s a wee description:

Northumberland Baal fires were an annual tradition in the Middle Ages celebrated in many villages in the county. Whalton is the only village in which this tradition has consistently been upheld, even through World Wars I and II when the bonfire was replaced by the lighting and speedy extinguishing of a few small twigs. It is said that in years gone by villagers jumped over and through the flames of the fire. No such thing happens today but the village is all involved in building the fire, and celebrations including watching children from Whalton CofE First School dance round the fire following dancing by a visiting troop of Morris Dancers.
The site for the fire remains where it has always been in the centre of the village, now just to the east of the Beresford Arms. There is some conjecture to the origin of the name with claims of its derivation being a pagan rite celebrating the god Baal, or that it is from the Old Norse ‘Bal’ meaning a great fire. Sir Benjamin Stone captured photographs of the Whalton Baal Fire in his 1902 visit. Event starts 7pm until 9pm.

As per usual on my adventures, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but in saying ‘yes’, went along to the other side of the country in a Tesla car (they are utterly amazing – not very girly but incredibly well designed and it’s not often I harp on about cars. I even dreamt about this one – I loved everything about it…) but i digress.

Upon arrival at Whalton, I found I was unable to buy Frank a pint, as the pub provided refreshment for the Morris dancers.

They had school children doing a dance. They lit the fire which was smaller than i thought it would be, but not as small as Frank led me too believe, then the Morris teams did their thing to the appreciation of the gathering crowds.

And I filmed some of the dances. You can see the fire in the background in this film. And bear in mind it’s a tradition that has been going, uninterrupted, every year since the Middle Ages. It deserves a nod of appreciation.

https://youtu.be/fO5Yofz2gQ4

Another dance, another angle.

https://youtu.be/-keRuwixgk4

And here’s the Hexamshire Lasses doing a dance:

https://youtu.be/b99eE8cIwWE

It just so happened that on the way home, Frank had to deliver a tuning wrench for an old Hammer Dulcimer to a man in possibly Hexham. He invited us in, once he heard that I was bit of a dulcimer nerd… but it’s getting late, I’m ready for bed, and even though I’m a week behind with my blogs, all my notes for this evening are in my other bag, which I’m sorry to say, I can’t be arsed to find right now.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell you more about the old dulcimer, and Loosely Come Dancing in Gateshead, and I might even get to tell you about the gusset in Gretna Green. But my dreams about the Tesla – that’s between me and Wee Willie Winkie.

Frank’s Kitchen

I’d had a gorgeous hot day of walking when I arrived at Frank and Corrie’s house. Frank had heard about my adventures and invited me to stay over whenever I was in the area. He described his house as ‘a bit of a factory and a bit rough and ready,’ so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I arrived at Brampton.

I wasn’t expecting a huge, amazing, laid back, chaotic, wonderful, interesting house. I also wasn’t expecting to stay for more than a day, but Frank was doing lots of music things over the next few days, and invited me along to all of them, so I decided that as long as I was at Longtown or Gretna by Friday evening, then I was happy to stay.

I was more than happy – Frank’s house is now one of my favourite places in the world. Every room had instruments in – Corrie is a violin maker and seller – and there was a constant buzz of musical activities and conversations and people passing through.

I had a nana nap in the garden while Corrie did some weeding and Frank cooked the tea, then after we’d eaten, Corrie went to bed early and me and Frank sat in the kitchen and played music. The kitchen is downstairs and has rattley tiles that clack as you walk on them, and an aga, so it’s always warm down there. As well as knowing hundreds of tunes, Frank can tell a good tale, and do accents as well, and I love a good tale as much as I love a good tune, so the night was one of those magic evenings of music and laughter.

After I’d filmed a tune or two, I borrowed a guitar and we played and drank whiskey til the wee small hours, Frank telling stories and playing tunes and me strumming along on guitar. I was accused of being a lightweight, cos by 1.30am I couldn’t keep awake and had to retire. I think I saved face by reminding Frank that I had walked to his house from Carlisle, carrying a big rucksack, on a very hot day, and under normal circumstances, I’d have drank him under the table.

Here’s some tunes from Frank’s Kitchen:

Frank Lee:

‘I first learnt some tunes from a man called Frank Rutherford – him of the false teeth and whelk spots.

1957 – I used to catch the train to school with my dad who was going to work. One time we heard a recorder playing on another compartment. Every day we heard it and my dad decided to find out where it was coming from. It was a man playing in a compartment further down, back in the days where once you were in a train compartment, you couldn’t move to another one. He had the compartment to himself, made sure he did, so he could practice his tunes on the way to work…he used to buy whelks, there was always a whelk seller in Durham station. There’s always a hard black cap on a whelk and you take it off with a pin, he’d stick the black caps on his face and no one would want to sit in his compartment. Failing that he’d take his false teeth out and beckon people in, guaranteeing that no one would come anywhere near. Anyway, me and my dad would sit in with him and play tunes together. And that is how, reluctantly at first, I started playing tunes.

‘I’ll play you some tunes that I’ve grown up with.

‘This one is called Captain Bovar.

‘There was a lot of press gang activity in 18th century. Captain Bover was brought up from London to get some law and order, but local folklore says he made it much worse, amounting to mass murder – this song is a girl standing on the side shouting to her husband on a collier boat ‘where have you been?’ And him saying ‘I’m not coming in til captain Bover has gone. They’d stop at sea til the press gangs had gone.’

Captain Bover

Where hev ye been, me canny hinny?
Where hev ye been, me winsome man?
Where hev ye been, me canny hinny?
Where hev ye been, me winsome man?

I’ve been to the norrard, cruising back and forrard,
I’ve been to the norrard, cruising sair and lang;
I’ve been to the norrard, cruising back and forrard,
But dare na come ashore, for fear o’ Bover and his gang.

When will ye come home, me canny hinny?
When will ye come home, me winsome man?
When will ye come home, me canny hinny?
When will ye come home, me winsome man?

I must stay in the norrard, cruising back and forrard,
I must stay in the norrard, cruising sair and lang;
I must stay in the norrard, cruising back and forrard,
For I dare na come ashore, for fear o’ Bover and his gang.

The weary cutters also a song about the press gangs in Newcastle.

O the weary cutters and O the weary sea
O the weary cutters have taken my laddie from me
They’ve pressed him far away foreign
With Nelson beyond the salt sea

O the lousy cutters and O the weary sea
O the lousy cutters have stolen my laddie from me
They always come in the night
They never come in the day
They come at night and steal the laddies away

O the weary cutters and O the weary sea
O the weary cutters have taken my laddie from me
I’ll give the cutter a guinea
I’ll give the cutter no more
I’ll give him a guinea to steal my laddie ashore

Dance to your Daddy – there’s quite a few versions of the lyrics, but the tune doesn’t change:

I’m going to break my stay at Frank and Corrie’s into several blogs, because there was just so much music. And I just didn’t want to leave.

So that’s all for now folks.

Tomorrow, its Me, Frank and the delightful Rachael Hales playing in the garden, and an evening of an ancient fire tradition and Morris dancers at Whalton, and a surprise stopover at a dulcimer player’s house.

Firecracker and Fiddletunes

‘A fireracker’

‘a right character’

‘She’s quite incredible’

‘an amazing woman’

‘she has done so much to promote Cumbrian music’

‘if you’re in the area, you have to meet her’

I heard this all the time from people in Kendal. So naturally, I arranged to meet the legend that is Carolyn Francis. She’s a busy woman; she teaches folk fiddle in schools all over Cumbria, and runs an adult music group, Carolyn Francis and the Lakeland Fiddlers, who meet up in a community centre in Kendal on a tuesday night.

Tuesday night, I was there at the community centre. Carolyn had said she would be turning up later, so I had chance to meet the group and play a tune or two with them.

There is half of me that wants to just sit and play when I meet other musicians, but on this adventure, there’s another half of me that tells me to put my fiddle down and pick up the ipad and record some of these tunes.

The Lakeland Fiddlers play mainly music from Cumbria, traditional tunes, and tunes written by local musicians. It’s run a bit like an adult education class – everyone pays a subscription, Carolyn teaches the tunes, and occasionally they play out at gigs. They’re a lovely relaxed group of people who made me feel very welcome and were interested in my journey.

Here’s the group playing Keswoick Bonnie Lasses. This was written by William Irwin a local chap who died in the 1860s and is buried in the Chapel Stile church.

‘We play this over his grave sometimes- a tradition we’ve started. He was a well known local teacher and music writer – he used to walk over to play at a dance in Keswick, walk back then work the next day.’

Here’s Cumberland waltz, an old traditional tune, and Furness – a slightly newer tune.

At this point, Carolyn arrives, and the room filled with her energy and her infectious laughter. It’s an extraordinary thing, being in the presence of someone with such a magnetic personality, and with all the praise and admiration i had heard about her before meeting her, I felt a little bit intimidated, which lasted for about three seconds. She insisted that I taught them a tune from my travels, so I taught them Nine Brave Boys, which I had learnt from the Bagas Crowd in Cornwall, a similarish group who play Cornish tunes.

Cup of tea time, and back on the Cumbrian tunes – The Helmwind written by Peter Corkhill, a local fiddle player. The Helmwind comes over the Pennines when coming from the east and forms the Helm cloud which loops and curls round the mountains. Road to Alston – the Helmwnd curls there. (Incidentally, I learnt Road to Alston years ago from Jamie Knowles, who I revisited recently in Glossop. Ooo the connecting webs are getting stronger)

The Helmwind/Road to Alston

Carolyn also writes music, and the group play some of her compositions.

Carolyn:

‘I lived in Dent, rented a house near a waterfall, it was wet and dark for 3 months, but i wanted to write music. Cissy Middleton was an old woman who lived in Dentdale at Gawthrop’

Cissy Middleton / Dentdale Diggers/Flintigale Fall

They finished the evening off with a coupe of tunes: Patterdale cross (Phillip Bull)/ Bang Upp Hornpipe.

I do love these groups and people that keep traditional music alive – finding and playing local tunes that might otherwise have been forgotten or laid languishing in a dusty manuscript waiting for someone to come along and remember them.

Hats off to all those unsung heros who hunt down these tunes and bring them to life, and make sure that there’s new generation who can enjoy them. Thanks to all the Carolyns, the Jamies, the Gwilyms, the Jim Eldons. I’ve heard people talking about you, and it’s all good stuff they’re saying, guys.

Stopped over with Carolyn, not before putting the world to right over a couple of pints. It just so happened that the next day, Wednesday, Carolyn had to be up early because she was teaching in schools in Carlisle. And it just so happened that Carlisle is a nice day’s walk from Brampton where I had an invitation to visit Frank and Corrie, tunesmiths and instrument makers. So I did it. I got a lift to Carlisle and walked to Brampton.

I walked up 100 steps to get to that viaduct. I didn’t have to, cos I had to walk down again, but what a view

I never got a photo of Carolyn, as she was running late when she dropped me off, but she’s there in the videos, green trousers, full of life. Amazing woman. Firecracker.

Tomorrow’s blog – at Frank and Corrie’s. This is the adventure that keeps on giving.

Kendal Calling…

Sunday night, I’m staying with Ian and Carol Hatwell,They live in Kendal and offered to put me up if I was passing though which I am and they did.

We’re all too tired tonight to go out anywhere so they agree to play me some tunes. I first met Ian through dulcimers, he’s a dulcimer player, and Carol plays the harp.

Ian Hatwell:

‘How I came to be playing the dulcimer – I heard Jim Couza playing dulcimer in folk clubs; I loved his playing. My wife told me to stop going on about Jim Couza and learn to play a dulcimer.

‘I got a beaker at the 25th year anniversary of the Nonsuch Dulcimer Club (https://www.dulcimer.org.uk/index.html) for being a founder member. That’s how long I’ve been playing…

‘I’m going to play a Scandinavian tune called Lillpolska Paa Harpen. The first time I heard it my wife was playing it, she’d brought it back from a harp weekend, probably one of Charlotte Peterson’s tunes. Charlotte has a danish father and a Scottish mother. It’s her arrangement.

‘Lillpolska Paa Harpen‘

https://youtu.be/CPmh924SPEM

Carol Hatwell:

‘In Cumbria we have a harp society called ‘Harps Northwest’ which is a charity whose aim is to promote the playing and enjoyment of harp music. (http://www.harpsnorthwest.org.uk/

‘Over the last 20 or so years, it’s grown from 2 people able to play the harp to 90 members, all ages, from 8 – 80 and we’ve got 17 or 18 harps that we rent out cheaply to children and adults. We run beginners courses with harps provided throughout the year.

‘We have four professional teachers throughout the year and we organise a biannual weekend festival for the small harp with professional tutors. Every year in November we choose the tutors for a harp course which is held in Higham Hall near Keswick.

‘One of our teachers, Mary Dunsford, she places on YouTube what she calls the January challenge for harpists anywhere in the world. She films on you tube 2 or 3 tunes, teaching 4 bars a day til the end of January. There’s a teaching video and a play along video. You can find the link on harpsnorthwest.org.uk and the current challenge is still on YouTube.

‘This piece is written by Shetland fiddler Tom Anderson Da Slockit Light’ (the slaked light). He wrote it when he saw people moving away and the lights going out on the island. His wife had died and he knew grief was coming as well.’

‘Da Slockit Light’

Monday morning, Carol and Ian got in touch with their friends Peter and Fiona Rigg, who are musicians. Peter is an instrument maker, and they are both Nyckelharpa players. Nyckelharpas, it seems, are like buses. You never see one, ever, then you see three in a month.

We arranged a morning music session at their house in Kendal, so off we went for the most wonderful Monday morning in the company of Peter and Fiona Rigg. http://www.riggmusic.co.uk/

Pete heard about my Magic Fluke travel fiddle, and anted to compare it with a pochette fiddle that he had made. Here they are making friends with each other:

Pete’s Pochette and my Magic Fluke travel fiddle

Fiona:

‘We’re both session players in this area, we met through music, both involved in ceilidh bands.

‘Pete got into instrument making about five years ago, making harps, mandolins, five string fiddles, Hurdy Gurdy, dulcimer, and most recently Nyckelharpa.

‘We both fell in love with the sound of the Nyckelharpa, which took us into Swedish dance music which then led us into french music and dance.

‘Pete first heard the Nyckelharpa about thirty years ago

‘Every year in Settle – at the May bank holiday weekend there’s a Scandinavian music fest – Skandimoot.’

Pete:

‘I made the first Nyckelharpa and couldn’t make it play properly. We went to the Skandimoot and met Carol Turner who played it and made it play. She did something that we weren’t doing. So we arranged to meet up with her in Sheffield to find out what she was doing that we weren’t.

‘We realised that if you’re going to pay Nyckelharpa you need to play Swedish music. And if you’re playing those tunes, you need to learn the dances to get the rhythm right. This led us on to learning French dance music which also sits nicely on the Nyckelharpa.

‘Through learning styles and instruments like this we’ve got an invite to go to the Swedish Nyckelharpafestival in Tokyo where they will lend us Nyckelharpas because they are difficult to travel with. It’s amazing where music will take you, the doors it can open for you.’

Hambo enter Erik Hartvig

https://youtu.be/NutlpwLTNYo
‘The one and the three beats – that’s Swedish rhythm’

And just for fun, Pete and I jammed a tune on dulcimers.

https://youtu.be/5XZsBCZmE3o
Ian, Carol and I left Pete and Fiona to their packing – they were off to Canada on Wednesday. Just before we left we were talking about instruments and places, and Pete mentioned a gurdy player they had met called Quentin and asked if I knew of him, as he lived in my neck of the woods. ‘Know him?’ Says I, ‘I was married to him!’ Hahaha small world.

That afternoon, Ian, Carol and I went for a walk along Scout Scar, above Kendal, which has the most spectacular 360 degree views.

If only I knew how to use that panorama function on my phone camera…

Monday evening, and folks had mentioned about a folky session in the Ring O’ Bells in Kendal, so Ian, Carol and I set off for a wander into town to check out the session. To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t the sort of session that I normally enjoy, I’m a someone-starts-a-tune-and-everyone-joins-in-and-there’s-not-many-guitars kind of girl, and the Monday night at the Ring O’ Bells is more of what one might call a ‘singaround’ – you go round the room and everyone does a turn, and anyone can join in if they like. And though there were a lot of guitars, there was also a penny whistle, some bodrhans, someone reading poems, someone who sang pop songs as though they were old folk ballards – I don’t think it was done intentionally, it was just Acapella. And there was someone whistling tunes, not on a penny whistle, he just whistled them.

To be honest, the good humour and the jollity in the room was infectious, so we settled in and had a right good night.

Gravestone at the widest church in england in Kendal. Nice to think that people have always been kind to strangers

Yes of course I took Naked Actionman along with me. He loves a good castle, so he does.

Everyone I spoke to in the area mentioned Carolyn Francis, a fiddle player, collector and writer of tunes, teacher of fiddles and all-round extraordinary woman, so I arranged to meet up with her on tuesday night, and had a day to wander round Kendal being a tourist and say my farewells to Ian and Carol, who have been the most wonderful hosts. It’s always bittersweet saying goodbyes; people let me into their lives and houses make me feel comfortable, safe and secure, and look after me, share stories and food, and just as I feel as though I could get used to this, I’m on my way again. I couldn’t do this journey without you – thankyou everyone who has given me a bed for the night.

Ian and Carol Hatwell. Lovely people and top hosts x

In tomorrow’s blog I’ll tell you all about when I finally met the legend that is Carolyn Francis…

Ilkley Moor with hat, Crackety Jack, and Wild Camping.

There was no overnight parking at Golden Acres, so we headed off to the second of my good friend Chill’s recommendations: Otley Chevin car park. And wow. The view.

The place we found was right at the edge of the ‘surprise view’ – so we kind of had to take a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps and watch the sun set over the valley below us, marvelling at the glories of nature, and how I don’t particularly like crisps, but sometimes they are absolutely perfect.

Otley Chevins is a popular spot with runners, walkers, dog walkers and lads who are learning to smoke. Eventually they all go away and you’re left in the carpark all alone with nowt but a magnificent view for company.

It just so happened that there was a dry stone wall event happening next morning so there were lots of cars arrived by 9am. But we didn’t care. We had taken our breakfast and eaten it looking out over the views and were heading onwards and upwards. Today was Saturday, and apparently it was going to be the heatiest heatwave ever, so we decided to head for the hills, and Malham seemed like a hilly enough place to head for.

On the way there, we passed Ilkley moor. I’d sung the song often enough but never been there, and the sight of the Cow and Calf towering above us lured us in, and we spent a glorious few hours wandering round the moor. I had a hat on though, cos I didn’t want sunstroke.

The not so Lovely John lobbing Naked Actionman as far as he could

Naked Actionman posing like a pro on Ilkley Moor

Time for a spot of geocaching on Ilkley Moor

They don’t do graffiti like they used to. It just isn’t as lyrical nowadays

We remembered after a couple of hours on t’moor that we were on a mission to head to Malham and set off again. Unbeknown to us, everyone in the area had the same idea, Malham turned out to be one massive carpark with ne’er a place left for parking. Undeterred, we headed out for the hills – there’s a tarn up there somewhere, so if it got too hot, we could launch ourselves in the water.

It’s scary driving up the hills around Malham, but well worth it, cos it felt like we had the place to ourselves. We found a spot to park up for the night, and went for a walk. It wasn’t a heatwave. Nowhere near. Warm, but no picnic.

Stealth Campervan in situ for Saturday night camping on Malham moor.

Feeling very smug to be up in the hills where it was cool and breezy

We had a couple of neighbours where we parked, people who have been parking up here for years, so had no worries about being in the middle of nowhere. Woke next morning (Sunday) in the clouds.

I had an invite to stay with a dulcimer player, Ian Hatwell and his wife Carol, who live in Kendal, and the Lovely John had the Stealth Campervan, so I absolutely had to get a lift there before he went home that night.

On the way to Kendal, we passed by Kirby Moorside, stopping to have breakfast at the Devil’s Bridge with all the bikers. That’s motorbikes, to the uninitiated. Apart from one man in a tight lime green Lycra cycling suit that left nothing to the imagination. You could see veins and everything. And he stood there amongst all the leather-clad bikers with his hands on his hips. I don’t shock easily, but i couldn’t even get my camera out. Cyclists take note – lime green is an unforgiving and see-through colour. Never wear it. Never.

Further on by Kirby Moorside and there was signs for the town Fleadh. I’m not sure I’ve spelt it correctly, but it’s a competitive festival of Irish music, so we just had to call in, and managed to miss everything except for the tiniest sniff of atmosphere. It was happening all over the town, but quite evaded us.

I’ve got a lot of music to fit in while I’m here (I’m in Kendal now, almost caught up with my blogging), so I figured my time would be better spent musicing rather than walking. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it.

So tomorrow’s blog will be treating you to more Nyckelharpas, harps, dulcimers, and whatever I happen upon tonight.

It all Happens in West Yorkshire

So I gets to Wakefield, and I meet up with a woman who is making podcasts about artists and how home relates to their work.

It was strange describing how even though I still consider East Yorkshire to be my home, I had burnt all my bridges – given up the rent on my house, got rid of all my furniture and everything I own is stored in Scunthorpe in twenty small boxes, plus my musical instruments, and some demijohns of home brew wine stored in my mother’s garage. (The wine, incidentally will be ready for drinking in September. Party round at momma’s house).

Had I not burned my bridges, I’d have been back home by now, cos it’s easy to come up with reasons to be back home when there’s a back home to return to. When there’s not a back home to go to, it’s easier to find reasons to keep on going.

What was also strange about being in Wakefield was that I was a student at Bretton Hall, and Wakefield featured strongly in my student days, so it was peculiar being there, with snippets and hints of the place I once knew so well, and whole swathes of it new and unfamiliar. I had a look around the Hepworth Gallery, which wasn’t there before. It was very arty, minimalistic, modern, and situated by the canal, which I never knew existed, but the canal must have been there long before I last visited. I was an art student, so felt obliged to visit the gallery, but, maybe sculpture just isn’t my bag.

Naked Actionman in the Hepworth Gallery, explaining to me about sculpture

Apart from meeting Lesley and her podcast interview, I had also arranged to meet up with an old mate from my student days, Tony Wade, and his partner, Helen. Tony and Helen are both artists, proper ones, real ones. They are talented, creative and active with their art. They don’t talk and moan about lack of opportunities, they crack on and do it. There is a strong artist community in Wakefield, the council are very supportive, and there are art studios and art spaces, and more planned. Art hub of the North, Wakefield.

Tony and Helen had put word out among the Wakey Folkies that I was heading into town and if anyone wanted to meet up Wednesday night, I’d be there at the Polka Hop pub.

I’d never been to the Polka Hop pub before and if you love your beer and are ever in Wakey I’d urge you to go. They have great beer, and it’s a fab pub. I walked in, and a local Rapper Morris troupe (the Leeding Edge Rappers) were practicing their steps. I thought it was for my benefit, but no – that’s what they do on a weds night.

Here they are going over one part of a dance. I’d never considered how much practice goes into learning a dance like this, but watch this and consider away…

People wandered in during the evening and we played tunes together, they played tunes for me, we drank fine beer, and we all had a magical evening.

Here’s a few tunes I collected:

Carole Sherwell: ‘what i like about the Northumbrian waltzes is the intervals they are are so strange and haunting…

First one is called Swindon – nothing to do with Wiltshire there’s a visage in Northumberland of that name..the second one – Elsey’s waltz – both written by Archie Dagg.’

https://youtu.be/rai69WJwbX0

Veronica Keszthelyi and Matt Cook from the Leeding Edge Rapper (officially from Leeds, but practice in Wakefield) playing Drowsy Maggie:

These next two guys sneaked into the pub and surreptitiously got out a bodrhan and a piccolo flute, joined in with a few tunes then played this storming set:

Bob Thomas / Mick Doonan – Lord Mayo /?

The Polka Hop pub is named after a Morris step – Sarah and John Earnshaw who own the pub are both Morris dancers and musicians.

Sarah and John Earnshaw – Landlords of The Polka Hop

Here’s a picture of myself with Tony Wade and Mikal Ball, we were best of mates when we were students, and Mikal did us the favour of working out how many years ago it was when we were first students. I’m not going to tell you. It was that long ago.

Mikal, me, and Tony. Many many years ago we indulged in hedonistic pursuits and drank a lot. How times have changed.

Next day – Thursday, Tony and I had tentatively arranged to do a Bretton tour and play Hunt The Hare in our old haunts, but he had to oversee rework going up in a train station and go to a meeting about a saint’s finger, so Mikal was off work with ganglions and gallantly offered himself as my guide.

A miserichord in Wakefield cathedral – thanks Mikal for finding it for me.

Wakefield town centre at 9am is not a pretty sight. And Mikal loves to moan. So we grumbled all the way to Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where Bretton hall, our college used to be. The college shut some years ago, but the grounds are still there and the YSP is quite magnificent. We moaned about the demise of the college, we moaned about the heat, we moaned about the school parties and their boundless enthusiasm. We moaned about getting old, we moaned about pretty much everything, it was brilliant.

We did find great amusement in the artistic descriptions of the sculptures and installations. This, we decided is why we would never make it as artists. We didn’t have the essential bullshit factor. I wish I’d taken some notes, but you really have to see it to believe it. Have a go on this and it will give you some idea https://www.artybollocks.com/generator.html

By early afternoon, we were knackered, so caught the bus back to wakefield, said our farewells and I went back to Tony and Helen’s to catch up on my blogs.

Next morning (Friday) Tony took me to the canal so I could walk to Leeds

Just keep walking that way, you can’t go wrong

Got halfway there then got lost when I met two women who were also walking somewhere, but not to Leeds. We decided if we all went the same way, we couldn’t possibly be wrong. We were.

Ended up doing the second half of the way to Leeds on the roads which is a horrible walk.

City of Leeds taunting me in the distance… come and find me

On the way I got in touch with three of my Leeds Muso friends who were all away or about to head off to festivals or stuff, but one kindly suggested somewhere to meet up with The Lovely John who was joining me for the weekend.

Golden Acres Park, (thanks Chill for the suggestion) is north of Leeds and is a beautiful park with benches and lakes and woods and things. I arrived there, sent the Lovely John a location marker and waited for him to turn up. It was a beautiful warm evening and I fancied treating myself to an hour playing the fiddle – found a bench away from it all, and started playing. You know when you get into the zone, you close your eyes and remember tunes you’ve heard and tunes you love to play and you’re away with it? That was me, until I stopped playing cos I got stuck on a tune, opened my eyes and there was people clapping on the other side of the lake and people clapping behind me in the woods. It just suited the evening, apparently.

Young man came up with his family and was asking about my fiddle in such a way as I could tell he was a musician, so naturally I got him to play me a tune or two for my blog.

Golden acre park Rob Bromley – Hog the lass til I run at her:

The road to cartmel

The Lovely John rang and said ‘I’m in the carpark, where are you?’

Come through the underpass and find me. I’m playing the fiddle.

He found me. Asked everyone he saw: ‘have you seen a red-haired woman playing a fiddle?’

Next blog: wild camping – Ilkley moor with hats, malham moor, north and further north to a places bursting with musicians and music.

Between the Angels and the Clouds

Rosie Gange was one of the first people to invite me to share music with her, before I’d even set off. I think in our mind’s eye, we imagined that we would walk the gorgeous Glossop hills is the sunshine, stopping only to picnic and play our fiddles aloft a hilltop as the birds sang overhead.

My Lovely Rosie – we managed a little walk together, and we managed to play music together, but not at the same time. We have promised each other we’ll do some walks next year.

What we didn’t take into consideration was timing, weather, and availability. The thing I’m realising with my adventures that i can predict where I’ll be for the next two or three days, but beyond that I’m at the mercy of many different factors that can change timings and directions. And that other people have lives and agendas that really don’t circle around mine. And that when the weather is awful, and by awful i mean raining cats and dogs, there’s usually only me who is keen to walk.

Rosie had stuff to do, I arrived at a random time, and it rained.

So, I had a lovely stay with Rosie and Jamie, but i set off on my own in the rain, heading over the hills to Holmfirth, to meet Jan Ansell and her band who were rehearsing that night. I’m sorry to say, but Nakedactionman was tucked up in my rucksack.

Heading along the valley on the Longdendale Trail. It rained.

Heading up along the Woodhead Pass. Yes that’s a cloud ahead and I’m heading into it.

That’s Derbyshire, same view, when the cloud clears for three seconds

#proudfaceme. I climbed all that way through rain and clouds.

Hahahahaha that’s a frame at the summit so you can photograph the view. Hahaha

This walk was five miles along the Longenden Trail, five miles climb into the clouds to Holme Moss, and five miles descent into the Holme Valley to Holmfirth.

It was a little bit terrifying, heading up the hill realising that I was heading for the cloud bank and I wouldn’t be able to see more than ten yards ahead of me. I remembered an old man who used to tell me that when you were up in those hills it was like being between the ‘divil an’ t’ deep blue sea’. I’m not sure where the deep blue sea came from, but it felt more like walking between the angels and the clouds.

There was something about that sense of isolation and being totally and utterly alone that was calming and exciting at the same time. Yes there were cars passing infrequently, but they didn’t see me. Nobody saw me, not even the sheep.

Note to self: get something hi viz to wear.

But I was an incredibly proud old Hector when I completed the walk. I rang Jan when I got into Holmfirth and she drove down from the hills above Holmfirth on the opposite side, and picked me up.

Jan contacted me some time ago – she’d seen my posts on facebook, looked me up and realised that we both studied at Bretton Hall and even though we were years apart and never met, she felt honour-bound to offer me food and a bed and show me the music that she plays in a band with her husband, Steve (also an ex-Brettonite).

Steve and Jan live with their two children, two dogs and malevolent cat in a house in the hills high above Holmfirth – back up into the clouds again. The views were, apparently, just as spectacular as the views I didn’t see walking over the Holme Moss Pass.

I was fed and watered royally, and the band arrived for their tuesday night rehearsal.

The band, the Good Earth Collective (http://www.goodearthcollective.co.uk/) were preparing for some upcoming gigs. Most of the songs are written by Steve, and it was most enjoyable watching and listening, and they even insisted that I joined them with my fiddle.

Steve Ansell talking about ‘Rust’:

‘Rust was written at a time when my dad died, Jan was ill, and my friend in the band Carl was ill, going through cancer treatments, and he still came to rehearsals, still turned up and played. Music takes you somewhere else to a place you can cope with anything.‘

‘Southern Rain – I’ve written this song as a sort of composite of images of love songs.’

https://youtu.be/2I22x9wUcGU

I’m on my adventure, but for most people life goes on as normal, so Steve was up early in the morning off to work, Jan did the school run, and offered to take me down into the valley, as soon as she’d made me eggy bread for breakfast. Nomnomnom.

The one thing (and there are many things) that I love about my adventure is how lovely, hospitable and interesting people are.

Jan even made a little coat for Naked Actionman.

Fashion Designer Jan Ansell with her latest creation. Us Brettonites can turn our hand to anything.

Jan decided that we should have a memory lane trip around our old Bretton places – she lived in Denby Dale as a student; I lived in Skelmanthorpe, or ‘Shat’ as it is called locally, and we had a wonderful journey pointing out places where things used to be, where people used to live, where misdemeanours once occurred and this continued all the way to Wakefield. I thought I was getting a lift to Holmfirth, but we were having way too much fun to stop.

I had arranged to meet a woman called Lesley in Wakefield who was interviewing artists for her podcast, on the theme of a sense of home and how belonging affects your art.

I’ll tell you all about it in my next blog. And also my stay with some other ex-Bretton Hall students, this time they were old mates of mine, and the magical night at the Polka Hop, and the trip to Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where Bretton Hall used to be.

And some amazing art and some totally over the top art explanations

Naked Actionman modelling his new coat in the Hepworth Gallery, Wakefield.

But for now, if you’ll forgive me, it’s actually Friday 28th, The Lovely John is meeting me for the weekend, and I’m not planning on doing any blogging, cos he’s only with me for about 30 hours, so you’ll have to wait til next Monday to find out what I got up to last Wednesday. It’s going to be a heatwave this weekend, so enjoy, walk away from the computer and get the Barbecue lit.

Glossop, Manchester, Music collectors, and sightseeing

I arranged to go and see two old friends in Glossop. It’s twenty miles from Dungworth, but The Lovely John was still here with the Stealth Campervan, so a lift was procured before he headed home.

Got dropped off in Glossop and spent a couple of hours riding the refillable cup of tea at Weatherspoons and catching up on my blogging before heading up the hill to the pub where I met Jamie Knowles and his lovely wife Rosie Gange. They must have mentioned about my journey, because I was hailed as a minor celebrity and bought a drink and asked many questions.

I hadn’t seen Jamie and Rosie for years – last time I saw them, I bought a gorgeous fiddle from Jamie – (he collects and sells (mainly) fiddles). We couldn’t remember how long ago it was, but I had played at The Globe with Celtarabia nine years ago, so it was some time after that.

Jamie used to play Irish music in bands around Manchester in the 1970’s, until it was pointed out that any of the Irish bands could come over and wipe the floor with them. He was encouraged to find English tunes from North West England, and a life long passion evolved, becoming a collector of tunes and manuscripts, bringing (amongst others) the collection of Joseph Kershaw to the public attention.

‘Kershaw’s manuscript collection was edited by Manchester musician Jamie Knowles, and published as ‘The Joseph Kershaw Manuscript – The Music of a 19th Century Saddleworth Fiddle Player’ (In With A Chance Publishing, 1993).

‘Little is known about nineteenth-century fiddle player Joseph Kershaw’s life, except that he lived in Slackcote, Saddleworth, then a remote district in the Pennines, east of Manchester. But from around 1820 Kershaw kept a fiddle music notebook (now in the Vaughan Williams Memorial Library at Cecil Sharp House, London), containing some seventy-seven tunes. Of particular interest is Kershaw’s inclusion of a pair of 3/2 hornpipes, ‘Berwick Jockey’ and ‘Chip and Rant’, fine examples of a dance form previously thought to have been extinct by that time, as well as cut-time hornpipes like the one in the present collection, now known as ‘Kershaw’s Hornpipe’. ‘

Jamie and Rosie play all kinds of folk music, but I do particularly love their ‘local’ tunes. Here’s a couple of tunes that Jamie wrote as part of a string quartet.

Rosie:

‘This is a tune Jame wrote called the Dove Stone. He wrote it for his mate Duggie’s wedding and went over to Norway to play it on The Wedding Hardanger – a hardanger fiddle that Duggie had made specially for the occasion. Doggie Clause lives nearby in Dobcross in Saddleworth and makes fiddles.

‘The Dovestone – you’ll see it at the end of Greenfield Dovestone and Indian Head , the Dovestone Reservoir is the chew valley.

‘The Dove Stone is the first movement of the Saddleworth Suite, which is a string quartet piece written by Jamie.

‘We’re playing it, because you’ll pass that way on your way out of Glossop.’

https://youtu.be/0sjSb52ylc0

Martha the Ghost

Jamie:

‘You can laugh as much as you like but i was there – and there was most definitely a ghost in a house i lived in in Uppermill, Saddleworth.

She was called Martha – a 10 year old girl who could be mischievious and could be naughty. I lived in the house for nine months, I didn’t leave because of the ghost – it was more of a financial thing.

I often wondered if she died in a mill accident, cos it was a mill cottage and the mill was just over the pond.

One night I heard the sound of a wet towel slapping on the wall above my head, that was Martha being playful, letting me know she was there.

Twice she kicked off when I brought a woman home. I think she got jealous. I went to make a cup of tea at three in the morning and the woman I was with said ‘something has just run across the bed while you’ve been out’.

I was with another woman another time and we both felt Martha running across the bed.

This is the second movement of my string quartet:

https://youtu.be/dMusgSNc0mw

And Here’s Jamie and Rosie playing a tune that they started to teach me and I’ve promised to learn – The Carpenter’s Morris

Jamie sources and tracks down manuscripts from collections that haven’t seen the light of day for years. He’s working on newly surfaced collections and working out how to get them published and out in general circulation.

Remember Gwilym Davies? He is the collector of tunes and songs from Gloucestershire. He gave me a contact for a woman who lives in Manchester who might be interesting to talk to. As Glossop was as near as I’m getting to Manchester, and as my daughter lives in Manchester, I decided to take a day out, travel to Manchester, see my daughter and meet Karina Knight.

And of course Naked Actionman came with me.

Broadbottom station hurhurhur

Naked soul bros. #brotherfromanothermother

When you see a glitter ball in a cafe, you just have to, don’t you?

And here’s me and my lovely daughter, Mina

Had a perfectly lovely time with Mina my daughter, walking round Manchester. Mina is taller than me, with longer legs and it was hard work keeping up with her. I could do with her on my walk keeping the pace at a reasonable level rather than my snail pace.

Left Mina to meet up with Karina Knight. Karina was brought up in the folk tradition – Her father played Irish music in a band with his brothers:

Karina:

The brothers were called the Knight Brothers, they were doing the Irish stuff -John, me dad and Andrew and Patrick, and they came up to Newcastle in the late ‘60’s.

My mother was one of six sisters and they were all singing around the folk revivial in the 60’s as the Briggans. (The Briggs Sisters). They set up the original Gosforth Folk Club in the Gosforth Hotel.

‘These are notes and books my father used to make sure he never repeated a song at a place. He had every song logged and where he sang it so that he never repeated a song twice at a venue. He died in 1982/3.

‘When he went to Whitby in 1978 he typed out a book of all the songs he knew. He knew so many songs. There was always folk music when i was a kid – soundtrack to my childhood.

‘Here’s a couple of tunes for you’:

Whistle tunes: the Flowing Tide/Sean Casey’s B.

Song: Ca’Hawkie ‘a Hawkie is a brown faced cow or coo. These are songs I got brought up on.‘

The Month of January – ‘a song about the intransigence of young men. Don’t rely on them. They’re nowt but trouble. I got it from an old recording of Aly Bain singing it.’

Karina inherited all her father’s songs and music – he was a collector and had recordings of all kinds, all stored, cross referenced and filed on cassette tapes which one day will get sorted and digitised.

Got back to Glossop in time to have a walk in the hills with Rosie, and an evening at the Monday night music session at the Commercial Inn. It used to be at the Globe, but there was a fall out somewhere a while back, and they’ve decamped up the road. I didn’t get any recordings there, but I did get a picture of the pub:

Coming up in Tuesday’s blog …Five miles along the valley, five miles up and into the clouds, and five miles downhill on the other side and it never stopped raining. West Yorkshire, I’m coming for you!

Royal Traditions

Royal Traditions is a folk club at the The Royal Hotel pub in Dungworth run by Jon Boden and Fay Hield. The club is an acoustic evening with house songs and a bit of a session at the end – you can just turn up without ticket and they pass a hat round for the artist. The music starts from 8pm. There are different people every time, and it’s a singer’s club. Singing is not only encouraged, it’s expected.

Despite me being a bit of a folkie, I’d not been to a pub where there’s house tunes and guests enjoy it when the audience join in heartily and lustily in full harmony.

We’d parked up in the pub carpark, been out walking for the day and the landlord let us run up a bar tab for food drink and breakfast.

So we had our food, nipped out for a nap, and went to watch the club in action.

Rowan and Rosie were called on at last minute, as the main act for the night had taken poorly,

https://youtu.be/13u111gwBBQ

Rowan Piggott and Rosie Hodgson are based in Sheffield, which is fast becoming the Folk capitol of the North, attracting many young and amazingly talented performers.

http://www.rosiehodgeson.com http://www.rowanpiggott.com

After the performances, the club settled down to a singaround – here’s Rowan and Rosie again, joining the singaround in a more relaaxed and informal style:

https://youtu.be/zraz5gt334o

The next morning at breakfast, I was talking to another guest who had been at the evening club, and I asked her if she had a song for me. She had a song and a story.

Corinne Male at the Royal Hotel Dungworth

Here’s Corinne Male:

‘The song I’m going to sing is from County Clare, but I think the origins of it is an American music hall piece. In County Clare, West Clare, one of the great singers was Tom Lanahan, whom I never knew, he died some years ago. The second time I was over there at a singing festival, I was in the hotel on the first night of the festival where there was a big singing session going on with some lovely people there, and a group of women sitting by the fireplace and one of them turned to the other and said ‘sing the poker song’, and she sang the song I’m going to give you. It really got my imagination.

I’ve wanted this song for years but I don’t have the nerve to be a collector, to go knocking on people’s doors and say ‘sing me a song’.

I went back to the festival every year and I was back one year and had stayed over for a couple of days fishing. The weather was awful, blowey wind, fish were’t rising, coudn’t cast out, and I finally had the nerve to phone up Tom and Annette Monolly – Tom was a great collector – and ask for Noni Lynch’s phone number – she was the woman who sang the song.

So I rang her up, saying ‘you don’t know me but…’ and I went over bearing a fruitcake and a recorder and she sang me the song. I went back to visit her several times, she didn’t have aa lot of songs, but this was her party piece.

I’m told she was up on stage at the Willy Clancey Festival singing it when she was 92. The song is called ‘My Good Looking Man’.

When i was down at the Bodmin festival and I first met Viv Leg, Vick Leg’s sister and she has a cut down version of this song from her aunt, called ‘Good For Nothing Man’. She was from the Orchard family of Devon Gypsies.

Noni had learnt the song from Tom Lanahan. There is no record of Tom ever singing the song, But Noni learnt it from him, they were first cousins, their mothers were sisters.

‘My Good Looking Man’ (learnt from Noni Lynch)

And yes we did settle up the bar tab, we did have a lovely time and would never have seen that gorgeous part of the country and met such talented singers had we not been going to the Royal Traditions.

Tomorrow’s blog – The Lovely John returns home again, and I head to Glossop to visit old friends and a legendary tune collector…

Naked Action Man gets in on the action.

I am still amazed at how near Sheffield is to the Peak District. Like just over the hill near. Like a £2 thirty minute bus ride near. Like twenty minutes in the Stealth Campervan near.

So after leaving my Firstborn to his afternoon of Nyckelharpa and Dulcimer music, myself and the Lovely John headed over the hill in the Stealth Campervan, back to the gorgeous Peak District.

We parked up in the carpark of the Ladybower Inn, and went for a walk. It was 5pm but it also was the Longest Day (21st/22nd June), so we had a good old trot along a valley to somewhere that was supposed to be having a beer festival, but it was just a few pumps of one brewery (naming no names, but I had a pint of Jaipur, thank you very much), and quickly realised that we’d need a bank loan if we were to buy any more drinks. Puh. Overpriced drinks. Puh.

Who knew Ladybower Reservoir had an ampitheatre?

Got back to the Ladybower Inn just in time to sit outside and watch the traffic snarl to a standstill due to a road accident just around the corner, out of sight. Police cars and ambulances arrived after an hour, and they didn’t leave the scene til just after 3am, by which time we’d been tucked up in bed for hours. Makes you appreciate the preciousness of life, and value every moment, cos you never know what’s just round the corner.

But you don’t want to know about road accidents and evening walks, do you? You want to know about Naked Actionman.

Saturday, we parked up at a pub, The Royal Hotel, Dungworth, as we had heard about an event there – a song folkclub, run by an organisation called Soundpost https://soundpost.org.uk/royal-traditions.

As the event wasn’t on til 8pm, we had all day to go out for a walk and enjoy the hills, valleys and reservoirs. A mile or two into the walk The Lovely John spots Naked Actionman, lying in the undergrowth, looking all forlorn. Now anyone who knows me knows that I always take pity on a muscley naked man, so I decided that he should join us in our journey.

I’m not even going to tell you about the walk. I’ll let Naked Actionman do the telling.

Here I am in the woods. They were going to leave me here up the tree, but The Woman decided to take me along with them.

The Woman has found a place for me to enjoy the walk. She’s even found me a stick to fend off any potential attackers. The Man is a little worried about my presence.

Yeah! I’m naked and I’m proud!. It’s a sunny day and life is good. Wooo.

This is a fine place to marvel at a big pipe. It really is. A big pipe and a fine place. Marvelous.

Here’s a group of walkers who wanted in on the action. Everyone wants a piece of me now, and I can’t say I blame them.

The Woman let me have some of her beer. I think she fancies me.

I felt an uncontrollable urge to climb this treacherous rock face. It must have been the beer that gave me the courage I needed. I lived to tell the tale.

Even managed to find a village green that was playing cricket. They didn’t want me to field for them.

Yeay! More beers! More Views! Sunshine! Could this day get any better?

It got better! I got Morrised by the Wath on Dearne Morris Team. Yes, that’s me in the middle

Me and The Man and The Woman. I don’t think The Man realises I’m muscling in. Heh heh heh

It’s my intense army training. If you see a difficult but interesting rock face, you gotta try and conquer that baby. Just gotta do it. Clothes or no clothes. All I need is a rope. Try and stop me…

The Lovely John, (as I believe he’s called), really wishing he never picked me up and just left me in the undergrowth

Yes, we happened upon the Wath-on-Dearne Morris troupe on our walk, and I caught them on video, which fo some reason refuses to upload. Grrrrr.

The Wath Morris were on a ‘Pretty Villages Tour’, something which they have done every year for the past 20 years. Bert Cleaver – once the Squire of the Morris Ring was with them. The team have been going for nearly 50 years – look the up on t’internet, find out where they are dancing and go see them. A fine bunch of northern Morris folk.

Tomorrow I’ll write about my evening and next morning at the Royal Hotel, Dungworth, where I watched some wonderful singers of all ages keeping the folk tradition alive…but for now, The Lovely John has gone home, and I’ve got to decide whether to keep Naked Actionman…

I don’t think she’s spotted me yet….

Nyckelharpas, Dulcimers and a fiddle

I’ve been in Sheffield since Wednesday afternoon, and I’m heading off today, Friday. I’ve had a busy old time meeting musicians, eating Chinese takeaway and drinking beer. I persuaded my son to play me a tune on his dulcimer, and he had persuaded his friend to come over and play something on his Nyckelharpa.

So I am quite excited for several reasons, one being I have never seen a nyckelharpa played live in the flesh so to speak, my son is going to play a piece on the dulcimer, and The Lovely John has taken Friday off work, and has come over to sheffield to spend the weekend with me.

Let me tell you a little bit about me, my son, and his dulcimer:

I bought the hammer Dulcimer that my son is playing when I worked in Japan in 1988. My son was conceived in Japan, and when he turned 21, I gave him that dulcimer for his birthday. He’s nearly 30 now, and is a good dulcimer player in his own right; he’s standing in for me at some gigs this summer, playing a dulcimer I bought before he was born.

So Here, for your delectation and delight, is my son Zebedee Budworth, playing a couple of tunes he learnt from a fiddler in a waistcoat in a London pub session.

Robert Bentall is a nyckelharpa player who lives in Sheffield. He told me about the instrument he plays:

‘The Nyckelharpa is a Swedish traditional key fiddle – it has an idiosyncratic short bow and 16 strings. I play it in Swedish tuning c – g – c- a

‘There are 4 bowing strings and 12 sympathetic, tuned chromatically; 3 rows of keys, top row for the A string, another row for the higher C string, and other for the G – low C has no sympathetic strings.

‘It’s built on a Traditional Swedish layout – based on when they were first build, at least 800 years ago.

‘I was a string player and defected into music technology, resonances and reverbs – this instrument, the Nyckelharpa, the more strings you play, the more they ring out.

‘I discovered the Nyckelharpa when I was working in Sweden, I saw someone playing it, and became obsessed about having one. I Googled uk nyckelharpa society, borrowed an instrument, had lessons and started improvising and mucking around on the instrument.

A lot of the trad Swedish tunes are based around the polka rhythm

Batsman deck – this is a typical Scandinavia tune.’

https://youtu.be/JQHEnlKLqks

‘The Swedish tunes often crossover with Finnish tunes, this tune is called: ‘Emma fram Finland’ (or Emma’s) it’s a famous tune/song in Scandinavia.’

Xxxxx

I absolutely love the sound of the Nyckelharpa- eerie and ethereal, sends shivers down your spine, so it does. Zeb and Robert are developing working together, the dulcimer and the Nyckelharpa compliment each other beautifully, and they agreed to play an unrehearsed improvisation so I could film it and share it. It’s a long piece, ten minutes, but well worth a listen in its entirety – grab a cup of tea, put your feet up and enjoy:

And finally, of course I wanted a piece of the action, so they humoured zeb’s poor old mam and let me join in with my travel fiddle – here’s the three of us playing ‘Emma Fram Finland’:

Xxxxxx

the xxxx’s are where the videos may or may not upload – one thing I didn’t count on is the unreliability of internet connections. If they con’t upload, I’ll upload them whenever I get to somewhere with many internetty options, otherwise you will just have to imagine. And If I’m waiting for things to upload, then I don’t get the blog out.

And watch out for tomorrow’s blog – it’s going to be a good one – it features Naked Action Man…

Mysterious forces of google maps and music

It feel like a day off today, but I’ve been and met a musician this morning, and have spent the afternoon so far planning meet ups for the next few days, so less of a day off, more an admin day.

Let me just take a moment to appreciate google maps on mobile phones. I plan my daily journey on my iPad – i look for a route or a path – then when I’m on the road, my iPad is in the rucksack and I rely on google maps on my phone.

Google maps – it tells you how far the journey is, it can plan and time a walking route – (although I always add at least a third again walking time, cos I’m convinced google maps has timed machine robots walking, not Nannas with impossibly heavy rucksacks), and if you don’t want to walk, google maps can offer public transport suggestions, timetables and route maps.

I’m not the most technical savvy person in the world, but google maps is becoming my new best friend. For example: today I needed to cross from one side of Sheffield to another to meet up with a musician – I put the postcode in, pressed public transport option, and Ta Da! Walk down the hill, take bus 20 it will take 35 minutes, and drop you off two minutes walk from your destination.

How good is that? The google maps walking option is one thing, but my newly discovered google maps public transport option is nothing short of a triumphant explosion of feel good witchcraft in your pocket.

So… me and google got to our destination on yon side of sheffield and met up with the lovely Laura Hill, who welcomed me in, made me tea and toast and told me about herself and music:

‘LAURA: I’ve trained as a music therapist; I worked for ten years as a music therapist, until i moved up here to Sheffield, now I work as a volunteer. I play recorder, piano, guitar, and I’m excited to be learning the English concertina. I also write my own songs, and play in a couple of groups.

In Sheffield it’s a friendly supportive community, lots of community music and always something going on. I love folk music.

This is a tenor recorder, made with maple wood. The piece I’m playing is in E-minor so this instrument suits it.

‘Huntingtone Castle’ – this version is from a 1789 collection called the John Bowie Collection. It’s a slow steady tune, very stately and dignified. In my head I imagine people doing a slow stately dance to it. I play D instead of D# to keep it modal.’

https://youtu.be/Z35lhyYPREQ

‘I’ve just started playing the English concertina – I love the soul of the instrument which you feel through the bellows and the instrument seems to be embedded in English folk music which I love.

I’m playing a song – I call it the Irish Aire, but it was written as a worship song by an Irish composer, its title is: ‘Jesus Draw Me Ever Nearer’ – please bear in mind that I’m just a beginner on the concertina!’

https://youtu.be/phOt4ZqZHXA

Lyrics:

Jesus Draw Me Ever Nearer by Keith Getty and Margaret Becker.

Jesus draw me ever nearer as I labour through the storm.

You have called me to this passage and I follow though I’m worn.

Chorus: May this journey bring a blessing.

May I rise on wings of faith.

And at the end of my heart’s testing.

With your likeness let me wake.

Jesus guide me through the tempest, keep my spirit staid and sure.

And when the midnight meets the morning, let me love you even more.

I’m not a religious person myself, but when I sat there filming Laura, sitting in her children’s bedroom singing the song, there was something about the beautiful simplicity, the gentle gorgeous unpolished nature of the song and performance that moved me. And maybe it was because it mentioned journeys.

The power of music is a mysterious one to be sure, to be sure.

Laura had mentioned a musician friend of hers, Chris, who played in a band and might have been around if I’d have gone to a music club last night. I asked her if she could get in touch with him and introduce me and my mission. To cut a long story short, Chris got in touch with me and invited me to his band rehearsal that evening.

Never quite sure what to expect when I knock on someone’s door, Chris’s mum answered the door, showed me her lovely garden while the band were assembling, and then left us to it.

The band, Treebeard:

Chris McMahon – bouzouki, mandolin, bass, vocals.

Rob Lowdon – guitar, bass, vocal

Ceri Ashton – flute, fiddle, whistle, vocals

I met then while they were rehearsing for something called The Narrowboat Sessions’ which involves going over to Wrexham next tuesday and filming and recording 3 songs on a narrowboat.

The first recording is a set of two tunes: Helena’s handfasting / from dusk til dawn – both written by Ceri Ashton. First one was for a friend’s handfasting – a tune for the ceremony; the second tune is about drinking.

CHRIS: Ceri wrote loads of tunes mainly at uni – and quite a few have passed into session lore – there’s a polka called ‘Rice’ covered by Hekety on an album – it got played on a radio 2 folk show. One of those tunes that you’ll hear now in sessions.

Last one The Eminor Tunes: slow Irish Aire/derwenna (Kerry’s tune) /four poster bed (trad)

Totally was not expecting to experience music like that when I knocked at the door. Fabulous hour spent in the company of Treebeard. Thankyou so much for letting me in, guys.

If you want to know more about this amazing band, google them, or if you’re in the area, go along to one of their gigs. Treebeard.org.uk and on facebook.

Turned out to be not such a quiet day after all.

Tomorrow – nickleharps and dulcimers – wooooo!

To Hathersage and Beyond – feeling good, and paying for the takeaway

I’m busy coordinating my weekend and getting excited about meeting people and walking and lots of things. This week in the southern Peak District has been a real tonic after the relentless rain of the week before.

Don’t get me wrong, it still rained, but it was by and large that gentle moistness that cools down a sweaty hiker, and there was the constant threat of scowley clouds rumbling by but they never stopped to wreak havoc.

I do think about other things apart from the weather, but when you’re out in it all day you tend to obsess for a while, then forget all about it. I am also loving not watching the news. I catch the odd little snippet and shake my head in disbelief at the general state of the once noble profession of politics, now turned into a poodle parade with all the gravitas of a Miss World contest for uglies and fops.

Nobody I’ve met is remotely interested in current affairs. Nobody mentions brexit, nobody mentions the conservatives, or any political party. It’s beautiful, mentally peaceful, and it’s only at times such as these that you realise just how much your mood and mental health can be affected by the media.

Yes, I still get my Black Dog walking alongside me every now and then, but after a month on the road, it visits less and less, makes less and less noise and sometimes even wags its tail and disappears quietly before i even know it’s not there any more.

I’m not sure whether it’s the therapeutic value of walking that helps elevate moods, or the fact that any nonsense that you focus on in your head is your own stuff and nonsense, nobody else’s and you own those thoughts. Nobody sold them to you And when you’re hosting your own thoughts, you can take them anywhere you want. It takes a lot of solitary miles to get your head into gear, but your body gets fitter as well.

Today I walked over the hills from Eyam to Hathersage, a lovely few miles, and it was a breeze. I loved the sights, i loved feeling fit and I loved the freedom.

It’s not the best photo but the views, the views…

The leafy lanes of fairytales and adventures…

This is the Music Mill just in hathersage. Thought it warranted a pic as nobody was in.

The message here concerned me for a while; is it a passive/aggressive threat? Is it telling us that the bulbs are dangerous? Is it telling the bulbs to be careful? Ooo the mysteries to be solved. Vera – where are you when I need you?

At Hathersage, I boarded a bus fo a £2 journey to Sheffield, over the hill so I could pop in and see my son for a day or two. I’m arranging the next week or so of meet-ups while I’m here.

£2 – from centre of sheffield and you’re in the countryside. Amazing. Buses are bloody brilliant and far too underused as a way of reaching The Great Outdoors. I know this for a fact cos I see country busses all the time (and get on the odd one occasionally) and there’s rarely anyone on them. Use them or loose them folks.

Right, my firstborn has ordered the takeaway, I’ve had a fab bath and we’re going to watch a film.

Takeaway has arrived and I’m paying for it hahahaha some things never change.

Tomorrow I discover the delights of sheffield….

A Walk of Two Halves. And a good co-incidence story.

Monday – as there was no internet and no phone connection, I made the decision to chance it and head off to a hostel that was 8 or 9 miles away. If thhere was no luck there, there was another one a bit further on.

The walk was along Dovedale, which is a splendid route along a valley following the river Dove. Here’s me enjoying the cliffs and trees.

The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that my big black fiddle tube is no longer attached. That’s cos it weighed three times more than my fiddle, which is now snuggled inside my rucksack.

Here’s a picture of me being impressed by caves. And funnily enough, just after I took this picture, it started raining, so I sat in the caves while the rain passed and ate my boiled egg. Yep, I had a bit of a dicky tummy and boiled eggs were about the only thing I could manage.

The route winds along the valley to Milldale – which for a small hamlet seemed impossibly full of schoolchildren on field trips and hikers. Two of those hikers give me excellent instructions on how to get to Harrington ‘just follow the river – it’s a bit of a way, but the river takes you there’.

And it did, except that there was no room in Hartington YHA (the phone and internet came back just at the gate to the hostel) so I thought ‘fekkit’ – I rang up and booked a bed at Youlgreve – it’s seven miles away, it’s only 2.30, I can be there by six. And I was.

This second half of the hike was the exact opposite of the morning’s walk, which was flat, along a valley and quite beautiful. Harrington to Youlgreve was uphill all the way apart from the last two miles, it was on a road or an exposed track, and I’d have enjoyed it if I hadn’t already done a fistful of miles. Squelching through the mud and cows hit which had developed into a theme that afternoon, I crossed the Pennine Bridleway, and jealously marvelled it’s wide, clean, dry gravel path. .

Youlgreve is a lovely little place – no room for parking anywhere, not a problem for me, chuck, and the locals all drive cars that might easily double up as snazzy hearses.

The scenic bit of the walk up to hartington

It was still scenic, but I’d been spoilt in the morning

One for all you folks out there who love a picture of a pig in a meadow.

Youlgreve allotments. I love a good allotment, me.

View from my bedroom window.

Tues – proud of myself cos I booked the evenings accommodation in Eyam, not Ilam, which I thought was home to the great plague lock-down, no this was Eyam. So I’ve felt sorry for a village twice- I felt sad for the plague victims at Ilam, and wondered, briefly, why there wasn’t any tourist info about, then when I reached Eyam, it’s everywhere – all the legends of the village that fell to the plague in 1666 and sealed themselves in so the plague wouldn’t spread.there’s plaques outside houses where entire families died, and I’m sure there’s stuff in the museum, but I haven’t been there.

I did think, rather churlishly, that my great great grandma lost all six of her children to the great flu epidemic at the turn of the century, as she was burying one, another was dying, and nobody made a plaque for her.

Passed through Bakewell on the way. Many many tourists. And a pub called the Peacock, which made me think of my son, Jasper, who not only loves Bakewell tarts, but he had peacocks as pets.

This is all I’ve found of music so far in the peaks…

Poppies looking magnificent

Eyam YHA

Cruelly, the YHA at Eyam is situated at the top of a hill, but that also means that the views are lovely and it’s quiet.

I nearly got some more music for my blog – as I sweated into the carpark, some people were packing a car and I noticed the unmistakable shape of a guitar cast poking out the back. So of course I went up and introduced myself. Turns out the were a Christian group, not on tour or anything, one just happened to have a guitar. But I still reckon if I’d been half an hour earlier, they’d have played me a tune.

Now here’s a yarn for you people who like a good co-incidence story:

I made a cup of tea and sat outside and I’m nattering with two blokes from Liverpool – Mark and Steve. Mark was telling me about how he became a minor celebrity in a town in California cos he lied about Ringo Starr being his uncle. ‘This lass recognised my Liverpool accent, so I had to say something impressive, but believable.’

Anyway, the conversation wandered nicely as it often does when you’re passing time, we talked about Glastonbury festival coming up and I said if they were planning on going, they had to see glastonbury the town, as it was an experience and there’s really nowhere like it.

Steve was saying about his mate who went to a funeral in glastonbury – beautiful funeral, he took pictures cos it was that lovely, they were all sat in the garden playing music. It was his mate’s daughter or sister, i think, and she was only young, it was only a couple of years ago, and she was married to a chap from Ceylon. At this point, I’m thinking, this sounds familiar. Did they have kids? I ask. ‘Yes, but one of them was very disabled.’ ‘Daughter?’ Yes.

I know the man. I met him. I was trying to remember his name and as soon as I said he lives in Frome, Steve said: ‘yes that’s where they moved to’ .

Rohan. That’s his name.

Rohan was the man who Nathan from Glastonbury introduced me to. He drove me to Frome to meet him and I went to his house and filmed him. Check out my blog post ‘Rainbow People’

Coincidence or what?

Tomorrow’s blog – I can hear my beloved Yorkshire calling me across the hills… I’ll be dipping my blistered feet in your soothing waters, Yorkshire…

Pissin’ It Down, Pugin, Peaks and Pints

After my three day battening down the hatches and riding out the rain and flooding, it was time to get back on the road. Rain was still forcast, but patchy intermittent rain rather than non-stop.

May I just say for the record that I weighed my rucksack during my three days of not wearing it, and it weighed in at over two stone. Over Two Stone. So I’ve also done a bit of rucksack reorganising. The tent and sleeping bag are out for a while, cos I’m going to try out the hostels, of which there are many where I’m heading.

Lovely John wasn’t working over the weekend, so we set off in the Stealth Campervan, all re-packed and re-organised, for somewhere North of Birmingham, purely on the fact that my three days off had started somewhere round Birmingham, and I wanted to give myself some imagined walking miles.

In an impressive demonstration of forward planning, I booked a bed in the Ilam Youth Hostel for Sunday night, so I could head there on the Sunday and be ready to walk in the Peak District that week.

Saturday – the Satnav was programmed to some ‘town centre’ of a random place south of the Peak District. It turned out to be a four house hamlet with nowhere to park up for the night, but there was an abbey in ruins nearby, so loving a good churchy type building in any state as I do, we headed there and mooched around the stones for a good 30 minutes before the lure of a good walk called us.

Arty shot of Stealth Campervan through the arches of ruined abbey

I wanted to try a walking trail out – some are marvellous, well signposted, good underfoot, and some are hard work. This one went through some very beautiful places, but we did have torrential, and I mean torrential rain, so the wooded valley walk was more of a trot through a stream. But on the plus side – it was a ‘getting back into my stride’ walk, I didn’t have my rucksack on, I was with The Lovely John, and we were stopping in the Stealth Campervan, soo didn’t have to worry about where to sleep.

John going all Vera in his rubbish Poncho

Spot the rip on the shoulder. Hahaha torrential rain as well.

The walk we did was around Oakenham, which is a beautiful little place – hilly, woody, and rivery, and just over the hill from Alton Towers. There’s a nice place to park and you can possibly park overnight, but the lure of a Town was calling us, and a nice chap we met on the walk had recommended Cheadle.

This is a thing I’ve noticed when hiking – people stop and natter. I now know all about the nice chap’s twin children (aged 21), who weren’t going to come on a walk with him for Father’s day tomorrow, but they would meet him down the pub after.

The nice chap mentioned Cheadle and told us to visit the church there – ‘Pugin’s Masterpiece’. Old Man with Dog had mentioned Pugin’s Church when he stopped for a natter with us earlier. Cheadle was only a few miles away, it had a carpark to overnight in, it had a Weatherspoons to feed in, and a very nice local to have a proper pint in. We weren’t awfully impressed with the church we found, it was nice, but it was no jewel.

The people in the pub couldn’t believe that we were strangely unmoved by the church until they realised we were looking at the wrong one.

Let me say a few words about the pub we found. It was a little bit out of town, The Swan, but we were made to feel welcome from the moment we walked in, and spent a most pleasant evening swapping stories, laughing and drinking. Tony and Jan run the pub, Tony originally hailed from Barnsley. Dave the Ref was also there – in full referee regaila.

Every pub has their ‘Dave’ and Dave the Ref was The Swan’s. I think his ultimate aim was to have a rotating deck chair set up in the middle of the football pitch, then he could referee from there. ‘It’s offside when I say it’s offside,’ he told me, ‘you don’t need to run alongside to see the ball.’

He bought us both a pint, and wouldn’t accept one back, saying he was a secret millionaire. I think it had more to do with him having to drive home.

I love a night where conversation and laughter flows – it doesn’t matter whether it’s with old friends or people I’ve only just met – and Saturday night in The Swan was one of those nights. They don’t do food – ‘Spoons in the centre of town pretty much has that one in the bag, and no-one in a small town can compete with a Weatherspoons menu for reliability (‘you know where you are with a Weatherspoons, and you never get the shits from their food’… Antony’s ghostly voice from land’s end reminds me).

But big corporate pubs can never compete on the good old fashioned ambience, welcome and charm that local pubs survive and thrive on.

Tony and Jan at the Swan. I took a picture of Dave the Ref as well, but no idea where it went.

Found it! Every pub has their Dave, and this is Dave the Ref.

Sunday – we got to see the real Pugin’s Church. St Giles Catholic Church, NOT St Giles the Abbot. Easy mistake, and we made it.

You walk through the door and you do a sharp intake of breath. That’s how spectacular it is. A catholic riot of colour and splendour and it’s no wonder the locals for miles around are proud of it.

The special cupboard where the special frocks are kept

The special cupboardy fridge where the chalices and stuff are kept

Altar with carved angels playing instruments

Neither of these pictures do justice to how incredibley this church is decorated

A man showed us round, even showing us the cupboards where they keep the elaborate outfits worn by the bishops and priests, some designed by Pugin to match the church. I could rattle on for pages about the design, the tile work, the colours, how quickly the church was actually built, but if you’re interested, google Pugin’s Church in Cheadle, then pop down there to see it next time you’re in the area. And nip and have a pint in the Swan.

On the way back to The Stealth Campervan, we passed a shop selling ‘oatcakes’. It was the oatcake shop, and people were queuing up like they do in a chip shop. Oatcakes, as sold in Cheadle, are like big flat pancakes, filled with a selection of whatever you want from the list (cheese and tomatoes for me, please) then heated up – they look a bit like a floppy thin Cornish pastie, but taste nothing like. Popular in these parts though. We had out oatcakes for breakfast then headed in the direction of Ilam (that’s I-l-a-m with an i and an l, not 11am – it’s a place, not a time).

Our plan this morning was to find somewhere to park far enough away from my final destination to require a good walk, and where The Lovely John could wheel his bike alongside me, then bike back to the Stealth Campervan, and head home, leaving me to continue on my own again.

The last two or three miles into Ilam are steeply downhill, so The Lovely John cut his losses and left me halfway down the hill, so he wouldn’t have to bike all the way back up again.

I always tell myself not to be sad or emotional – I’m really not that kind of person, but I had an unexpected gush of sadness when we said goodbye. I’m not worried about being on my own, I think I just get used to him being around and feel comfortable and protected when he’s there. And I hate goodbyes.

So I took a pic of him panting up the hill, he took one of me, and I carried on down to Ilam.

Weeping silently as The Lovely John disappeared up the hill

Yes, that’s me, striding away in the rain towards Ilam. Zoom in and you can see my tears

Oh. My. Word.

The YHA at Ilam is an astoundingly beautiful place. I’m in a bunk bed dorm with potentially seven other women, but nobody else is in my room yet. The grounds are gorgeous – it seems to be a popular place for walking and a day out – it’s a country park with rivers, trees, fields, bits of everything and a Youth Hostel in the Hall.

Ilam hall. So gorgeous you could bite it’s little nose off.

Coming into Illam. Alone. And feeling a bit sad.

Cheered up no end when I saw the view from my bedroom.

I left the rucksack in my room and had a gentle walk round the park. Not too far – I’m on the road proper tomorrow, and I’m deliberating on whether to do a nice 8 miler to the next YHA, or to go all out and do 15 to the one after that.

I’m leaving the decision in the hands of the weather gods and the YHAs.

I can’t check cos there’s no internet here. Which is why I’ve written a lot on today’s blog, cos I can’t do my usual plan tomorrow’s route this evening. An early night, i feel is on the cards.

It’s Tuesday now, and I’ve finally found t’internet.

I’ll tell you of today’s epic walk in tomorrow’s blog…

Inner Yoda

Relentless rain all night – the old boys at the bar last night were forecasting at least a week’s worth of rain and floods and half of it landed on the roof of the Stealth Campervan overnight.

I had been silently congratulating myself all weekend on the inspired decision to hop on a bus to Gloucester to dry out last Friday, knowing that I’d be meeting up with The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan, my boots would have somewhere to dry out, and that we could head back to the Cotswolds to meet up with people. ‘Learn to trust your instincts, Amanda’, my little inner Yoda keeps intoning.

Lovely John was due to head back home later this afternoon, after dropping me off in Redditch to stay with Sally Whytehead – a dulcimer player and president of the Nonesuch Dulcimer Society.

We dropped in at Evesham on the way to Redditch, mainly because neither of us had been there before, it was raining and Sally wasn’t in until the afternoon. Evesham is lovely. It’s a little bit frayed at the edges, but I reckon if a town can make me smile for a couple of hours on a rainy tuesday morning, it’s worth getting a thumbs up. It had a huge cathedral and monastic buildings, now only hints of what was once there, and a park alongside a river where you can have boat rides. There’s lots of pubs and cafes in Evesham and a curious shopping centre with practically nothing in. I paid £3 and bought a waterproof coat from a charity shop – ‘we’ve just put a load out this morning, it’s going to be rainy for a couple of weeks,’ said the lady in the shop, ominously.

Rainy morning in Evesham with clock tower

Gwilym had given me a couple of names of people whom I really should meet, and one of them, Alex, lived near Birmingham, about 20 miles north of Sally.

Alex was free tuesday afternoon, so I revised my constantly revising plans, and decided to visit Sally, but not stay the night, and head on (while i still had the luxury of wheels) to see Alex in Mosley.

I have known Sally for more years than I care to imagine; we met through dulcimer gatherings, and have crossed paths several times over the years, always with dulcimers. Sally was one of the driving forces behind the first International Dulcimer Gathering (cimbalon world association) to be held in the UK, where the best players from all over the world descended on the tiny town of Malvern for a week in 2015 and had the best time ever.

So I was really pleased to be able to co-ordinate our diaries for a meet up and catch up.

Sally had a special bitter-sweet tune for my blog that she had written some years before:

Sally whytehead: this is a tune i wrote for Gillian Alcock’s wedding in 2007

Gillian was one of the foremost dulcimer experts in Australia – primarily a dulcimer maker but also a player and composer. It’s called ‘Gillian and Tim’s delight’. Gill had MS, Tim had cancer, so it was always going to be a short-lived delight. Tim died of terminal cancer two years after the wedding and Gillian died last November.

We were due to be at Alex’s by 4pm, so said farewells and thanks to Sally, then headed north to Mosley.

I had never met Alex before, only spoken with him and his wife Susan that morning on the phone. Gwilym told me that Alex was one of the finest singers of songs and I had to meet him.

I’m always a little nervous when I’m meeting new people, (what will they be like? Will they be difficult? Will they be terrible? Will I get an uncontrollable urge to giggle?) but from the moment he opened his front door and welcomed us in, Alex McClure was a complete delight. Here is a man who had been to the hospital that morning for tests on his lungs, so might not be able to sing or talk for long without getting tired. Alex sang, told stories and yarns, entertained us like a king; his wife Susan joined us and being a musician also, played some tunes for us.

I was invited to see Susan’s studio – she is a wonderful painter, and by the time we’d had a good natter and look at her paintings and joined the men in the front room, Alex offered to take us all out for an Indian meal – his treat. We didn’t stop talking and laughing all evening, and it was extremely difficult to leave the McClures and their fabulous hospitality (who can resist a single malt in crystal glasses?).

But The Lovely John had work in the morning, the rain had set in and my inner yoda was telling me to bunker down for a few days until the rain passes – this is an adventure, not a endurance event. I have had the most amazing few days, so I’m hungry to get back to my adventure, but for the next few days, I’ll be in Scunthorpe, writing my blog and drying out.

Alex:
A good song is one that can stand the test of time – being sung again and again and you never tire of. (I quite like the maudlin ones)

‘The Over Gate’ – the Beef Can Close was a knocked down area of Dundee. People would back in the day pawn their pans for money, and they would get the huge corn beef cans and use them as cooking pots. This song tells of a man who went to the big city with £5 in his pocket – a years wages at the time.

https://youtu.be/B3rTgn4WAbA

Susan – this is my mothers fiddle – it was in bits I wasn’t able to play it at home, so I got it fixed learnt fiddle when I left. ‘Rakes of Marlow a/my love she is but a lassie yet’ – my dad taught me these – one of the first sets of tunes I ever learnt, and I’ve loved them ever since.

https://youtu.be/kk6ItywknJA

It’s Saturday today, even though I’ve been writing about last Tuesday. I’ve been bunkered down in Scunthorpe – I haven’t even been to see my family over the river, because I know that if i see them, I might just not get back on the road. So sorry kids, friends and momma, I didn’t want to take the risk. I’m posting this then I’m back on the road. I’ve got my lodgings booked for Sunday, Stealth Campervan tonight, and a whole new chapter on my adventures about to begin…

Rain stops dancing, but it didn’t stop the playing.

Monday and the weather is still a bit on the moist side. I had been invited to meet up with Gwilym Davies and two Morris teams who were having a dance out Monday night at a pub called The House in the Tree (https://www.houseinthetree.co.uk/) at Hayden, west of Cheltenham.

Gwilym is well-known around the Cotswolds and Gloucestershire area for his work collecting local folk songs and tunes, and most people I’d met in the area had mentioned his name, so I was looking forward to meeting him, but first we had the daytime to take care of.

We went to visit Sudely Castle, which was recovering from a cancelled drowned out weekend of concerts, and the entrance fee was far too expensive for my meagre budget. So looking on the map, Bela’s Knapp (an iron-age burial mound) was nearby, and free, so we went there instead. Admittedly it was smaller than it looked on the photos, and once we’d gone round, up and over it, we were pretty much done, but it was an interesting visit. Got back to The Stealth Campervan just in time to avoid the next round of rain.

Bela’s Knapp – in one of the tiny chambers

Bela’s Knapp – trying to make it look like tutenkamoun’s tomb

I quite fancied an afternoon in Cheltenham. It was on the way to our evening meet up and I’d visited Cheltenham many years ago, but never looked round the centre. I now know why. Spending an hour or two in cheltenham caused me to ruminate on the question: ‘what makes a city centre a good/vibrant/pleasurable place to be?’ Cheltenham has all the potential building blocks, (nice regency architecture, plenty of posh shops, leafy greenness, interesting streets) but they’re teetering precariously on the verge of becoming run down.

We even visited the art gallery, and the people in reception watched us go up the open plan stairs to the top floor, which was closed, as was the next floor down, as was all the gallery apart from the shop.

We had a little picnic by Imperial Square, watching workmen dismantling a big exhibition with marquees and things. Which, I’m sad to report, was probably the highlight of my visit to Cheltenham.

By 2pm we had exhausted all possibilities for a fun time in Cheltenham, the rain was starting and we had a few hours to kill before our evening’s meet up. So we drove to the pub, parked up, and had a nana nap for the afternoon, waking up to torrential rain and the prospect of a lovely pub dinner.

House in the Tree, Hayden nr cheltenham. Our home for the night.

May I recommend The House in the Tree public house for food, and hospitality. There’s a notice on one of the walls that tells about the pub’s history and legends, and it bears repeating:

The House in the Tree, Hayden, near Cheltenham is some 500 years old and the interior is still original.

Legend tells how a beautiful girl named Maud Bowen, living nearby, was abducted by her uncle and followed by Walter the Archer who killed the uncle.

Unfortunately, while attempting to return home, Maude fell into a stream and was drowned. Court ruled that she had committed suicide, so her body was buried at the nearest crossroads with an elm stake driven through it.

Meanwhile Walter fled to Hayden, taking up residence in The House in the Tree. Maud’s mother spent much time at her grave, where in due course, the stake grew into a beautiful elm tree.

As a result, the mother was accused of witchcraft, taken to Maude’s Elm tree and burned. As the Lord of the Manor, the villain of the piece, watched, he too fell victim to Walter’s deadly marksmanship.

Maude’s Elm remained a district landmark for many years afterwards.

Crikey – they don’t write ’em like that anymore do they?

After we’d eaten, we went through to the bar to see if anyone would turn up in the pouring rain. It was obvious there would be no dancing outside, but it was rumoured that there would still be some music happening. Gwilym turned up, and within an hour, the bar was filled with members of the Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris all set for a right good night of playing music.

Before the music started, Gwilym gave me a brief introduction to himself:

GWILYM DAVIES

Hampshire boy – welsh father – hence the name – studied languages lived abroad, in early 70s ended up in Cheltenham. Got interested in folk in the days of skiffle, had a banjo – could only play one string, learnt chords, and used to play Lonnie Donegan stuff with some friends. We used to go to folksong clubs and discovered English folk. Went to school with Tony Engel of Topic Records . Discovered the Copper family. Thought ‘this is it – this is English music’.

I live now in Winchcome, north of Cheltenham – I play a bit together with my wife.

Branched out into Tudor and medieval music.

A Gypsy singer called Wiggy Smith used to play round this area. I used to pick him up from his campsite, bring him to this pub, fill him full of drink and record his songs.

Gypsies drank in this pub quite regularly once upon a time. I got friendly with a few of them and was invited to the funeral of one of them. I went to funeral and during the wake, I asked if any of the families knew his songs. Noooo. Nobody sings the old songs. Dying tradition, gypsy songs and tunes. I love them, I love to hear them, love to sing them, and I’ve collected a lot of them in the hope that they won’t die out.

I could have just left my camera rolling all night – the tunes and tales were many, led by Gwilym and also Christine of England’s Glory playing some wonderful tunes on her fiddle and Richard from Gloucestershire Morris on the box, but here’s a choice few for your delectation and delight:

Twin sisters: played by Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris

Here’s Gwilym playing ‘The Carter’, a Gloucestershire song he learnt from Bob Arnold, an actor from the Archers:

And here he is playing two polkas learnt from Lemmie Brazil (pronounced brezzle), who came from a family of gypsy musicians.

The full ensemble playing ‘Durham Rangers’ and Gloucester, (or Gloucester, two different tunes, but no-one could remember which was which) hornpipe:

Gwilym singing ‘When I took My Nance to Church’:

The Sloe – everyone plays this tune around these parts, so here’s another version:

Game Of All Fours – another song from the Brazil family – lots of songs around here from the Brazil family

The music and drinks flowed sweetly all night, and the rain outside barely paused for breath. We were sleeping in The Stealth Campervan in the pub carpark and the landlord Ady, offered to open up in the morning so we could have breakfast. The rain was torrential all night, but we were warm and dry snug as little bugs in a rug, with two more port of calls to visit on tuesday whilst I still had transport, before The Lovely John had to head back home.

Tomorrow’s blog: I meet an old friend and also meet a legendary singer recommended by Gwilym …

Little England – the real one, not the TV programme

Saturday started in Gloucester (me n’ Doctor Foster both ended up there in a shower of rain…), and ended back in the Cotswolds with people to see, and Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan making sure I was able to see them all.

After visiting Jeff and Elaine Gillet in Stroud, we drove to Broadwell, near Stowe-on-the-Wold. I had no idea how big the Cotswolds are. Despite the knowledge that the Cotswold Way takes a good five days to walk, I’m still thinking that everywhere is about half an hour away if you’re driving. Stroud to Broadwell takes an hour in a car, so by the time we got there, we’d missed the Campden Morris Team doing their dancing at the village fete.

Broadwell Village Fete was little England at it’s finest – I don’t mean the TV programme, I mean the England I associate with bunting, little stalls, WI tea and cakes, village green, pastel colours, iffy weather and a jolly voice on the crackly tannoy.

You can’t call it a village fete if it ain’t got one of these…

Campden Morris at the Fox Inn, Broadwell

The Morris dancers, despite having finished their scheduled set, were still assembled by the Fox Inn, and played some music and danced some dances just for me and The Lovely John. Their entertainment was also appreciated by other assembled drinkers, including half a wedding party, who thought it was entertainment laid on especially for them.

Here’s Paul Bryan (melodion) and Andrew Doran (Low whistle) playing a tune called The Sloe – a native tune to Stow-on-the-Wolds:

And here’s the full ensemble: The Chipping Campden Morris dancing a dance called ‘Hathaway’:

I must confess a guilty pleasure: I do love watching a good Morris troupe. There’s something very reassuring and comforting about watching them dancing. They make it look easy and effortless, and I know ‘cos I used to be a morriswomandancer, it all takes a lot of practice and a degree of fitness. So, because they were so very good, and stayed to dance for me, here’s another dance from the Chipping Campden Morris dancers:

Paul and Andrew from the team also recommended somewhere to stay with The Stealth Campervan – there’s a little carpark next to Snowshill Manor where you can park overnight, it’s out of the way, but five minutes walk from the pub in the village of Snowshill. And apparently it’s the village were Bridget Jones’ parents live in the film. Yes, it is a gorgeous little place – honey coloured cottages snuggled into wooded hillsides – our only neighbours in the carpark were a German couple who were electrobiking round The Cotswolds, and it was a perfect place to stay for a couple of nights. It was nice having neighbours for a day or two. We shared stories on what we’d been up to each day, and compared favourite whiskies, I practised my rudimentary German, and they are going home with a new English phrase: ‘Laphroaig whiskey tastes like a Viking’s armpit’.

Snowshill village

Evening – we had the picnic area to ourselves – beer and music thankyou very much

The campsite/carpark with our German neighbours van in the background.

Sunday in the Cotswolds and you kind of have to do a walk. There is a big tower on the top of a hill not far from where we were camped out, so we decided to have a day of walking and do a circular walk, because I hadn’t done many of those in the last month.

The Broadway tower, as it happened, was that very day host to the end of a gruelling 52 mile marathon, sponsored by carlsberg, and all afternoon, exhausted participants were crawling up the hill to the tower, where the Carlsberg team had thoughtfully put marquees, flags, a finishing line and a ridiculously loud non-stop DJ sound system. Call me an old fuddy-duddy, but if I’d just crawled two miles up a steep hill at the end of a 52 mile marathon, the last thing I’d want to hear is full-on pop music pumping away. Hallelujah Chorus on loop, next year please, Carlsberg.

Scrumptious little house on the way up to the Broadway tower

Me and Broadway Tower. I made it to broadway, folks!

I completely forgot to take photos of the marathon brigade, probably because we were too busy on the way down the hill to the little town of Broadway, saying ‘well done’ and ‘not far to go now’ and other such original phrases to all the exhausted looking participants. Ah well, I’m sure the DJ and his music cheered them up no end when they reached the finishing line.

Broadway is another delicious little England townlet. Plenty of people and tourists, many shops and pubs and cafes, and even another village (town?) green with a Sunday gospel performance. And yes, I did take a film of it, just so you can experience the flavour of sitting down to rest your feet for five minutes in a little England Sunday afternoon:

One last film for y’all – we’d had a perfectly lovely Sunday – walked 12 miles of Cotswold’s finest (although in fairness, the Cotswolds is all pretty fine), and just as we were on the home straight, we struck up a conversation about pig breeds with Cheryl and Brian, on holiday from Canada. Turns out that Brian is a musician, he had a mouthorgan in his rucksack, and he happily played us a tune for my blog. I bloody love this adventure.

Brian & Cheryl from Vancouver discussing pigs with Me n The Lovely John

Tomorrow’s blog is The One With The Weather Forecast…

Return to the Cotswolds

To give you an idea of just how wet I got on Friday, it’s now Monday and my boots are STILL drying out. The Lovely John came armed with spare boots, so we have been able to still do some walking and enjoy the delights of the Cotswolds.

The Stealth Campervan in our prime camping spot by the Gloucester docks

We spent the friday night in a carpark in Gloucester by the docks, and Saturday morning decided to have an explore. I’ve never been to Gloucester before, and it is a jewel of a town. On the way in to the centre of town, we passed the Gloucestershire Academy of Music, and seeing as how I’m doing things with musos, I felt obliged to pop in and tell them my story about travelling … looking for musicians…. etc… and would there be anyone who might like to play their favourite tune for me?

Unbeknown to me, the Academy of Music is for young ‘uns, not grown-ups, and they were worried about parental consent etc, but as luck would have it, one of the tutors offered to accompany his son playing. This young lad was a beginner, and I’m including this tune in here because a: I love the music of O’Carolan; and b: we were all once learners, but not many of us have the confidence to play for a random woman who just turns up asking to record something. Thanks to the charming father & son combination of the fabulous Oxleys playing Carolan’s Air. Xavi and Glyn.

Gloucester, you are a scrumptious little poochiefaced town. I had a lovely couple of hours wandering round, marvelling at architectural delights and seeing Beatrix Potter things:

Yes! This is the house of the Tailor of Gloucester!

The Royal Welsh Consort of Viols

The Royal Welsh Consort of Viols were giving a free concert in a church (St Mary de Crypt) – the music was amazing and there were less than a dozen people in the audience. There are free concerts here all summer, all different kinds of music, and tea and cakes. I would have stayed for the whole concert, but the parking was running out so I filmed a couple of pieces and promised to send them the recordings. ‘Browning’ by the Welsh composer, Elway Bevin:

Branle by a welsh composer 8 bar melody – ‘the leaves be green the nuts be brown they hang soo high they wil not come down’

an excerpt from William Byrd’s 5 part Fantasia:

We returned to the Stealth Campervan with five minutes left on the parking, and headed onwards, or rather backwards, returning to the Cotswolds, as I had arranged some musical meet-ups (before the rainy rainy day), and I had The Lovely John with me and we had The Stealth Campervan to return us back to the route I had escaped from the day before.

Quick cup of tea in the hills above Stroud

First port of call was to visit Stroud to meet up with two local folk musicians: Jeff & Elaine Gillett who play together as ‘Discovery’.

Jeff:

I play Guitar, concertina, dulcimer, mandolin – always been a bit of a folkie, but listen to lots of different music. I’ve been playing for the best part of 50 years – worked for over 25 years with Ron Taylor and worked with Sarah Morgan, local well-known performers. And I’ve appeared with Jim Causley several times onstage and played on two of his albums.

I was a teacher for 38 years at a school, and we ran a barn dance band called the Downfielders – been going for 30 years and still going strong, and still rehearsing every week during term time at Marling School.

Gwilym Davis is a collector of local tunes and songs – he set up the Single Gloucester project to make all the tunes in Gloucester readily available online. We got involved with the project as ambassadors playing tunes for the area.

We’ll play ‘Annie Lee’ – a Gloucestershire song for you. It was sung by a lady in north Gloucestershire called Beatrice Hill who come from Bromsberrow Heath. One of her tunes was a hornpipe named Bromsberrow Heath.

2nd piece – ‘Jack Williams’, Gloucester song.

One of the absolute joys of my adventure/project/journey is that I get to meet (and often, quite by chance), people like Jeff and Elaine, listen to their music, hear their tales and stories and have a lovely time. But then I have to head off towards my next port of call, and I have to resist the temptation to join them for a tune or two, knowing that we’d get lost in that strange music vortex that pulls you in, and before you know it, time has marched on, and you’re still sitting there having a wonderful time.

So, reluctantly, but grateful for the music, we left Jeff and Elaine Gillet and headed north on the Cotswolds on the hunt for morrismen, the tales and recordings of which are worthy of a separate blog entry…

Wet Wet Wet

Sooooo glad I got the shepherd’s hut to sleep in last night. Spent a blissful hour this morning drinking tea, curled up in bed, listening to gentle rain on the roof which got less and less gentle, and by the time I was packed and ready to go, warranted the need for my ‘Vera Poncho’…

Goodbye lovely camping site. I slept in the green hut in the middle.

I got my Vera Poncho on. The only crime to solve is: where did all this rain come from?

…which kept the rain off for a couple of hours. But let me tell you some facts about the Cotswold Way:

It winds its way along a lot of countryside.

There are lots of uphill sections, and surprisingly few downhill parts.

There are spectacular views, but not when it’s raining.

There is nowhere to shelter from the rain.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, she turned the air blue….. hehehehe

Another tower to something or other. Don’t care. My feet are squelching with the wet.

I’ve given up with wet wet wet countryside and sticking to wet wet wet tarmac.

On a day with less murderous intent, one can see for miles and miles

After four hours non stop rain and the only break you get is when it buckets down rather than simply raining, your Vera Poncho is going to let the rain in.

There is still nowhere to shelter.

Because the route is 90% countryside, 10% road, your legs, your feet and your boots are going to get wet.

By 2.30pm, I’d walked a heroic number of miles, I was soaked right through and a village bus stop was the first covered place I’d seen all day. And there was a bus going up the hill to my destination. And it was a pound. Fekkit. The bus was warm, but it took five minutes, not long enough to dry out or warm up. I was going to be meeting up with The Lovely John in the evening, and I didn’t fancy the prospect of six hours sitting in a village with a pub that opened at 6 and no other amenities. Across the road, calling me like a siren to unwary sailors, was another bus stop. There was a bus due in 10 minutes that took an hour to get to Gloucester. I could be dry by then. I could wander round the city centre and be a tourist. I could find somewhere to change my sodden boots and socks. I could sit in a Weatherspoons and wait for The Lovely John.

Fekkit. I got the Gloucester bus. Here’s my stuff hanging out to dry on the bus. I have no shame now. I’m a bloody bag lady

Got the bus didn’t I? I’m not doing this adventure to give myself a hard time, and as it happens, Gloucester was warm and delightful.

Gloucester Cathedral

Did a bit of touristy stuff, changed my boots for my walking sandles in the cathedral toilets (and wrung the water out of my socks).

I’ve spent the last 3 hours in Weatherspoons, riding that renewable cup of tea like there’s no tomorrow, and writing up my blog.

I must give a mention to Rachael and Bob Carter, a couple who came over from Bristol to see Olly Murs in concert. They were sitting at the next table and we had a grand old natter, put the world to rights, and Bob should really get a job with the Bristol tourist board because, if it’s raining tomorrow, me and The Lovely John will have a day in Bristol, on Bob’s recommendation.

Me and Rachael and Bob Carter. If you could pick your neighbours, I’d pick these two.

The Lovely John should be rolling up in the Stealth Campervan any minute now, so if you will excuse me, we’ve got some catching up to do x

Cotswolds, Clouds, Camping, and Condoms

The wonderful Hilary had an appointment in Bath on Thursday, so I was dropped off along the start of the Cotswold Way with a warning to ‘mind a lay-by along the A46, don’t linger, keep on walking.’

Needless to say, the warning was instantly forgotten as I strode out along the Cotswold hills, feeling for all the world like a seasoned hiker, with my rucksack, my boots and my Tilly hat. It was indeed a fine day’s walking; the Cotswold way is designed for views, which naturally requires a few uphills. But I didn’t mind, I’d had 36 hours without walking, my blisters had hardened, and I was up them hills like a mountain goat. With a massive heavy rucksack.

I wasn’t overtaken by any walkers – I saw lots of walkers en route, but they were all heading to Bath. There were all nationalities – Swedish, Germans, Dutch, Canadians, and Americans, and nobody realised that there would be so many hills. Imagine the Cotswolds… gently rolling scenery, beloved of chocolate boxes and biscuit tins, thatched cottages, sleepy little villages… well, it all sits on a ridge, you can look down and see it all, but you’re gonna have to climb to have the privilege. They might have mentioned it in the guidebook was the general consensus.

The clouds were so gorgeous you could have hooked them down and bitten them, and I was particularly pleased to watch a huge bank of rain pass by, missing me completely, dumping its load in the vast landscape below me.

Cotswolds and clouds – a heady combination

I’m walking along like Heidi in the hills and the road took a strange turn. It’s full of little woods, usually with one clear path through. This particular little wood was well trodden with many routes through. There were two or three men loitering individually, and I didn’t feel that they were going to abduct me, rather they were avoiding me and trying their best not to be seen, but strangely to be seen by each other. Call me a Northern Lass, but it took me a while to work out what was going on. It wasn’t until I’d seen half a dozen or so empty condom packets that Hilary’s voice popped into my head: ‘Don’t linger – keep on walking.’ Yes this was the infamous lay-by. A couple of men were wandering aimlessly and separately outside the woods when I emerged, duly educated with the information that the Cotswolds ain’t all chocolate boxes.

If you meet ‘locals’ along the way (tending their gardens, herding their sheep, polishing their agas), they all rhapsodise about James Dyson’s place; how immaculate the ground is, no nettles, clearly marked route, white, white sheep – he lives in a country park and the Cotswold way passes through ‘You’ll know when you’re in his land,’ they all say, ‘it’s like a film set.’

Dyson’s pad, well signposted, white sheep, fluffy clouds. And not a vacuum cleaner in sight.

And it was like a film set – well tended, slightly sterile, but beautiful, nonetheless and a cleansing interlude after ‘them there woods’.

I had managed to locate a campsite just off the route, so headed towards it, worrying about if it was still open, if they allowed tents, and other such nonsense.

Oh it was a beautiful little jewel of a place. The owner let me sleep in the shepherd’s hut for the same price as pitching a tent, there was hot drinks, there was comfy chairs, and I was snuggled up in a bed with clean sheets, asleep after my 20 mile hike, by 9pm.

If you’re ever in the area, camp here. They’ve got yurts and huts as well

Tonight, I shall be a shepherd. Counting Dyson’s immaculate sheep til I sleep. 1…2…3…zzzzz

Dulcimer Heaven and The Unicorn

Tim Manning, maker of Hammer Dulcimers, has his workshop in Frome. (pronounced ‘froom’). He was the reason I traveled to Frome, because the Hammer Dulcimer is my main musical instrument. It has paid the rent for many years, and the dulcimer fraternity in the UK is interwoven and we all sort of know each other, or know of each other.

Me being a dulcimer player long before the walk

I knew of Tim for a while, and met him at The Great Dulcimer Gathering of 2015, where dulcimer players came from all over the world to Malvern to play and watch and talk Dulcimers. Tim was happy to meet up with me on Tuesday and offered to let me stay the night at his home in Bath.

Tim Manning putting the final touches to a dulcimer

When I arrived at his workshop, Tim was putting the final touches to a dulcimer, setting up the bridges and settling the strings in. If you’re not into Dulcimers, this was a man in a woodworking studio, but to me it was dulcimer heaven, seeing and watching a dulcimer being born.

Later in the afternoon we headed over to Bath where Tim and his wife Sue and their daughter Ruby have recently moved. There aren’t many of us around, so when you get two dulcimer players together, we talk dulcimers, we gossip about the dulcimer fraternity, and we play music. And that was pretty much how we spent the evening. And a splendid evening it was too. Tim contributed two pieces for my blog; the first he wrote on guitar, the second, on dulcimer. Here he is saying about the music:

TIM MANNING

1: COUNTRY WALK

I went for a walk with my previous partner to an area called Snuff Mills in Bristol. We found this teeny tiny bird that had fallen out of its nest. We took it home, put it in a box and fed it egg through a syringe. It survived and started growing and as it got a bit older, it started tweeting, and I was recording and multi-tracking the song it made and adding tracks.

We took the bird back and put it on a tree, we returned the next day, and there was a bird hanging round, i put my hand out and t jumped on to it. I like to think it was saying thankyou.

https://youtu.be/DW9Z5bAsoKY

2: SPIRIT RAG

I wrote it pretty much like that and wondered what to call it. I was in my workshop in frome house – my previous workshop. It was when i was creating a bare bones dulcimer – working out how minimal i can go. I’d named it the skeleton dulcimer. I was paying the tune on the skeleton dulcimer. I looked up and and there was a jar in my workshop labelled ‘spirit rag’. I liked how it went with the skeleton dulcimer and the vamping style, so that’s what i called the tune.

https://youtu.be/AjTOy3xt-CQ

Wednesday – I had arranged to meet up with Hilary Davies, a dulcimer player, back in Frome, so I got a lift in with Tim on his was back to work. Hilary didn’t realise I was doing an epic walk, she just thought I was dropping in, and straightaway offered me a bed for the night, and food, and an afternoon of heavenly dulcimer playing, where we swapped tunes and taught each other tunes.

We thought it would be good to have a go at Billy’s Dad’s Polka, the tune I learnt right at the beginning. And also we both fell in love with Nine Brave Boys – a Cornish tune I’d learnt from Bagas Crowd in Cornwall.

Here’s some of the tunes we played over the perfectly wonderful afternoon of dulcimers:

Billy’s Dad’s Polka

Green Sleeves and Yellow Lace – a Playford tune.

Nine Brave Boys

Bonny at Morn – a favourite of Hilary’s.

Being on a musical roll, we had planned to check out a local choir who were having an open night, but that turned out to be on Thursday. We decided to be brave and check out a nearby folk session held at a pub called The Unicorn Inn at Bamford, Wincanton.

This was indeed a most splendid session. I tried to film bits and pieces, but really, it was fantastic to be in amongst it all, playing along. I got chance to play my little Magic Fluke fiddle, and a dulcimer as well.

I love a good music session where everyone joins in, or listens respectfully to the gentler tunes, and this was simply a great session. The clips I filmed in no way do it justice; when the room was rocking, I wasn’t filming, I was having too much fun joining in. If you’re ever round Bamford, near Wincanton, on the first Wednesday of the month, pop in to the Unicorn Inn, you’ll be made most welcome.

I was having such a good time, I never got the names of most of the tunes I filmed. Sorry ’bout that. But hey – have you noticed there’s two – yes TWO dulcimers in the room. Two dulcimers and three dulcimer players. Could life get any better?

Loved these women fiddlers: Mary and Jenny

these three guys kept sneaking some cracking Irish tunes in. This tune might have been called Hugs For Lucas.

I wish I’d got some film of the whole room when the music was flying. But here’s a popular local slow tune called January Waltz.

All in all, an absolutely marvelous couple of days. Thursday I’m off walking again, heading along the Cotswold Way

No we weren’t drunk at all coming out of the Unicorn Inn. High on music, dahlinks.

Rainbow People

One of the women in the Ashram had mentioned some people from a local folk club to get in touch with, and Nathan duly responded and was willing to meet up with home on Tuesday morning and play me a tune or 2.

So after morning prayers and meditation and a super healthy breakfast, I packed my rucksack, donned my boots and left the peace of the ashram for the craziness of Glastonbury High street. I have been to Glastonbury once before years ago when my kids were little, and it hasn’t changed much. I still feel like a wide-eyed stranger looking in amazement at the proliferation of hippie shops and weird and wonderful characters strolling along the street. There are workshops advertised in most windows on every aspect of healing, soul cleansing, psychic this that and the other; by all rights, these native glastonburyions should be the most sorted people in the planet, with all the resources available to them.

Found the Rainbow’s End Cafe, where I had arranged to meet Nathan, and anther part of my adventure began. Nathan is a folk musician and music teacher. He is a really interesting man, bursting with a thousand stories to tell, and he shared a few of them with me. Here’s his stories about the tunes he played for me:

NATHAN LEWIS WILLIAMS – Music teacher/folk musician.

‘THE DREAM WALTZ- by Hurdy Gurdy player Cliff Stapleton – the story of why I love this tune is – it’s in the mixylodian mode, in three time, always my favourites, it has three parts, it has beautiful chords.

I first heard it played on a mandolin by a friend of mine, I was only just learning how to pay melodically on the guitar, and he played me the dream waltz, it sounded so intricate and beautiful, I sent out a prayer across the landscape: please let me learn that tune.

I was cycling all over Somerset, teaching music, and once I‘d learnt it myself I started teaching it to my pupils, and I petitioned quite hard for it to be included on an album i was making with local band Dragonsfly. It became the opening track on our album ‘Ridgeway’ the Dream Waltz is the tune that inspired me to write tunes.

THE RIDGEWAY. Written at Avebury the year after I first heard the Dream Waltz. I sat near the ridgeway and wrote it.

The Dongas tribe were road protesters who met at Twyfold Downs in ’93. They were travelling folk musicians, they walked with hand carts and lived on the land for 5-6 years. I moved to Glastonbury to join the Dongas and play Donga music. Sunny who introduced me to dream waltz was a Donga.

The melody of The Ridgeway is a dominant 7th arpeggio. I loved the idea of basing a tune around that arpeggio – what I didn’t realise was that The Ridgeway was extremely similar to a welsh song that I used to sing called Lisa Lan. It’s Wales’ equivalent to ‘She moved through the fair’. Both tunes have an ABBA structure first and last lines are the same. The Ridgeway is similar to the B line of Lisa Lan. It’s a slip jig though, rather than an air. The Ridgeway became the title track of the Dragonfly album, with Cliff Stapleton playing gurdy.

I still play the Dream Waltz with the Dongas every summer solstice on Windmill Hill at Avebury.

(Lisa Lan is also an English song called ‘So early in the spring’ – there’s a minor key version in Wales – all the same formula called ‘Ffarwel fo I Langyfelach Lon’

It took me ages to realise that it’s just Lisa Lan in a minor key).’

Here’s Nathan playing Lisa Lan and the Dream Waltz:

Nathan told me about a musician friend of his, Rohan, whom he met through the Dongas Tribe. Rohan had written some words to the folk tune ‘The Bear Dance’ which was now integrated into the local folk and festival scene and everyone thinks it’s a traditional song, but it isn’t, Rohan wrote it. And by a co-incidental quirk of fate, Rohan lives in Frome, which was my next port of call. Nathan also had some things he was going to pick up in Frome sometime this week, so it was decided that today would be the day to visit Frome, he would give me a lift, we would visit Rohan, and I could record his song.

ROHAN WHITE:

I started off playing percussion and ended up playing with a bunch of folk musicians in teepee valley in the ’90s, picked up loads of tunes, and the whistle is now my main instrument, picked one up in a festival and then learnt enough chords on a guitar to get by.

1: Fairy Lovers: this song is based on a fairy tradition of fairy lovers – a guy meets a fairy one night, she becomes his lover but she disappears at dawn, he never sees her again and spends the rest of his life looking for her. It’s set to the traditional tune : the bear dance.

https://youtu.be/xgjrbepVAIY

2: improvised tune on low eb whistle.

This is what happens when you take a chance – popped into an ashram, stayed the night, given a contact, which blossomed into interesting meets, incredible stories (the one about the jilted lover who wouldn’t let go, the one about the shepperton mallet Tesco’s protest, the one about getting locked in a room for three days, the one about the quack doctor hounded out of glastonbury, the one about Ed who lives in a van near Rohan, nearly made big time and walked away.)

Walked down the road to meet Tim, a hammer dulcimer maker, and subject of tomorrow’s blog.

Ed’s van. He wasn’t in, but I visited him.

When in Glastonbury…

I’m too tired – I’ve just deleted this post – so I’ll have to write it again.

I was feeling a wee bit miserable yesterday, which was exacerbated by the BnB where I was staying – my room was half storeroom, and every cupboard in the kitchen contained masses of bottles of homeopathic medicines and tablets, and there was stuff everywhere.. and a strange smell.

‘You WILL give me a five star rating when you review’, I was told, not asked, ‘because there was a mean woman the other day only gave me three stars. Can you imagine what that did to my ratings?’ ‘Mnuhuh,’ says I, deciding to not write a review at all.

Walked the three miles back into town to catch a bus from Taunton to Glastonbury – I was heading there because it is halfway to Frome where I’m meeting some musicians tomorrow, and Glastonbury is too far to walk in a day. Anyway, I had an hour to kill before the bus, so thought I’d sit and play my fiddle. Taunton is festooned with charity shops and one enormous Waterstones that looks like a Weatherspooons. I set up on a pedestrian precinct which turned out to be where the ‘town dwellers’ hang out. First to make my acquaintance was Busker Dominic and his half empty bottle of wine. He dropped it, and kept talking as he picked up every bit of glass. Couldn’t understand why I wasn’t into hallucinogens. ‘It’s the way forward’, he told me, ‘you don’t know who you really are til you’ve been pushed to the edge.’

I’m sitting there thinking: ‘bet you’ve never given birth to a ten and a half pound baby, that’s pushing it to the edge, mate.’

Busker Dominic also enlightened me on the joys of the A minor chord: ‘It’s a busker’s best friend. It’s the brightest of all the minor chords. I must know six songs in A minor. It’s the chord that’s pregnant with possibilities.’ There you go. A minor.

When Busker Dominic finally staggered off, and I started playing, it seemed to attract the ‘Town Centre Dwellers’, who were a happy bunch, they danced and clapped in all the right places. I stopped to pack up ‘Got a Bus to catch’, I told them. Their main man looked at me and announced: ‘it’s the next town where you find the jar of gems.’ ‘Always,’ says I. We nodded sagely at each other.

Two old dears at the bus station with trolleys full of shopping. ‘Ooo look, there’s a bus to Minehead, shall we jump on it and go have a swim in the sea?’ Says one. ‘We’d have to leave our trolleys here, I’m not going to do that,’ says the other and they both cackle. Imagine that said in an old lady taunton accent, and it’s very funny.

Glastonbury. What can I say? Within twenty minutes of arriving here, I had booked into an ashram which was situated temptingly on the way to the Tor. I left my rucksack there and climbed up to the top of the Tor and felt bloody brilliant.

I ate, had a bath, had a nana nap and went to the evening devotional service, which consists of sitting on the floor and singing songs that go on so long that you can’t help joining in with the simple beautiful melodies. I persuaded Nora afterwards to play a couple of the songs/chants so that I would remember the tunes. She kindly did a very heavily edited version for me.

Nora Gonczi: maha mantra

Nora Gonczi: evening arti tune – this is the tune we sing to Krishna when we do the evening offerings.

This is the sight that persuaded me to call in. I was in glastonbury after all, and as they say: ‘when in Rome…’

Ashram courtyard. My room is the wooden hut on the right.

Well chilled now, just done my morning meditation session, and after breakfast, I’m off to Frome. Catch ya later dudes x

Ups and Downs

Saturday: After the amazing encounter With Val and Dave yesterday, I set off along the Great Western Canal towards Taunton, fully believing that I was in a movie, and everything will be peachy. I spoke and laughed with cyclists and dog walkers along the canal which was sunny and beautiful.

There was even a campsite posted that wasn’t quite as far as the one I would have struggled to walk to, so I set off up the hill, and the higher I got, the lower my allotted pouch of luck sank.

The campsite had been closed for a year or so, but there was another one about six miles away in Wellington. Six miles after already walking over 12, and six miles along the busy A38. So I sang, I swore and I grumbled, but I walked the six sodding miles to be met by a smug faced chap who told me that it was only caravans, no tents. He was having none of my pleading and didn’t care how far I’d walked that day and wouldn’t let me pitch my tiny tent as far away as possible and be gone by first light.

When it gets past 7pm and you’ve nowhere to pitch a tent you start to get a bit concerned. I determined to find a field and pitch up, but as if by magic there appeared on the roundabout of the A38 before me, a Travelodge. The man behind the desk couldn’t reduce the room fee to a level the frugal inner me felt comfortable with, but he managed to knock a tenner off, still eating into my budget, but there comes a time when you go ‘fekkit’. I’ve got the room til 12, so I’m not leaving til then.Fekkit

Sunday: for the record, I could have got a bus to Taunton, but I didn’t, I had booked an airbnb – I didn’t want to be worrying about where to stay, and I fancied a walk with thinking time.

Every year when my sister Sarah goes on holiday, she leaves her dog Bella with my mum. One year I was stopping at my mum’s and we sent my sister photographs on facebook of us and the dog every morning, so she knew I hadn’t killed the dog (I think my sister has trust issues). Any way, since then, every time my mum looks after Bella (the dog) while my sister is gadding off somewhere sunny, me and my mum do the Bella pictures.

This year in a frenzy of preplanning, we sneakily borrowed Bella (the dog) and prepared the pictures in advance, before my sister want on holiday, which just happens to be this week.

My son Jasper saw the pictures this morning and thought I must be at home, and he rang me up, hoping to see me. We both tried not to sound upset when I explained what had happened, but there’s times when you just want to give someone a hug and this was one of them.

Bella’s holiday snaps

My rucksack having a rest on the Great Western Canal yesterday

Yep, I’m totally infantile, but i don’t care. It warrants a photo and still makes me giggle.

A38 on the way through Taunton. I’m not smiling, I’m grimacing with a painful toe

The A38 is nothing like this – yesterday’s Grand Western Canal

The high point of the last two days was definitely walking along the Great Western Canal. The sun shone, I was feeling good, leafy paths, canal teaming with wildlife and happy smiling faces everywhere. Low point – there were a few, mainly on the theme of walking alongside busy roads, but I did get an unexpected wave of sadness walking through the outskirts of Taunton, looking through a window seeing a big family eating Sunday dinner. It wasn’t the food, it was the togetherness, something I loved with my own family, everyone round a table, eating and laughing. Hasn’t happened for a while, and the last time I had my family round, it was Christmas time, it was a disaster, not just the food, but everything, and it still makes me cry when I think about it. Amazing how one little glimpse through a window can trigger a whole raft of memories and emotions.

So I’m here in a strange little BnB north of Taunton, I’ve had a bath, and I’m making plans to get to Frome by Tuesday for a music meet-up xx

I never want to stop in a room like this again…

Searching for Banjo Dai

Friday morning, Janet’s brother John and his wife Anne took me out for breakfast before setting me along my way on the Tarka Trail from Great Torrington to Barnstable via Bideford. Yes, I know it was massively out of my way, but I was heading to Barnstable in search of Banjo Dai. He is a Welshman living in Barnstable, and he posts videos of himself playing clawhammer banjo. I’m a huge fan of his, so when i realised I’d be within a few miles of where he lives, I messaged him to see if he’d like to be involved.

‘Certainly Amanda’ came the reply, so with a spring in my step and a smile on my little excited face, I strode along the old train track, dodging families on bikes left right and centre.

I wasn’t meeting Banjo Dai til the evening, so decided to pass a few hours in Bideford, in the library, borrowing their free internet. I also discovered that buses in North Devon are ridiculously cheap, and it was £2.40 for the 10 mile ride to Barnstable…

Barnstable is a strange place to be when you’re waiting for a reply on when and where to set up with Banjo Dai. I sent a few messages, and got no reply, so in a fit of panic at the prospect of being marooned in Barnstable, I took advantage of the cheap bus fares, and got a bus to Tiverton (an hour and a half away – £4.10) to get me back on the walking track. On the way to Tiverton, I rehearsed my speech fr the B&B’s and hotels…’Hi, I’m doing the land’s end to Joh O’Groats, and my meet-up today went wrong, so I’m in desperate need of a super cheap room, could you help me please?’ It always seems to work in the books I read.

Of course the first thing I should have said was ‘Do you have any rooms tonight?’ Cos nobody did. Not even the big hotel at the other end of town. And the Christian bible study group couldn’t help me either. They did suggest that I could wildcamp at the canal bottom visitor centre.

Time was ticking on, so i headed to the canal bottom, which is actually up a steep and long hill.

So I’m wandering round the closed visitor centre, looking for someone to ask if I could put my tent up and ended up in a yard where I thought there might be a person who could give me a yeay or a nay. Over the edge of a high wall pops the head of a woman who asks, in a concerned way, what I was doing there. I’m explaining my predicament, and telling her about my walk and music and she says, ooo my husband is a morrisman, he’s a box player.

Would he like to play me a tune? I ask, ‘ooo he’d love to’ she says, inviting me up the hill to her house.

There then followed the sort of thing that only ever happens in films — They were the most wonderful couple,Valerie and Dave. They fed me, they let me stay the night, and they invited a Pete over with his bohdran so we could have a mini session round the table that evening, swapping stories and tunes. I looked at Dave’s list of tunes, and I knew most of them. Must be a Morris thing – there is a common repertory of tunes that all morrisplayers know and over the years they have infiltrated into sessions over the country. Just a theory there.

All’s well that ends well, as they say…

My little iPad is not lettting me upload videos at the moment. Grrr.

And here we go:

Valerie And Dave, my angels, in their garden at Swan Cottage, Tiverton

…and, Banjo Dai got in touch, his message came through the next day, to say he’d been at work and not seen my messages. But he sent me a video anyway, so here he is playing his claw hammer banjo.

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Sweet Times in Torrington

I’m not following the news during my big adventure. I am vaguely aware that the political situation in the UK is like a clown circus without the funny bits, I am aware that there is always a football match somewhere that’s important… scans mind to try and think of anything else I’ve been aware of… and that’s about it really.

And it is a marvellous wonderful thing to be free from national media horror stories and opinions. I don’t have to get stressed about things that are happening in places I know nothing about, and tragedies that I can do nothing about anyway. I know it sounds selfish, but there is nothing like a break from all media (TV, newspapers, radio, etc), to roll away a whole layer of stress from life. Imagine not hearing the word ‘Brexit’ for a whole day. Now imagine it for two weeks. Yes that’s how good it is.

I’ve not sealed myself away from everything, but my interactions are with people, actual real people, people who have stories, opinions, people who love life, who grumble occasionally, who will smile and nod at a stranger, people – normal folk who are interesting, fascinating and amazing in ways that will never make the news.

I was thinking about music today on my walk from Torrington to Bideford and Barnstable (along the Tarka Trail). I love music and how it can alter your state of mind, pull up memories, make you want to dance, elevate you, depress you – it’s quite an amazing thing. I enjoy a good concert and listening to music, interacting passively if you like.

But there is something, some sprinkling of magic that no amount of fame and glory and studio production and expensive hi-fi system can recreate, and that is the magic of spontaneous live music. I went to a session in the Royal Exchange pub in Torrington last night – there was all different kinds of music played by people with different levels of musical ability, and as the night wore on it gelled together to turn into one of those scenes in a pub where everyone is singing and clapping, the sort of scene that Hollywood might recreate in a film if it saw ‘typical English music pub’ written in a script.

I’ve filmed a few things last night. I was sat next to John Golightly, a wonderful box player. I asked him if he’d play me a couple of tunes, so we went into the relative quietness of the beer garden where one of those magic moments happened. Listen to these tunes:

1: ROLLO’S WALTZ:

My name’s John Golightly and I wrote this tune in memory of my grandson Rollo who sadly succumbed to cot death about 4-5 years ago and this tune is in his memory.

2: JOSEFIN’S WALTZ:

this tune was written by Roger Tallroth for his niece on the occasion of her christening, and it’s called Josefin’s waltz. It’s a lovely happy loving tune. A nice antidote to the last one.

We came back in to the session which was turning up a notch, here’s a clip of Ian and Mark playing Ring of Fire:

And here’s the rollicking final song in which Ian and John had the whole pub pirating along. I’ve included the whole song, cos I want to learn the words.

hmmm it’s not uploading… blimmin’ internet.

And lastly, but by no means least, thanks to Janet’s brother, John and his wonderful wife Anne for being such generous hosts, looking after me, picking me up, and feeding me. They even washed my smelly clothes, so I smell sweet again.

Smelly Pits

I stink. I’m not normally a smelly sort of person, but dear god, my armpits. Why oh why are armpits so close to your nose? Note to self: as soon as I finish this blog post, find a shop and treat yourself to some deodorant, woman.

I’m meeting the brother of Janet today and he’s taking me to a musicians night at Great Torrington. Janet plays in Shiznitz with me, so I know and love her well, but have never met her brother. So, I’d better have sweet smelling pits. First impressions count, dahlinks.

Today, I got a lift most of the way to Oakhampton, which needs to be done in order to reach Great Torrington tonight. I did have a most pleasant walk in, impressed with how I was handling the ridiculously heavy rucksack. I have repacked it, thrown away two notebooks, and had a day without it yesterday, so we’re getting on fine today.

Can I take a moment to show you a picture of the Alternun Angel?

Andy the Altarnun Angel

He owns the B&B where I stopped for a couple of nights. He came up with the ‘plan B’, where I walked to Launceston yesterday and he picked me up, and also offered to drive me most of the way to Oakhampton today. When I arrived at his B&B, I was a bit down, tired, exhausted, and was close to giving in. A little rest and recuperation was all i needed, and a lift or two, and I’m back on track again. He’s lived all over, is a retired teacher and baptist minister and one of the kindest, gentlest person I’ve met in a long time. And he tells some brilliant tales.

So, I reach Oakhampton, (promises so much, but delivers so little), its got a castle, so I castled up and played a little medieval tune up in the keep:

‘Tristan’s Lament’, if you’re interested. It was ‘Tristan’s Feeling Fab’, til i started playing harharhar.

Me n fiddle in Oakhampton Castle

Headed into town – full of interesting little charity shops and cafes – and found a music shop/cafe down an arcade. I kind of had to go in. And have a cup of tea. They loved the fiddle, and Steven offered to play me something for my blog:

Steven playing Dark Necessities by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers

‘Twas a grand little shop – Music & Bean Co run by Terry. If you’re in Oakhampton, pop in. I did Oakhampton in half an hour, I wanted to sit somewhere and play my fiddle, but there’s nowhere really, so I have decamped to the library, where I’m getting the blog up to date, and waiting for my lift ‘cos I’ll be out playing tonight.

Terry trying to hide behind his counter. Owned a music shop but wouldn’t play me a tune. Pah.

The arcade in town where the shop is. Don’t worry you’ll find it.

And lastly, here’s a picture of Sid Simmonds, town benefactor who had a little play on my fiddle in the Museum of Dartmoor Life.

Right – Time to find me something to sweeten up my armpits. Xx

B plan and Bagas

Today started off with a B plan which was just as well, because I couldn’t find anywhere online to stay in Launceston, my next port of call. Plan B, offered last night by my wonderful air bnb host Andy, involved me walking to Launceston, and giving him a call and he’ll pick me up, as he had some errands over there anyway.

So I hobbled off to Launceston, saw the Castle, and had a lovely day. And the church in Altatnun (St Nonnas) where I’m stopping has incredible carvings on the edge of the pews. And Doctor someone or other had his wedding there in the tv series. The things you learn…

Flying the flag for Cornwall at the top of the castle

The beauty of this plan, was that even though it was raining, I didn’t have to take my rucksack, and what a difference that made to the walk. And it’s windy and mizzling now, as I’m back in the BnB, so I’m rather glad I’m not camping.

I do lots of things when I’m walking – my thoughts go all over the place, sometimes my mind pulls up memories, sometimes plans, sometimes the monsters try and take centre stage, but today, once I’d sang myself a song or two, I thought about getting a bit more organised on this walk, so people know where I’ll be at certain times. So I have decided to walk 100 miles every 10 days. If I’m not up to speed, then I’ll take a bus to get me there, if i’m ahead then i shall enjoy a rest. And I’m not beyond getting the odd lift. I’m making my own rules up here, and maybe in Scotland I’ll be skipping like a gazelle along the route, but for now, I feel every one of my 55 years, and I don’t see why I should suffer too much.

I’ll concoct a schedule of sorts for tomorrow, but meanwhile, here’s last Saturday’s meet up with the wonderful Bagas Crowd:

The Bagas Crowd are a community traditional music group run by Frances Bennet who meet every Saturday morning in Threemilestone Methodist Church to play and learn traditional Cornish music. Google them, they’re an amazing bunch of people of al all ages. I joined them last Saturday morning when it was led by Cathy Bennet (daughter of Frances, and who is a similar age to Bagas – 17ish).

The Cornish tunes they play are beautiful, haunting and lyrical, similar to the music of Brittany, but with more of a hint of mystery and yearning. Any musician passing through on a Saturday will be more than welcomed and you get to take home a Cornish tune or two.

NINE BRAVE BOYS

Tros An Treys/ Dynamite Quay (in 5/4 timing)

The second tune is a quay that was used to bring the dynamite in.

These two tunes were written by Len Davies – a banjo and mandolin player born and bred in Cornwall, he wrote us a good few tunes

Oll An Geriow/ Martin Jeffreys/ Tansy Golowon

Cathy, Rose, Joyce, and Barry on drum.

For some reason this won’t download on YouTube…

The Way Is Clear

played by Fern Carroll-Smith: ‘I love this because it’s a really pretty tune, slow and simple, a good one to learn for starting but good enough to perform. I’m starting up, a beginner, it’s early stages.’

It’s blue skies and sunshine now, but I’m having my nana nap

The roads on the last couple of days have totally reflected my moods and emotions, up and down, lost, on track, exhausting, energised.

I’ve walked further than i ever thought I could, especially with a big rucksack. Last night I pitched up tent in a farmer’s field, tonight it’s gonna rain, and my little hikers tent and sleeping bag were worrying me. I was looking for a B&B, but there’s none round here, not one. After a few wrong turns and extra miles I found a campsite has plenty of camping spaces. I asked about the bunk house – that was full, but the man said I could have one of the yurts for a night for £20. I nearly bit his hand off.

So I’m Doing my blog in a yurt ! On my rambles today, I called into an open studios event and the ceramics artist Jenny Beavan was an old friend of my tutor at Bretton Hall – Jim Robison. Small world eh? Also met Eva and Carolyn who were also into ceramics. I love these unexpected little twits and turns.

But first, I’m trying to upload a the videos from the shanty women, but internet in a yurt ain’t as hot as it used to be.

Yurt and internet – gave up and this is now Tuesday, and I’ve treated myself to the home comforts of a cheap BnB, it’s a bit like staying at your uncle’s house, very male 1970s decor but tonight it’s home to me and I love it.

I walked 10 miles skirting around the edge of Bodmin moor. It would have been a gorgeous walk with moorland, woody roads, hills, wide open countryside and rolling hills, but those darned blisters made an appearance. And the bloody rucksack is far too heavy. And it rained, proper moorland blustery rain.

I devised a cunning plan, hiking along a desolate road that went on forever with no sign of anywhere to top up my water bottle and about three cars passing an hour. I would flag down a passing vehicle, and if they looked a bit iffy, I’d ask them for water.

I know I know. Don’t give me grief. I’d been hiking since 8.30am, (including heading back to the campsite after a mile, cos I’d left my trusty stick behind), and I still had 5 miles to go. So I shall stick my fingers in my ears and go ‘lalalala’ for every one of you that goes ‘that’s cheating’ or ‘that’s dangerous’. I don’t care. 2pm I was stuck in the middle of nowhere in the rain and 3pm i was in my BnB, bathed, relaxed and drinking a cuppa, having thanked the lovely couple from Oxford who were returning home from a long weekend and didn’t mind one bit doing a slight detour to make sure I got to where I was going.

It’s 6pm now, I’ve had my nana nap, and it’s sodding blue skies.

There’s internet here, so here’s the shanty stuff I’ve been promising you.

It won’t all upload, so I’ll try sneaking it in one song at a time. If not I’ll follow this with another blog.

I went last Thursday to meet the Acapella Moonshiners and was expecting a trio, and expecting a pub, but there was about ten fantabulous women, nibbles and as much wine as Pat could force down your neck, a fab nigh was had by all, and the songs got rowdier as the night wore on. They start in unison, then erupt into waves of gorgeous harmonies

CORNWALL, YOU’RE HOME TO ME

Pat: ‘It was written by a friend of mine who comes from The Lizard, which is the southernmost point in Cornwall. She’s a Cornish maid through and through and she loves Cornwall. One of the things about singing shanties, especially at festivals, lots of shanties are the same, so it’s quite nice to have shanties that nobody else sings. Nobody else sings this one, and it’s really a love song to Cornwall.’

GUIDE ME

Jude: ‘Guide me is a 1911 Cornish mackerel drifter fishing boat my husband and I found her when we came to Cornwall – she was falling apart – she was designed for sailing – she was one of the last fishing boats built to sail. We restored her the way she had been originally rigged and went off sailing with our 4 children. We sailed via all sorts of islands – they had fabulous music at the festivals we went to – Brittany, Madeira, across to Brazil, Rio across to cape town. I had another baby, we sailed up to Namibia, then across back to Brazil, up the Caribbean spent some time in Antigua, got involved with some madcap boat races, all sorts . She was the most fabulous boat. She is moored in Geek at the moment and we still Iive on the boat in summer. I spent 30 years on the boat. The song is a love song i wrote to the boat. She informed my life, I’m a writer and she had been inspirational i wrote it as a poem and Pat put it to music and we absolutely love it.

There’s many broken dreams in the creeks. And ‘Guide Me’ isn’t one of them.

SANTIANNO – a traditional shanty, Moonshined by the Moonshiners

SAIL AWAY LADIES, SAIL AWAY

THE BONNY SHIP THE DIAMOND – They kept on drinking and they kept on singing. I, of course dutifully filmed the lot. And enjoyed every minute.

CORNWALL MY HOME

Harry Glesson is a Cornishman, he lives near Penzance. He used to run safaris over the lizard, so they called him Harry ‘Safari’ Glesson. He’s also a singer and songwriter, but can no longer sing because of throat cancer, so his songs are being sung by lots of people. He’s written several songs but this is his most popular. It’s sung by lots of groups everywhere and it’s always sung with great love and fervour. It’s called ‘Cornwall My Home’

TWENTY THOUSAND CORNISHMEN.

This is the Cornish anthem. It’s all about Trelawney who was a bishop of Cornwall. He was sent on some spurious charge to London to the Tower to be killed, and twenty thousand Cornishmen marched down to London to rescue him.

The Acapella Moonshiners said they didn’t want to sing this one, as everybody sings it, but I told them ‘not where I’m from, they don’t’. So the ones who were still standing at the end of the evening gave me this spirited rendition of the song everybody sings in Cornwall. Nobody told me the title, and I was too drunk to ask. And a fine night was had by all.

Summertime – the living isn’t always easy, but it’s good.

Today I walked. Alone. I have had my training week, with The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan making life easy for me, and today they went home and i went to walk. But not before the Lovely John insisted that i armed myself with a little tent and sleeping bag just in case i find myself in the situation i find myself in right now – camped in farm field a coupe of miles out of Bodmin.

Wasn’t intending on camping, but never say never.

Ive had around seven and a half hours of me walking, I’ve covered some miles, and had a bit of an emotional and exhausting day.

So… rather than rattle on about how sad i was when john left, or how determined i was to walk to Bodmin, here’s my last Thursday session with the gorgeous jazz singer, Elisha Mullvaney:

Elisha Mullvaney – ‘my favourite song is by Omar Le Fook ‘The Man’

‘My main thing is I’m not really big into lyrics, I love strong empowering songs, I’m obsessed with drums and bass and how they interact. This is a dirty simple baseline and the drums absolutely carry it. I really love dancing it’s my playful time and I like songs you can dance to and mess around with. I like stuff with a lot of rhythm, when it leans in on the back beat and as a singer the groove is carried on the vocal – the grove is carried in the vocal in this song. The bassoon is swinging it, the drum is on the beat and he is singing between the two.

‘I studied jazz on a course Plymouth university on a course run by Viv Rodd. I’ve sung in choirs since I was 6 and a half. Did a degree in jazz then go a job in social work! Music is about – to me – being playful, its the only part of my identity that gets to be playful. This is me and I don’t care if you judge me cos I’m having fun.

‘Summertime – I really enjoy the melody one of the first songs I learnt to sing – I love the lyrics and the message of being protected and safe, family and stuff. As a jazz singer, you can really mess around with the melody and have fun with it. So many different versions – it is a really fun song to bounce off.

‘Happy message in a minor key.’

I’m totally knackered now, so I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow I walk some more, and I’ll post the sea shanty session. It’s an absolute hoot, well worth the wait. Nighty night peeps xxx

Argh! The discipline of writing a blog

Overlooking Crantock beach in a car park under Bowgie Inn. Heh heh bowgie…

This is where I am right now. You can see my feet. That’s me, looking over the bay, just made some spaghetti bol and eaten it. I’m relaxed now, I’ve had a bit of an almost meltdown trying to find paths for tomorrow. This week I’ve had The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan with me, and my journey so far has been a different one – we can drive to meet people, we can change the direction, and we always have somewhere for the night, as long as we plan where to park, how to get back to the walking point, to walk back to the van. From tomorrow, it’s just me walking like every other LEJOGger, (but slower)

And as I’m typing, the bloke in the next door van has come over and is chatting to us. He’s got a 3 year old with him and is splitting up with his wife. He’s a lovely guy, and I don’t want to say ‘I’m too busy to talk to you’, i want to reassure you that everything will be ok.

Lovely John is talking to him at the moment. They’re both talking electrics and vans.

Here’s my dilemma at the moment – Being in the here and now always trumps looking back at things, and I’m going to have to work at the discipline of writing this blog. I’ve got so many things to tell you about – the jazz singer, the shanty women, the community folk group – and I’ve got videos for all of them.

Tomorrow, Sunday, when I start journeying alone, I shall fill you in on the adventures. But for now, me, The Lovely John, and Dan (the bloke in the next door van) we’ve split a bottle of wine between us, had a beer, and are necking Tullamore, sitting outside our vans, watching the tide coming in and putting the world to rights.

When you’re willing to grab what’s in front of you, Life is sweet.

Note to self: ‘I’m putting the broom out tonight’ means my husband is out for the count/away/down the boozer, and it’s ok to come down. A saying from Dan’s Nan.

When you can’t get enough of that old time stuff

Wednesday night was spent in the company of some very fine musicians in an old time session in a bar called Out of the Blue in Porthleven. Old Time music, for those who don’t know, is a traditional social dance music, American in origin, but mixed with all the various cultures of the settlers to the new world. It has worked its way back over the pond, and has many seemingly simple but hypnotic tunes , designed for dancing and wonderful to play. The tunes when payed in a session tend to be repeated many times – if you are a player, you know the tune by the last repeat, if you are dancing, you are totally in the ‘zone’, if you’re stuck in a pub and there’s a session going on, you may well be crawling up the walls. Me, I love it.

I’ve had a few days of music, so I’ll blog them over the weekend. But first, here’s some tunes from the players at Out of the Blue session, Porthleven.

Here’s some favourite tunes from the players:

1: My name is Guy Ponsford – I run the Asia Fest (Oldtime, Bluegrass, Americana Campout near Penzance, Cornwall). Favourite tune: Hawkes and Eagles, key of D. Love it because it’s fun to play along with, especially for a long time – ten minutes or more, starts to happen, cool groove to it, there’s only a couple of notes to it and everybody can get in on it, and there’s only two chords.

2: Ron Kane. Hook and Line in the key of G – one of my favourite tunes. I probably have about 500 favourite tunes – I wouldn’t learn them if they weren’t my favourites. Every single one. They’re like my children. One big happy family.

The words for this song:

Give me the hook and give me the line

Give me the girl they call Caroline

Took my hook and I give it a flip

Caught my pretty girl by the lip

Shout Luna, shout and shout

Tel me what you’re shouting about

Shout Luna, shout and sing,

Your grandmother’s gone till spring

3: My name is Kat Craddock, going to play Folding Down The Sheets. I like it cos it’s reasonably technical and I can play it and it’s quite unusual for oldtime music, not the standard oldtime type tune.

4: Paul Bennett, favourite tune this is The Old Man and The Old Woman – as played by Spencer and Rayne they got it from Eannis Chase it’s the Texas version, not to be confused with the Grumbling off man and the Grumbling old woman. I really like this tune because I dance in my head every time it’s played.

Thanks guys, I had a wonderful night.xxx

Unable to escape the lure of the Salty Siren and loving it.

I knew If I got on the South West Coastal Path (otherwise known, to me, as the Salty Siren), I’d find it difficult to get off it, I stepped on it yesterday and today received an invite to a music session in Porthleven, just down the South West Coastal Path from Praa Sands where I was staying, and I heard the irresistible call of the Salty Siren enticing me once more to wander along her cliffs. She is indeed a demanding mistress, this siren, this Coastal path. Every mile along her path is worth 5 miles anywhere else, in blood, sweat and pain, but it is worth every steep incline, every stomach churning descent, and every endless supply of bays keeping you from your destination.

You get to see things in the caress of the Salty Siren. You get to see primary school parties who don’t know any traditional songs (yes, I asked them) and other primary school kids learning how to abseil in a way that would make the SAS flinch.

You see the dog-walking couple again, the ones who overtook you many times yesterday, you watch them power-walking miles behind you and you know they will overtake you again within five minutes. You marvel at their skill, their nimble dexterity, and when you mention that you saw the yesterday several times, you never see them again.

Today, we were the slowest hikers in Cornwall. Taking it steady, getting out feet toughened up. Tonight we will meet some local musicians and I may have a story or two to tell.

There were so many steps like this, up and down

But it was worth it for the glorious views and that blue blue water calling you ever onwards

Had our picnic here, it doesn’t look it but it was a rocky outcrop only accessible by a terrifying walk through bracken hanging on to the edge of the cliff.

I posted this page already today, but accidentally deleted it, couldn’t retrieve it, so had to rewrite it. Which is a shame cos the original page was hilarious and incredibly well written.

An Owen Wilson Kind of day

This is day two. Bear in mind that my feet are aching and I’m still trying to work out how much stuff to carry in my rucksack, and one of my meet-ups has been changed and is now not as far along the journey as it was going to be, so I can take it a little slower. And I’m in Cornwall. Most of the routes from Lands End through Cornwall go along the middle of the county, along the backbone. I reckon I’m still in training (having done practically none), so today it was decided that a walk along the coastal path from Penzance to Praa Sands would be the order of the day.

We drove to Praa Sands and parked up right by the beach, then walked up the hill to the main road and caught the bus to Penzance. I have a confession to make: I took into consideration the extra mileage we walked yesterday and this morning and the walkway was open, and decided that we really should get off the bus three miles early and walk to St Michael’s Mount then carry on along the coastal route. Good call.

The day was filled with so many ‘Wow’ moments that we turned into Owen Wilson every time we said ‘Wow’, (St Michael’s Mount, Marizion, the coastal path – every view, every turn, every hilltop, every valley, every cove, the two canoeists, the azure clear sea, the naked sunbathers way down on Prussia cove, the little thatched cottages, the astounding circular courtyard that doubled as a wedding venue, the couple and the dog who kept overtaking us, nipping down to every beach and still overtaking us again, and The Stealth Campervan waiting for us there right by the beach after a lovely day’s walking).

The coastal path wasn’t on my route, but I’m glad I did the detour.

Yes I took photos, but they don’t do the wowing justice, so I ain’t posting them. Here’s Owen Wilson going ‘wow’ instead: