Hi Folks, Hello New Blog,
Some of you who are reading this (in fact, probably all of you) will be familiar with my old blog "http://danny-jo1987.livejournal.com/", which was fine. Following some advice from my good friend Silje, along with the vague notion that LiveJournal was getting a little bit out of date, I opted for the more integrate-able and user-friendly "Blogger".
So. What on Earth have I been up to since I last posted?
I've been on my holidays. I set off, on a bright April morning, to the sprawling metropolis of Hereford (which always seems to feature in my tales). Clutched in my hand was a finely-made (ha!) wooden case to protect my mandola on the long road ahead. I got there rather earlier than i'd planned to, and as such spent a few hours idling away the time until my good friend Jake appeared. We had a swift coffee, and I bequeathed unto him my instrument bag, which, although having done sterling service, I didn't feel happy about clanking the mandola around the continent in. The time quickly ebbed away, and I found myself trundling at some pace down to the train station.
Luckily, another good friend, and one whose face I'd not laid eyes upon for a while, Luke Drinkwater, was heading vaguely Bristol-ward, bound for Cornwall, with a spare seat. I stumbled off the train at Bristol, having amused myself on the journey by talking to an extremely hirsute trainspotter, and ineffectively chatting up a young lady (off on her travels to somewhere - I think it was Russia).
Hopping in the car with Luke, Harold "Chestnut" "8-Cocks" Harding (kindly driving), and a gentleman called Pete (a saxophone wrangler), we sped down to Falmouth in a plethora of spoonerisms and bad humour, which helped the journey along nicely.
Arriving in Falmouth, I was reunited with some other old friends, namely Lisa Harrison, Molly Budd, Bex Bourne (at Golant Youth Hostel, where she was working), Vera Johansen (who, with Silje, arrived some time later), Silje (see above), Dave Hart, and some other friendly faces. It was good to see them all, good to drink Skinner's beer in the 'front pub, and generally good.
However, everybody was quite busy, or absent, or something, so I spent a bit of time busking. I forgot how great Falmouth was for it - I sat on my rickety old stool, and twanged and sang, and sometimes just sang, and coin flowed like water from a happy hill spring. This passed the time most delightfully, and with the fruits of my 8-stringed labours was able to purchase a few bits and pieces which have (fingers crossed) solved my mandola string-breaking issues, and a strap - making lugging the stool about less necessary.
One of the best things about the busking was that, for a small time, I was joined by Molly Budd in my endeavours. I've mentioned before that one of my foremost wishes for a long while has been to be able to make music or sing in even the same Parish as Molly's ability, so it was great to be able to do that. The coin flowed all the more for having her tender voice augmenting my rough style. She still complained the whole time, though. Tsk.
So. Time went by. The morning of our departure came, Martin Coote leapt on board, and Lisa drove us to Plymouth. In total there were nine of us, all armed with rings of power, the remnants of a once-mighty sea shanty band, plus two other wonderful musicians to give us some needed punch. We arrived at the ferry in good time, our "set" being practised mainly of the way, and got on the ferry. The crossing was unremarkable, and many scarcely got the sleep they needed. I took to wandering the decks, lost in thoughts entirely my own.
Arriving in France, we zoomed out of the ferry port with Dave Hart taking the wheel. As we roamed the French countryside, Luke began musing about his memories of the place, given that he spent much of his childhood around those parts. He remembered visiting something like "Arthur's Stone", so we diverted to the woodlands near Huelgoat, and found some signs for "Grotte de Artur" (Arthur's Grotto, I suppose) and stopped for a needed leg-stretch. We ambled through the verdant woods, where Spring had definitely sprung, and took in the mystical stones (dolmens and menhirs and all - just like in Asterix!), spending a particularly breathtaking few minutes looking down at the treetops from a HUGE boulder. I fell off it while trying to follow the ever-inquisitive Dave down the rocks, and promptly removed 50% of my hard-earned finger calluses. Luke also spent some time getting into the swing of things, re-living his childhood enthusiasm amidst the streams and rocks and trees. (I also found a magic stick, that span around delightfully helix-like in the hand, but had to leave it due to luggage reasons).
Eventually, we arrived, near Brandivy, at Castel Guen, the location of a picnic that, somehow, we managed to not bring any food to. We met up with some familiar faces (such as Katrine the organiser; John Dudding the dis-organiser; Lisa's parents Nic and Jackie and many more besides), as well as meeting many new friends.
That's more than enough typing in one go. . .
To be continued.
