Where was I?

   In Brandivy, obviously. So. We'd turned up without any grub - as it turned out, this was to become a running theme of the festival, from my point of view. Luckily, the generosity of all involved enabled us to fill our ailing stomachs, and we drank of fresh water and wine, and grinned most merrily. New friends were met, in a circle on the floor, including another blacksmith (Jaco) which was to be expected, I suppose. He's Dutch, and smelts his own iron (show-off).

   Sufficient time has now passed for me to have forgotten mostly what happened - I don't doubt that the ever-vigilant Bex Bourne will correct, or criticise, as necessary.

   It seems to me that some time must have passed. I think at this point we went along to the local primary school, and did a mini gig ( a few songs) under a hawthorn tree to the enraptured audience of little kids. A classic moment was when heaps of them started dancing to Pentorr, who rocked. We traipsed across the village to an old folk's home, where we again took turns in performing. The old folks, for the most part, didn't seem to know what to make of us. I believe Katrine (Head honcho of the whole thing, and vocal Breton) is related to one of the older types.

   Some more time may have elapsed, and, eventually, I was introduced to my host family, Nicolas and Réjanne (along with their two boys, Pol and Théo, and the dog, Jazz.*) Nicolas is a woodworker, of the timber framing sort, and has a massive workshop filled with every conceiveable tool - from adzes and side axes (huzzah!) to 12-foot sliding-bed LASER**-guided circular saws. A lot of the work he does involves old buildings, so there was a certain amount of overlap in our "talking-shop", especially, as it turns out, since Nicolas is a keen amatuer blacksmith. He showed me his forge, his anvil, and several tools, and we used this interest in metalwork as a starter to our communications - he had little enough English, and I less French, though we did OK.

   Mystifyingly, after introductions were made, we made way to Pol and Théo's school, although it might have been some sort of village hall. In any event, I sat down, and, feeling out of place for the first time, watched the "spectacle" of the local kids singing, with a small group of older musicians, and then a very strange older woman who I assume was a teacher singing about hot chocolate in the most annoying manner known to man, to say nothing of language barriers. The story she told was quite good, though. Afterwards, I talked with a gentleman about mandolas (he had an octave mandola (that's an "octave mandolin" if you're American. Tuned like a mandolin, but an octave lower. Like a bouzouki.), met up with my friend Martin Coote (whose "hosts" lived around the corner from us, and were also present) who was having more of a difficulty with the language issure than me, as no-one in his house spoke ANY English.  We said cheerio, made our way back, some supper was eaten, ukuleles were observed, and then we re-convened at the bar in Brandivy, and beer was drunk, music was made. Eventually, we returned to base, and I slept, for the first time in a while.

   The new day dawned, as sunny and warm as the previous. Doubtless my trusted companions were happy about this, and though it was nice to see the sun for so long, it's unfortunate that I spend my time in the summer-like sun squinting, sweating, and smelling. I can only offer my sincerest apologies to any that strayed too close to me over those days. The first notable event of the morning was one where my limited French was strained to its limit. Pol, aged approximately 5, does not speak English, and there are no lock on the doors of his fine home. So it was then, that I was happily showering, when a small and inquisitive voice said something I didn't recognise, and pointed. Covering my dignity, I said "Pol! Desolée! Interdit! Aller!" or something like that. The general point was taken, and he left, looking faintly confused. I then used my capo as a make-shift door lock, and finished my shower in peace.

I forget the details of that early afternoon, but I do recall having to repair my mandola box. "Nicolas, avez-vous un petit clou, sil vous plait?" was enough to get me a panel pin. Handy these woodworkers. Shame their children use mandola cases as trampolines. Nicolas is also a talented musician, who plays mainly the trumpet nowadays. Tragically, he used to be a guitar player, a very talented one in the gypsy-jazz style. I say tragically, and it really is, because in a work accident he lost all but one of his fingers on his left hand. My observations indicate that this happened only a year or so ago, so... Well, it's pretty rough on the poor guy. But his trumpet-playing was well appreciated.

While i'm on the subject, their house is STUFFED with instruments! Nicolas' father (or maybe grandfather...) was a musician, and something of a one-man band. There were:

A bass drum, an acoustic guitar, an electric guitar, ukulele, electric bass, kora, two trumpets, an accordian, a violin, and gods-only-know-what I didn't see. Phew!

At this point, having spent a delightful afternoon with the kindly host folks, we trundled off to the first of two Fest-Noz-es. Cider was drunk in quantity, this may or may not have been the time that the "Mermaid" play was played out to humourous effect, and we may have gone on a procession around the town. I played an A-minor chord for nearly an hour. It seemed to fit. The most notable occurence of the procession, in my mind, was piling through the back kitchens of a creperie, to the mixed delight and horror of the guests and owners.

Hmm. Right. Let's see.Hmm. The Sunday reared it's head, I showered (I love my capo, now), we went on a small cycle ride around the countryside, and various things of that nature, and then...what happened then? Well, the day somehow passed, and we ended up at another Fest-Noz. I should point out, in the unlikely event that anyone reads this who wasn't there, that a Fest-Noz is, roughly, the same as a ceilidh, or a jolly good music and dancing knees-up. We filled in more-or-less as the universal support band, our punchy volume and low-set-up requirements meaning we could sing two or three numbers as each of the more technically-laden groups were setting up. I think we were supposed to sing a "set", but, given the low-danceability of many shanties, and how well it worked out, I think it was for the best.

Other events that night involved talking to Jeffrey for the first time, who is a wonderful fellow, if a little enthusiastic. He also has the best pair of legs i've ever seen on a genetic male human. I was also, just for a change, nice to Vera. She seemed to appreciate it. You can read about her travels here. Eventually, we left, once more, and I slept like the dead. They get up early, you know!

I can see the final stretch in sight... OK. Sunday was apparently supposed to start with an Easter Egg hunt, but we forgot, so I didn't get any (Waaaagh!) but, luckily, i'd given Nicolas and Réjanne some eggs to give to Pol and Théo, so I didn't mind really. Giving is better than getting, sometimes. That afternoon, we travelled to Pout-.....Bout........Poul-Fetan! I knew it'd come to me in the end. That's a restored village, in the style of maybe the 11th Century. There was a tavern (Aha!), a sabotier (clog-maker. Like the saboton, a peice of armour? No?), various milk-maids (they weren't like the ones in folk-songs - I tried...), and so on. I regret not impressing people with my mighty, heroic thews, as apparently there was an impromptu weightlifting competition. Ah well.

Notably, we had another round of mini-gigs, underneath a massive chestnut tree. We sang well, and got rapturous applause. We do sound great when we all get together...

As the afternoon wore on, we returned to Brandivy to

a) Play bizarre and complicated games involving sacks***, rugby balls, toilets, and fishing. (Amongst others).

b) Lie on the floor.

c) Jam, and make sweet music. Especially appreciated was Crazy Dave's harmonica playing, which wowed many, including Luke, whose musical opinion I respect more than....well, most.

At some point amongst all this, there was an epic night of jamming. We'd re-appeared at Castell Guen (Katrine and Patrick's place) and the evening disappear in feasting and wine-drinking. Afterwards, the "youngs" as Patrick called us, stayed behind and partied. "Wild Thing" on the accordian (Cheers Seamus) was one of the more memorable moments, as well as a lengthy all-inclusive Fleet Foxes number.

The last night there was sedate. We danced for a bit under stern orders from Katrine (I tried to dance with Vera, but fate pulled us apart), ate, sat around a pretend fire, and made music. The stars were beautiful, and I wandered off for a bit to be alone with my own thoughts, which were at once remorseful, jubilant, hopeful, and scattered. I saw more shooting stars than i'd seen in my whole life in that short hour or so.

As all things, eventually, we had to leave. We said our "thank-you"s, our "goodbye"s, their Francophonic equivalents, and piled into the van once more. We stopped off at a Super-U en route, and with some saved coin, bought (in my case) mead, meat, cheese, and a "gay-German vest" and a t-shirt (which Bex promptly stained. Mucky pup.) Dave's quantity of cider and wine would have cause a mule to collapse, and Luke's rather-more-modest selection was most appreciatvely drunk on the way back. The ferry crossing was, once more, unremarkable (I don't know if I expected kraken, shipwrecks, sirens, or what...) save for some playing on the deck outside. I once more tried to be nice to Vera, but it's very difficult. We suck at shoot-em-ups. When we got back to English soil, wine was drank, and we trundled merrily back, dropping Molly Budd at Plymouth, and chasing a badger down a lane.

When we got back to 4 Marine Crescent, we mostly crashed out, save me and Luke - we sat up for some hours putting the world to rights. I like Luke.

So. In summary and conclusion: It was a fantastic few days, riddled with joy, confusion, music, dancing, things that could have been from Monty Python films, and laughs. I miss it. I still feel the place, as I look around on a sunny day. New friends in abundance, and old friends i'd not seen for a while made it the best time I can remember without straining a brain-stictch. I guess there were moments where I was a little uncomfortable (notably witnessing the affection my two former lovers have for each other - I do wish them well, though), but it was, in the main, ace.  If i've missed anything, then sorry!

In other news, the Mill at Talgarth is now producing flour, and we've done well to get it so. More updates will be forthcoming.

I will be in Cornwall next week. Whee!

* Along with chickens, three horses, a mad child-eating duck, a massive toad (un crapo grand!) and many more besides.

** I spell it in capitals because it's an acronym. I don't bother with the dots.

*** The sack race, for such it was, nearly caused my heart to explode. Fat blacksmiths with short legs are not good at this. I had to lie down for some considerable time, in the dubious solace of the kitchen steps.