Come all ye

Most of us seem grey or dyed
but in our fold-up chairs
eyes closed, half-dozing, we’re still

19, two in a single student bed,
listening reel-to-reel
(might she be here?)

24, walking in a white dress down the aisle
on the 14th of May - our private joke
(oh lord, could he be here?)

15, in this field the first time
when love was lord of all

33, dancing on the grass
with the baby in our arms
till the sinking of the sun,
the rising of the moon…

remembering  -
those smoky folk clubs,
the times we open-miked and dreamed,
the dances, the lingering holds, the corners,
the youth of it all.


It’s Fairport Convention’s 50th birthday at the 38th Cropredy Festival. I’ve been meaning to come to Cropredy for years and somehow not making it. Finally I’m here, tent pitched, wristband acquired and map deciphered. As I walk into the arena I am staggered at the rows and rows and rows of camping chairs. Camping chairs in matching pairs. Some even have built-in tables. My miniature stool, brought rather shamefully because I don’t as easily sit all day on the ground as I once did, is the humblest by far. The mosh pit is an apologetic little semi-circle between this acre of tidy chairs and the stage. I recalibrate my definition of ‘festival’. There’s ample room between the rows so I park my little stool and head out to explore.
 
The bold smell of ostrich burgers wafts across the wide grass path and over the punters in vegan t-shirts; it’s almost the only smell that obliterates the surprising number of roll-ups. The bar is huge and civilised – there’s no scrum as people wait in turn for their four-pint, plastic milk-bottles of bitter. Yesterday’s rain has turned the earth into soft clay, moulded and remoulded by the bare feet encouraged out by today’s unexpected sun. It feels like a birthday gift as it warms our back and glows through umbrellas brought for the rain.

Telegrams messages are read out on stage celebrating birthdays, wedding anniversaries with zeros on the end and Matty and Polly’s 38th year at this extended family party I feel I’m gatecrashing.

Then we’re told that  Bob Dylan has sent 50th birthday wishes. Y'know, just for a moment I thought I saw him.