Summer Solstice

I've just started reading Patrick Leigh Fermor's A Time of Gifts, and though I'm only a few pages in, already I'm gripped. It's rightly seen as a classic piece of travel literature, detailing a young man's journey by foot to Istanbul (then, still, Constantinople) along the Rhine, just at the moment that Hitler came to power. Scary. Not dissimilar in style to Laurie Lee, but far less schmaltzy, it's beautifully written and speaks of an era that is long past.


Journeys are very much on my mind as we've not long been back from a 42 mile walk - a pilgrimage I suppose - along the Ridgeway to Avebury for the Summer Solstice (readers of the Telling the Bees blog will know that this is an annual trip for me, though this is the first time I've done it all on foot).

In retrospect it was a rewarding, even transforming experience, though at the time it was gruelling and challenging and more than once I cursed my folly in saying yes to this stupid adventure. We do a lot of walking, but usually of ten miles or less and with day packs, not full camping provisions. My legs aren't as lithe as the last time I made the journey back in my twenties, and even though my walking boots are so broken in they're almost broken out, I got some spectacular blisters.

The group was made up of old friends from road-protesting days, and new friends from previous Solstices. We all met up at Goring station and set off from there. Other friends occasionally turned up and walked bits of the journey with us.







Some travelled lighter than others - fine when the weather was good, but a bit drafty when wet.


We took instruments, a proper troupe of travelling minstrels, so there was time for a little music along the way.


We walked fifteen miles on the first day, seventeen on the second, and by the time we made camp I was in a kind of delirium of fatigue. I can't remember the last time I felt so tired.


Oddly I awoke on day three full of energy, and leapt up the hill past Barbury Castle like a gazelle. An easy five miles took us to Avebury, or at least to the spot in the Avebury environs where we go for Solstice. We felt triumphant.

It rained heavily on Solstice eve, but we retreated to our tents and caught some kip. The night was damp, cloudy, but free of rain, and there was much music-making around the fire. It was a night of perranzabulations, just as it should be.


Sunrise was grey and in spite of some promising lightening of the clouds, we didn't see the sun. Not that it matters. It's keeping the vigil that counts. And there was more music. And chocolate, courtesy of Graham Harvey (who took many of these photos.)


We crashed out shortly after sunrise, in what you can see was a rather damp tent!





We woke mid-morning by which point the sun was shining and a stiff wind was blowing up from the southwest. There was time for a short excursion to the upper world...


Graham, who is looking ever more the sage Druid, got out his bullroarer and let it thunder in the wind.


And we climbed up to the hill to look out on what is an extraordinary, and to me very sacred, landscape. It felt like we'd done solstice well.


The hardest bit with any journey, actually, is the coming back. And though I've been writing an exciting new course module on 'Festivals in Religion and Culture', for the Religious Studies department up at Oxford Brookes University, it's been hard work, for my heart is still up on the Downs, watching hares dart across the fields to the ever-present sound of skylarks.

Which is why I might just go and lose myself in another ten pages of Fermor's wonderful book...

Bounder and Hillage

It's not every day that you get a whole podcast dedicated to you, but my friend Matthew Watkins has done just that with episode 8 of his ever-wonderful Canterbury Soundwaves. Much obliged to you sir. It's devoted to the music of Steve Hillage and I can confirm that I remain a big Hillage fan.

I've also just discovered the joys of Bounder moustache wax. Doubtless you'll be seeing the results of my facial topiary here soon.

The Bagpipe Society

I spent last weekend at the Blowout, the annual gathering of the Bagpipe Society. I was hoping to regale you with photos of what was an excellent festival, but I was having such a good time that I didn't take any - that's how good it was.

Anyone who used to read Asterix will surely remember how Getafix disappeared off to the annual conference of the druids in the forest of Carnutes, and once there indulged in a frenzy of badinage, in-jokes and bad puns. Well, the Blowout is a bit like that. With bagpipes instead of druids. And it's not in a forest. But you get the idea. It's good to be among like minds.

There were great concerts (Paul Martin (Border pipes) and Belgian piper Remi Decker), some brilliant talks (bet you never knew how important bagpipes were at the Tudor court revels - nope, neither did I), and a rocking band for the Saturday night bal, Mister Klof, all the way from Montpelier. I was teaching rather than performing, but I did end up playing till 3am in a late night session.

One of the things I've been up to lately - in my guise as Publicity Officer - is redesigning and rewriting the Bagpipe Society website (along with techie virtuoso Joe Wass, the man behind Folktunefinder) and I'm pleased to say it went live this week. I've been enjoying the challenge of writing for the web - saying what you mean in as concise and as welcoming a manner as possible. And it's been fun sorting through hundreds of photos trying to pick the choicest images. So do come and check it out.

And what's more, we have a fantastic new logo commissioned from none other than Rima Staines.


Rima also came up with this extraordinary image, a vignette for the website. I actually staggered backwards across the room when I opened up the file for the first time. Here he is, the spirit of the bagpipes, the Green Man piper.

And if you ever wanted to know why I play the pipes, why I am so obsessed with this ancient, honking, parping beast of an instrument, half plant, half animal, a wild, untamed, horned thing, well, this image says it all. Lord of the dance indeed. Play on.

Syd Arthur

Can I let you into a secret? Really? OK then. Here goes. Barring the occasional song I've never liked indie-rock.

I know, I know. We're all supposed to love it (hell, I live in Oxford, home of Ride, Supergrass, the Mystics, the Foals, not forgetting the 'head - I used to see that Johnny Greenwood in Londis, don't you know? - and in OX4, indie-rock just oozes up through the pavements.) If the rock press are to be believed, when you reach a certain age all the tribal loyalties of youth drop away, and you're supposed to look back on the history of rock with a wistful sigh, one seamless vinyl progression of sweat and rebellion.

Bollocks. I've never been able to deal with the haircuts and attitude. I like my rock boot-cut and wrapped in an Afghan. If it ain't got moog, mellotron or preferably a VCS3, don't waste my time.

So imagine my delight to discover Syd Arthur (geddit?), four hideously talented twenty somethings, playing the music they love. And that happens to be prog, informed by the psychedelic music that poured out of their home town, Canterbury, in the late sixties and seventies. No hair cuts. No cool. Just exquisite musicianship, played from the heart.


They did a storming set in the Chai Wallahs tent at Sunrise, and have just released an EP, Moving World, which you can buy from their website. You can also hear an interview with them on the ever-excellent Canterbury Soundwaves podcast. I can hear traces of Caravan, Hatfield and the North, Yes and Jethro Tull in their choppy chords and funny time signatures, but the music is all their own, never derivative, and Liam Magill's distinctive vocals give it all a contemporary feel. They're virtuosic, but I was particularly struck by Raven Bush's rock mandolin. Things get wild and hairy when Joel Magill puts his bass through the fuzz box, tripped along by Fred Rother's tight drumming, but really it's all trouser-widening stuff.

They've made prog cool again and I think they're gonna be big. My tip is to catch them soon before they start filling stadiums.

Sunrise and the Rollright Fayre

It's been a week parenthesized by festivals, one of which was quite unexpected. The weekend before last we went walking in North Oxfordshire, where, incidentally, we found this beautiful fallen oak, looking for all the world like the skeleton of a beached kraken.


Someone quite obviously goes there to eat, for tucked underneath were piles of crow and magpie feathers, a pheasant's wing, and a lamb's scapula. I'm hoping that someone was a fox. Whoever it was, the place felt spooky. We sat in the branches and Nomi couldn't resist a dangle.



Suddenly a text from Annie - come to the Rollright stones! So we did. It was only down the road. (They have to keep them fenced off, I'm told. Something to do with excessive amounts of telluric energy. Lord only knows what would happen if we actually touched them).


What's this? A festival! The Rollright Fayre. A small but perfectly formed gathering, with all the tell-tale signs of a good night had - zombie eyes and puckered lips. We weren't equipped for staying over, but the gatekeepers kindly let us in to have a wander and to taste our first chai of the season. How perfect. The Rollrights simply require a fayre.


And then it was off to Sunrise, possibly my favourite festival of all. None of your boutique-shmoutique, off-the-peg insta-fest here. No, Sunrise is cut from the cloth of hippiedom, pure and simple. Small enough not to need your psychic shields, large enough to go large, Sunrise has it all: a beautiful site with expansive views over the Eastern Mendips, rollicking festival folk music, plenty of dub and prog, a dollop of eco-agitation, good chai, a chance to reconnect with old friends and psychedelic adventurers, and, not least, some banging techno.


And - thank goodness - a nice cup of tea!


The main stage looked like one of Kubla Khan's pleasure domes. We just caught the tail end of what was clearly a mighty set by Zubzub.


I was there with my Shroom hat on, talking about the history of the magic mushroom and academic approaches to the matter of psychedelic experience. Thanks, as ever, to the Portal for the Immortal for having me.


Thanks to Runic John's aptly-named 'Miracle' potion, Saturday night down at the Eartheart Cafe was a blinder (no, I don't know what's in it - he won't tell me - but it does what it says on the tin).


We were dressed up for 'Steampunk night' but, frankly, I recommend a suit at a festival. I mean, sartorial standards have just slipped too far...



And yes, we were both rehatted thanks to the rather wonderful Vintage Relics stall (coming to a festival near you). As the, ahem, old bardic triad has it: three things a man should have: a hat, a pipe and a library. Well quite.