FOLK ON THE WATER
September 2007

When the great British Summer comes around few things are more eagerly anticipated than Festival season: Glastonbury, Reading, T in The Park ... I have failed to visit them all in my life, so this year I decided it was time to brave the muddy fields, godforsaken toilets and questionable cuisine of a three day camping music festival.

Not for me the outsized faux new age commercialism of Glastonbury. No! I decided to keep it real and go to Cropredy. ‘Cropredy’ I hear you ask? Well, it’s a small but well established festival that is staged every year by Fairport Convention. ‘Fairport Covention” I hear you ask? Well, they are a small but well established folk rock band. “Folk rock” I hear you … oh shut up.

Fairport Convention are regarded as the pioneers of British Folk Rock. They began in 1967 and were led by the soft, lilting tones of the late, great Sandy Denny. The lion’s share of the songwriting was taken by brilliant guitarist Richard Thompson, who has since furrowed a fascinating solo career.

I was going with Ben, bass player with The Mustangs, and festival veteran. He sent me an extensive list of things he recommended I take. So, armed with a two plastic bags, a rotting quilt and a pair of painfully chaffing sandals, I set off to pick him up on Friday lunchtime.

We made it to Oxfordshire in record time, before hitting the tail end of a 10- mile queue of punters trying to get on to the festival site. “Try this back road” , Ben suggested, browsing a thirty year old copy of the AA Road Atlas (I think it may even have been for France, not I’d ever noticed). It seemed preferable to sitting in traffic for 3 days, so I gamely followed his directions. We fully expected to hit the back end of more festival traffic as we appeared to be getting closer to the site, but as we carried on, the site loomed upon us and, by the magic of independent thought, we arrived at the site and ambled on without even having to show a pass.

With hundreds of vehicles already on the site, a steward was directing cars to the top end of the field, seemingly miles from the action, so once again we decided to go our own way and darted round the back of her in hope of finding a better spot. In the distance we saw the stage, and drove towards it only to come across a canal running across us, complete with beautiful canal boats, quaint bridges, and thick rushes. Ben and I looked at each other and laughed, it was the perfect spot to pitch camp.

Within 20 minutes we had set up our tents and were surveying the scene. The sun had come out for the weekend too, and we couldn’t believe that just over an hour ago we were hurtling through London traffic. Cropredy seemed too idyllic for words.

We spent the next three days in a blissful state of suspended animation, wandering lazily between our campsite and the music area, ambling around the food concessions (it all actually tasted like food, too!), strolling into Cropredy itself (a picture perfect English village) and of course, listening to some fabulous music.

On the Friday night Jools Holland tore the place up with some great jazz and swing, his superb band joined by the incredible lungs of Ruby Turner and the sparkling star that is Lulu. It was a great, feel good night of music and at the end Ben and I made our way back to the tents chomping on hot sugary donuts as our breath hung in the cold, black air.

The second night was the big event. Fairport Convention were going to play all of their seminal Liege & Lief album, for the first time in 40 years, with the original line up (alas without Denny, who died in the mid 70s). The anticipation amongst the 20,000 strong crowd was palpable and when the band came on and began the album’s singalong opener Come All Ye, I had a broad smile across my face and a hot sugary feeling in my soul. It was wonderful but all over too soon, as the band stuck rigidly to just playing the 40-minute album.

However, the evening’s events were not over as the brilliant Richard Thompson came back 30 minutes later with his own band to an electric set of his solo material.

As the night sadly ended, Ben and I headed once again to the donuts, this time holding them close to our stomachs to keep us warm as we made our way back to camp.

By the third morning my lack of preparation for the trip was starting to take show. Ben had brought a sleeping bag and a pillow, and as he emerged from his tent looking years younger each morning, I seemed to be ageing by the night. My lack of anything sensible to sleep on or in was crippling my back and, I swear it, turning my hair grey.

Now I like a bit of folk music as much – if not more – than the next man. After all, my other was a folk singer, so it must be in my blood. But after 3 days of endless twiddly (admittedly brilliant) fiddle solos and moon calf singing, I realised that some of the finer things in life are best taken in small doses. I decided to stay at the campsite and listen to the football on the radio. Ben sat quietly on the canal bank watching the boats go by, waiting patiently for one of the dogs to jump off the back of one and into the water. A few hours later, reinvigorated by a Liverpool win on the opening day of the season, I bounced onto the music site for the last night’s events.

The final night was Fairport Convention Feast. Almost 4 hours of the band’s current line up, with guests from past line ups, widdling and fiddling their way through seemingly every song they ever wrote. And as the band finally launched into their epic anthem Meet On The Ledge, everyone in the crowd sang through their beards (even the women) with a gusto and camaraderie Ben said simply didn’t exist at other festivals he went to.

That night as we walked back to camp we heard campfires roaring, guitars strumming and everywhere people were relaxing and having fun. We sat out for a few hours and watched the shooting stars, barely saying a word but soaking up the atmosphere as it hung in the night, until eventually the chill forced us to our tents.

What had felt a perfect weekend had finally come to an end, and we swore by the blood of our forefathers to make the trip again next year. It had been wonderful, and nothing had gone wrong….

….until the final morning, when my car wouldn’t start……but this is Cropredy, where everybody knows your name, and not only were we offered a jump start by the people camping next to us, they also tried to give us a crate of beer…

I’ll bet that doesn’t happen at Glastonbury…

Adam