MUSIC has once again been in the air here in Sedbergh. With St Andrew’s biennial music festival just finished, this year’s Folk Festival came to town.

Over the weekend the twang of guitars floated balefully over the newly-installed tent city on the edge of town and the old place was buzzing with people enjoying the sounds and the sunshine. Yes, that’s right I did say sunshine, I know it’s a bit unusual but hey I’m not complaining.

But even with the weather being so good I doubt there’ll be much naked dancing going on such as the world witnessed at the festival of all festivals, Woodstock. I spent my youth wondering how I could have got there and it wasn’t until 1982 that I discovered that it was in America.

Conversely, I have a theory that there will be more than a few disappointed festivalgoers after all it is traditionally supposed to be a mud bath. I mean what can you talk about if it’s all been perfect. I have experience a few muddy festival‘s where you arrive on Friday with the temperature rising and the barometer hovering on fair. You are full of expectation and a few beers as you wend your way through the camp fire guitar heroes to your stifling two-man tent. Saturday dawns a little grey but you and your party are sure things will brighten up. The friend with the camper van cooks the perfect hangover remedy, double egg and bacon plus a couple of burnt sausages all swimming in those infamous beans, swilled down with a mug of tepid tea. Mmm, delicious. This was usually followed up by a trip to the wash house or more likely the local pub where the ablution facilities were a good deal better.

One year at Cropredy Folk Festival when helping to push cars out of the mire I ended up face down in the newly-coagulated mud and so did my daughter Jo, poor girl and it was her first festival an’ all. Oh, how we laughed, when we finished crying, so you see without the mud no fun at all: “We are Stardust we are golden and we got to get ourselves back to the garden.” Now where did I put my trowel?