Sidmouth Folk Festival 2024: Live Review – At The Barrier (2024)

Sidmouth Folk Festival – 2nd-9th August 2024

70 years young, the doyenne of the folk tradition smartens up her bonnet, simultaneously letting loose her britches.

Sidmouth isn’t like other festivals. Or, at least, the sort of festival I usually frequent. That, in itself, takes a little getting used to, some perspective and some slack required, as, once acclimatised, it offers an ever widening palette of the indefinable essence of what folk music contrives to be in 2024. Yes, tradition, or ‘the‘ tradition, looms large, the initial focus seeming to be all workshops and dance displays; never before have I seen quite so many morris dancers in one place, and I have form!

Likewise, the many and varied concerts, tucked over a veritable smorgasbord of venues, from church halls, guide huts and arts centre basem*nts, including also a bevy of purpose erected marquees, touch every aspect of (largely) UK derived music and song. And, whilst much of this is acoustic, if in all but energy, there are a whole lot more electric guitars and drum kits around than might be necessarily expected. Hell, up at the Bulverton Dance Tent, willows were being stripped to decks and drum machines. Heady stuff!

Lasting just over a week, 9 days in all, including pre-festival entrées, that was beyond my envelope, so, I arrived on the Sunday, pitching my tent high up on the windy hillside above the seaside town. Such is the nature of the geography, this is the only way the volume of attendees can be cantilevered into the narrow streets and thoroughfares, requiring. regular shuttle of buses to get from the hill to the beach.

I soon learnt the map, in the programme, was to be my most trusted ally, as I pieced everything together. Luckily my first date was at the Ham, a deceptively large marquee at the end of the promenade, behind the lifeboat station. With a queue for entry snaking around and over the bridge that crosses the river Sid, as it enters the sea, a frisson of alarm skittered briefly, but the all seated arena turned out to be quite the tardis.

SUNDAY

First up was to be Karine Polwart, but, ahead of her came a short set from Kitewing, the amalgamation of two smaller bands, The Shackleton Trio and Alden & Patterson. Five in number, with, initially, two fiddles, two guitars and a mandolin, all were strong singers, as some acapella swiftly showed. As a guitar was swapped for banjo, all the folk boxes were surely being ticked, heightening any folk prejudices that might be afoot. Sorry, wrong town! This is exactly what the capacity crowd were gagging for, I not a moment behind. Heck, there was even a song about wild swimming, a theme to be returned to. With the tent now fully in the moment, Ms Polwart, alone, with just her voice and guitar, showed exactly why so many, ourselves included, hold her with such high esteem.

With no pins dropped, attentiveness was absolute, the only additional accompaniment being from the strangely apt crying of seagulls, and she gave a masterclass of holding an audience in her palm. Knowing her constituency only too well, the invitation to join in, was met, without delay; my chum Dave said the Sidmouth audiences sing always the best, in part as that is what so many actually do for a living. As he boomed alongside me, I was in no position to deny that. It was a grand start.

With time on my hands, exploration and excavation was the recipe, which involved negotiating myriad dance sides, thronging the pebbleside walkway, and a dip into the first of many wall-to-wall and never ending sessions in Pyne’s bar at the Bedford Hotel. Instrumental and singing sessions, I should say, the bar crammed with fiddles, flutes, banjos, mandolins, whistles, guitars and squeezeboxes, and their players. Beer, it’s true, was also taken. (Indeed, this picture and pattern was simultaneously being repeated in each and every licensed premise, and there are a few, in Sidmouth). A perusal of the many stalls in the several little pop-up villages, dotted about the vicinity, was also given, with the usual mix of food, musical instruments, arts and crafts and hippy gear. The sun was also out, a rarity in this meteorologally disappointing summer, all proving well with the world.

Back the the Ham, for the day’s big ticket event, the queue this time longer still. As a warm -up came a set, nominally from Emily Portman, but she had found and enlisted Lucy Farrell along the way. The duo, whose spookily ethereal harmonies enliven The Furrow Collective, proved equally enticing in this reduced format. Their sometimes possibly even child like, vocals beguiled, especially when unaccompanied, although their keyboards, banjo and viola were also a balmy presence to be called upon. Impressive.

Their build was more than adequate to ramp up the anticipation for Dream In Colours, swiftly becoming a behemoth of whatever genre they call themselves today; folk-world-trance seems so limiting. Barely a month on from New Forest Folk, and fresh from Wickham the night before (plus we had a brief encounter at Cropredy) it is hard to believe their collective roster of performances still would fit into one hand. But this wasn’t even a replay, the set having been tweaked, morphed and expanded, the polish glossier still, the confidence extraordinary.

New material slotted into what are are fast becoming favourites, and, if anything, the instrumental energy was exponential. Steve Knightley was now a more relaxed frontman, with the duo of virtuosi, Eliza Marshall and Bennet Cerven, flutes and fiddle, both as exhausting to listen to as watch. Cerven, a flailing dervish in red velvet is unstoppable. And, holding it all together, Johnny Kalsi just exuded bonhomie as he pounded and clattered his cross-cultural kit. Knightley seemed tonight rather more part of the sonic fury, his mandocello and guitar rhythms mixed better into the mix.

Of course, it is his voice that is the other jewel in their multi-faceted crown, the songs every bit as rich as with “the old band,” my favourite being Wild Swimming’ as much for his introduction, explaining why swimmers do it, his words so true. (Why? The feeling of smugness, since you ask!) A new song, Transactions’ about rubbish jobs, feels very much in the mould of Country Life, as a reflection on modern times, and feels it may have similar legs: “Let the bastards dance to our tune!” With Marshall’s flute burbling like a synthesiser, it was marvellous.

Billed as ‘and guests’, there were two, with daughter, Evie Knightley, singing one of her (proud) Dad’s songs to his sole accompaniment, and Tina Bridgman. Who she? Well, until tonight, just a promenade busker, who so impressed Knightley that here she was, making a main stage debut. With a phocomelic left arm, not that your ears would know it, her combination of guitar play with vocals was a wonder. Back then to the band, and “When Johnny Got Lost In The Desert”, a get ’em up and go George Formby-esque bhangra extravaganza, all polyrhythms and polycultural pandemonia, launched, it took the show, and their audience, further skyward. Any fears that the greater formalism of Sidmouth might take umbrage, with this definitively untrad.arr. explosion, evaporated, if ever even there.

As with New Forest, it was The Galway Farmer that was kept in reserve, for the would be encore; arrangements here mean leaving the stage is never really an option. Taken even faster and more frenetically than at that show, I fear it could become an unnecessary albatross, the reminder to Knightley’s back catalogue jarring ever so slightly within this context, however much the muscle memory of the crowd made plain their glee to hear it in this setting. I’d slip it in, earlier in the set, or lose it altogether, one of their own making for a better finale. But hey, what do I know, it left this audience refreshed, revitalised and replete.

Sidmouth doesn’t stop at night these days, with quite the transformation. If the demographic is, let’s say, of the more mature down here in the town, up on the hill, at the Bulverton marquee, it is their children and grandchildren who run riot. Feeling young downtown, here I felt almost ancient. Tonight’s ceilidh was with the co*ck and Bull Band. Whilst the name may be the same, this is no longer the melodeon and pipes outfit of yore, when Dave Whetstone and Jean-Pierre Rasle ruled.

Over various iterations the mantle has now passed to Pete Lockwood, master of ceremonies for a decade or two, on keyboards, woodwinds and brass, his cohorts adding guitar and further brass, a jazz-folk concoction. An infectious mix, it proved a more than sturdy bedrock for the called dances to be built around, demonstrating still a lot of life left in the old co*ck. More life than I had in me, I fear, seeking the solace of my tent before the day became tomorrow.

MONDAY

Drizzle greeted the morning, annoyingly. However, the breakfast tent, hello, Designer Banquets, were on hand to demolish any fear I might have about this being too far south for the joy of black pudding. To the perfect backdrop of The Beach Boys Greatest Hits on tannoy, their south coast blood sausage, made locally, was a superb addition to a crammed bap. Full marks.

The importance of reading the small print in the detailed programme was next drilled into me, as I joined what I had thought a recital of the songs of Robert Burns. Recital it , sort of, turned out to be, albeit provided by the attending participants, if under the expert tutelage of Christine Kydd. Reader, this caught this participant out, but became quite drawn in, to my pleasure, if not those on either side of me.

Sticking to hardcore trad, it was then up to find Guide HQ, a challenge in itself. Billed as ‘An hour or so with John Kirkpatrick and Sue Harris‘, this might strike a chord with some, the duo (and once married couple) have not played together for 35 years. this was to be a second show since they decided to bury any hatchet. It was terrific! Kirkpatrick, of course, remains the squeezebox player par excellence, over decades, with spells in various Albion Band and Richard Thompson bands, as well as on his own, in his eponymous band and, most recently, in Home Service. Harris, who no longer plays oboe, still plays hammered dulcimer, something we got some strong confirmation of. Her voice may not be as powerful as it was, but, like Shirley Collins and Peggy Seeger, that sense of frailty only adds rather than detracts.

Kirkpatrick remains as stridently sound as always, that borne out by a superlative Oakham Poachers’ On melodeon and concertina, he showed fully the importance of a left hand, adding counterpoint and countermelody to the tunes provided by his right. The audience learnt also a little about the mightily underused locrian scale. (Look it up!) Chat as much as playing, witty repartee was the order of the day, with Harris, as plucky underdog, the winner on the day. The festival’s third wild swimming song now got an airing, if via John Betjeman’s A Shropshire Lad, in Jim Parker’s musical arrangement.

The invidious Sidmouth ‘queue or despair’ feature now caught me out, as I raced over to the Kennaway Cellar Bar for one in a series of ‘A Cellarful of Folkadelia’. I thus was excluded from . In good company, mind, as even Danny Pedlar of Tarren had also to sit out that set, enabling detail of a forthcoming album review to be honed. But one out and one in meant that first he and then I could gain admission. These cellar sessions are designed to showcase newer blood, which was why I was delighted not to miss The Wilderness Yet. Even more enticing than on record, they mixed acapella songs from that recent outing with songs that demonstrated their instrumental prowess, on guitar and fiddle, also. For an hour, we were all entranced.

On the prowl again, and by chance, the sounds of a ceilidh came issuing forth from a pub garden. The Anchor Inn hosts these on a daily basis, and, the sun now shining, it clearly had to be investigated. Discovering it was the Monster Ceilidh Band, one of the “Monster” iterations by The Darkening offshoot band, that includes Amy Thatcher, accordion, and Kieran Szifris, octave mandolin. Featuring the inventively dubby bass of David De La Haye and fiddler, Cathy Geldard, today it was with the energetic drums of Francesca Knowles, last seen, along with Thatcher, at Bearded Theory . Providing more punch to the penny than most country dance bands can deliver, it was grand, including the wah-wah octave mandolin!

All to quick it was up the hill for the early evening Bulverton show, it coming tonight from Mad Dog Mcrea. Not a ceilidh, if still having a heaving dance floor, this folk/punk/gypsy jazz/bluegrass act have become a bit of an institution at the rowdier end of festival life. Without prompting, their frantic fusions had the floor bouncing, all the usual suspects of fiddle, accordion, whistle/flute, banjo and acoustic guitar, all swapped around against a backdrop of muscular drums and bass. A surprise, amongst their own material, was Richard Thompson’s Beeswing, in a jauntier than the usually received vibe.

They had been preceded by the Oli Matthews Band and their folk-brass wall of sound, a mini-Blowzabella, if infected a little more by jazz, with trumpet and trombone present and correct, along with Matthews’ own melodeon, clarinet and sax.

(Did I have the strength for the Melrose Quintet ceilidh to end the night? Did I hell…..)

TUESDAY

After a tough self to self discussion about stamina, a slightly later start had me back at the Ham, to catch Steve Knightley’s old mucker, paired into an even older partnership, as in Phil Beer & Paul Downes. With none of yer lightshows and amplification, this was a delectable hour of two old friends, doing what they do best, playing with a discernible love for their material.

That each are dab hands at anything they pluck, strum or bow, well, that can only add to the warmth of the presentation. Lapped up by the crowd, this was a showcase of talent and experience in equal measure. The repartee between them was relaxed and natural, even as Downes touched on the contrast between today’s show and the one of two nights before, involving Beer’s other “hand”. Largely old and established standards, folkie and, as the show progressed, some acoustic country blues. I am uncertain how comfortable Leon Rosselson might normally sit with the Rev. Gary Davis or Blind Willie Johnson, but, this early afternoon, it was perfect, each of equal worth and merit. A solo spot, or “wee break” as Downes put it, being gentlemen both of a certain age, saw Davey Graham’s Angie unearthed, Downes removing any sense of cliche from the well-travelled tune, reminding all just what a cracking melody it carries. Provided, of course, the player is up to it. Which he was, it appearing effortless, not least as he morphed it into Cocaine Blues.

No slouch himself, Beer then surpassed himself with some further consummate play. His smiling demeanour suggested he hadn’t had this much fun for, well for a long time. Whether playing fiddle, mandolin or a bevy of guitars, it seemed all his pressures were off. Catch them if and when you can; it was near thirty years ago, at Guilfest, I saw them last.

The Kennaway Cellar was again calling, arriving early this time, catching the first on act, glad so that I did. Windjammer are a newish trio, more youngsters from the same well of new talent that seems to be providing so much necessary life blood to the ageing canon of folk. And, rather than amplification or any trans-genre alchemical fusions, they play the material (relatively) straight. In existence for nearly ten years, they have been carefully building up a south-west following, with Jake Rowlinson, concertina and shruti box, Jeremy Bunting, acoustic guitar and kick drum, and Fran Rowney, keyboards, whistle and accordion, all also singing.

Now is the time for them to break through nationally, it feeling only a matter of time. Rowlinson handles most of the singing, and has a Jim Moray-esque voice, fracturing just a little, to good effect, at the edges. When concertina and accordion play together, especially with the kick-drum, the effect is a little like a trip-hop Leveret. Mixing staples like Cold Hail Rainy Night and The Unquiet Grave, each with sufficient original features as to transcend comparisons, and self-penned originals, they may even have been the highlight of the whole festival.

Could ATB favourites, Charm Of Finches, top that? Given our reception of their albums, Marlinchen In The Snow being the last, thankfully, the gigantic difference in their styles took away any need for such difficult scoring. The sisters Windred-Wornes, Ivy and Mabel, present a beguling picture, like a vision from a Victorian gothic novel: think Mina Harker and Lucy Westenra in Dracula. On electric piano and guitar, their material is stripped back, live, to its core presence, their sibling harmonies coating the melodies in a frosty glaze. This was especially redolent for the title track of that last album.

Closer to the AOR of, say, 80s Fleetwood Mac or, possibly, The Corrs, this wasn’t remotely folk, but was indubitably pleasant, in a way that left tendrils of unworldly ethereality in its wake. That they grew up as children in the house of an undertaker, surprises me not in the least.

Bulverton time already, the ever busy Amy Thatcher was first on, with yet another of her many involvements, this time the evocatively entitled, or is that provocatively entitled, RE-VULVA. An all female outfit, had you not appreciated that much already, here she was on synths, programming and electronic drum pads, joined by Cathy Geldard (again), Holly Clarke and Janice Burns, on fiddle, guitar and mandolin respectively.

Clarke may be better known as a solo singer, or with her duo, herself and George Sansome, and we know Burns better from . Here neither, or, in fact, none, were playing to type, the mood more akin to an electro-folk-funk Spice Girls, not least with the repeated chanting of various slogans. As they gradually found their feet, initial songs relying more on attitude than aptitude, so the idea and image of an opposite gender Elephant Sessions came into focus, something time didn’t allow to much manifest beyond the idea, but promising.

If the four piece ahead of them carried a collective sound bigger than their individual parts, Blowzabella have copyrighted that concept, the fabled Blowzabella wall of sound a threat to any would be Jericho in sight. Nominally a concert, nobody told the throng of dancers, making for a bit of both, needing every inch of the not insubstantial marquee. Even without a caller, most present knew what to do.

With tunes drawn from their own writing and from folk traditions Europe wide, the six piece band sounded six dozen. Drawing from a rack of saxophones of all sizes, bagpipes, and whistles, the ‘horn section’ of Paul James, Jon Swayne and Jo Freya blew a storm, as counterpoint to the fiddle of Dave Shepherd and melodeon of the maestro himself, Andy Cutting, himself still looking impossibly youthful. Plus, pinning it all together was the precison fingerwork of Barn Stradling’s electric bass, an intricately rhythmic metronome, impossible not to be transfixed thereby. With me trapped into the side of a supporting pillar by the flailing hordes, it was a triumphant celebratory performance. Apologising for being between hurdy gurdy players, it was hard to imagine there may be even room for anything more within their barrage, even if I know, from record, that, somehow and astonishingly, they can squeeze that in too. A truly life-affirming experience.

No pressure, then, for Oysterband, who started life, aeons ago, as the Oyster Ceilidh Band, so what better time, as they start saying their goodbye’s than to revive those days. With veteran caller, Gordon Potts, on hand, he having helmed the last time they did such a show, and he had the dance cards to prove it.

Sharing the honours with his daughter, Nancy, it is possible he was the only person on stage amply prepared for this night, but it didn’t stop the band having a damn good crack of it, a combination of muscle memory and assertiveness carrying off the night into success. John Jones and Alan Prosser, as they sat centre stage, looked almost petrified, with Ian Telfer more bemused than anything else, possibly his normal. However, as they launched off, Prosser seemed to take charge. Sean Randle clearly showed his chops as a precision time-keeper, and the skill to slot in behind any style of music, but Al Scott on bass and, especially Adrian Oxaal on cello must have questioned quite what they had signed up for. Yes, it was ragged, but it was lovely, more so as Potts contrived to balance the sounds from the stage and the needs of the precision set dances he was leading.

A reassuring sign came as Jones started to slip in some original material, guiding Prosser into providing the necessary structure for a retro envisioning of The Soul’s Electric. There had also been a surprise, in that very early member, Chris Wood, bass and percussion on Jack’s Alive,from 1980, had slipped on stage, sitting alongside Telfer, playing a second fiddle. A moment letter the unmistakable figure of Simon Care (Banter, E II), and his pink melodeon, had sidled also in, adding to the, now, reed section. (“Got yer melodeon?“, Jones had seemingly said to him, before the show: “Not up here.” “Go and get it, then,” it proving a jolly good idea.)

For the obligatory morris spot, as all ceilidhs having a half time break and a display, Liberty Hill Northwest Morris took the honours. When the Oysters returned, clearly the half time oranges had had an effect, the seat of the pants feel now sewn up into a more watertight operation. Prosser was riffing like a man possessed, causing bemusem*nt even to Jones and Telfer, each soaking up his enthusiasm, with then they too then blazing on all barrels, and on their feet. Telfer even smiled, a broad grin something special to see. A marvellous segue led an instrumental List For A Sailor (from Morris On), into their own Be Good, Be Lucky, requiring, I gather, little change in step or pace to the dancers. To end, a superlatively barnyard Granite Years and few could disagree that the flipped coin had landed heads up. They should do more of this, before they shuffle off into retirement.

WEDNESDAY

You’ll forgive a leisurely start, and the discovery of the best bagels on the south coast, at the well-named Bagel Shop. BLT in a cheese and jalapeno could revive any jaded soul, and did that job for me, ahead a further dose of Oystery. This time a talk session between raconteur and reminiscist sublime, Taffy Thomas, and the Oysterband trio of John Jones, Ian Telfer and Alan Prosser. all looking surprisingly chipper after last night’s show finishing barely eight hours before.

This took the format of Thomas taking the listeners through the very early back pages of the band, his tales bringing winces of memory to the three musicians, reminders of Sidmouths long gone and much further afield, all bearing testimony to the robustness of the human liver. Between the yarns came songs, stripped back and acoustic, all delightful, and, again, and even more convincingly unrehearsed. A Lakes Of Cool Flynn was especially moving, as was a Prosser led and sang Mississippee Summer, he taking June Tabor’s part. Hal An Tow gave the room a chance to sing along, and Coal Not Dole to become thoughtful.

It all ended with a surprising and unexpected, even to Jones himself, who sang it, of Sam Cooke’s A Change Is Gonna Come, which, despite some uncertainties and switchings of key, was a stunner. ‘3 Oysters 3 sing the Black American Songbook’ might make for a quirky post-touring project yet…

Feeling a need for core Sidmouth, I had been encouraged, by old chum Dave, to attend one of the daily singarounds at the Volunteer Inn. This is where singers try to keep the past alive, succeeding with some aplomb. Rather than any dodgy floor spots, this is tightly held together, with vetting to assure both calibre and competency. Many singers have been attending for many decades of the festival’s 70 year history, and are the Walter Pardoes and Cecilia Costello’s of tomorrow, arbiters of a largely oral history. Hearing these often ageing voices was a strangely captivating experience. The fact that the likes of Lucy Farrell were present, hoping too for a slot, gives some idea the competition.

The Ham was next the place to be, for an uplifting late lunchtime spot. This kicked off with a brief spot from Feis Ros Ceilidh Trail. Those familiar will remember that Feis Ros is the yearly ‘school’ for the cream of up and coming musicians and singers from Scottish Gaeldom, the highlands and islands. Always a highlight at Cambridge Folk Festival, I hadn’t appreciated they too got a turn here. Touting three fiddles, keyboards and accordions, it was a joy, knowing that some of these talented youngsters will be back, in future years, as part and parcel of the next wave of Scottish bands and performers.

Staying Caledonian, the main course was the always astounding Aly Bain & Phil Cunningham. Years since I last caught them just a duo, rather than as integral parts of the Celtic Connections band, their mastery of their instruments, fiddle and piano-accordion, remains undimmed, as is the banter between them.

Mr C has a taste for the scatological, so there came the expected play around an “uncomfortable stool” in one of his introductions, causing a grimace from his partner in tune. Cunningham’s left hand can mimic the full Violet Tulloch experience, as if the Shetland pianist were present, whilst his right hand ripples up and down the keys, moving effortlessly from strathspey into reel, with Bain’s rich fiddle tone a gold plated extra layer. His sound is almost chewy, and sometimes had Cunningham reduced to near tears, if the melodies weren’t already conveying that depth of emotion. Often an almost spiritual experience, tunes from the Shetlands, Bain’s homeland, and the mainland, mixed with those from Sweden, Estonia, not forgetting those of French Canadian and Cajun origin. A truly wonderful set, and don’t let any ideas of the White Heather Club taint your willingness to approach, this is world music at its most intense.

A final point that lingered long was the sight of Cunningham playing the left hand side, the button side, of his instrument, with both hands at once, to squeeze (sorry!) out every last drop. Finally the seagull chorus, returning as ever, gave extra chill to the closing lilt of a sad Hebridean air. Full marks!

Appreciating my personal clock was ticking and my festival drawing to a close, it was a final hike up the hill for the evening show, and a hoped for highlight. But first on were Togmor, new to me, if world famous in Bedford, a celtic folk-rock band of near forty years standing. With a frontline of two fiddles, guitar and bass, it was surprise to hear the drummer starting off playing flute. Until, that is, I realised it was Pete Lockwood again, that co*ck’n’Bull man. Their set of originals and covers was solid, if somewhat generic, raised by the dub influences creeping into the rhythm section’s play.

Kinnaris Quintet are much enjoyed at ATB, either in their own right, or in the output of their various members. Sadly, tonight they were one down, as Laura-Beth Salter was poorly, not that the four women remaining let her be (that much) missed, such was the maelstrom of weaving fiddles and guitar.

So often in Scottish music, where fiddles are in duplicate, triplicate and more, the idea is unison play. Here the three fiddles were each playing their own way, dipping and diving about shared themes, underpinned by the precise and intricate strumming of Jenn Butterworth. Sometimes, as Aileen Reed, Fiona MacAskill and Laura Wilkie fell into line, the sound could almost mimic a brass section, such the swell of sonics. With tunes from each of their two albums, this was yet another high water mark in this festival. The amplified left foot of Butterworth needs also a shout, the lead trailing out of her sparkly sneaker, so as to show off that additional percussive feature, her foot stamping the ground in perfect time. No better way to bid my farewell, at least for this year.

Farewell? Making the mistake of a final pint of Exeter Brewery Darkness, I then got sucked back into a ceilidh, with, first, the unbilled decks and recorder dance duo, possibly Ben & Sel, and then Out Of Hand, who, frankly, were. Fronted by the wyrdest, yes, in that spelling, caller of the festival, she spouted free form instructions like William Burroughs on speed, as the five piece band careered through a roster of what once was genteel. Fiddle, mandolin, bass, and drums, so nothing contentious there, until, eyes right, a jester provided a similar role, and sounds, to Eno in Roxy Music. Strange days and a wonderful close.

So, what did I miss? Well, Skippinish and Steeleye Span each had had shows in the first few days, with appearances also from McGoldrick, McCusker & Doyle, The Rheingans Sisters, Martin Carthy and his daughter, Eliza. I’d have loved to have caught Blazin’ Fiddles, Frankie Archer and Saltfishforty, but clashes and timings prevailed. Likewise Granny’s Attic, individually and collectively, and Mànran, rolling up the day I left, the timing also for Andy Cutting and Chris Wood to reprise their partnership. With Friday seeing Angeline Morrison’s Sorrow Songs Band, ach, well, I guess there’s always next year………

With thanks to lesley1607, here’s that Oyster Ceilidh Band Sailor/Lucky segue, 2014 style, with added Ian Kearey on mandolin, and drummer, two drummers back, Dil Davies. Gordon Potts’ pint and ponytail make fleeting appearances also:

Sidmouth Folk Festival online

Keep up with At The Barrier:Facebook/X (formerly Twitter)/Instagram/Spotify/YouTube